


Frailty

by flollius



Series: Tracing Lines [2]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, All aboard the Feels train, Alternate Universe - Canon, Big Tearful Reunion, Canon Rewrite, Character Study, Culture Shock, Durin Family Feels, Emotional Manipulation, Feels, Gen, Happy Ending, Hurt No Comfort, I am actually nearly finished too, I mean it, I promise, I really do, Like, NEXT CHAPTER IS THE LAST ONE AAAAAARGGGGHHHHHH, Orc Culture, Orcish Kili, Poor Kíli, Psychological Trauma, Really Bad Whump, SRSLY GAIS, Slow Burn, Thorin is an ass, Thorin's A+ Parenting, Torture, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-23
Updated: 2017-02-20
Packaged: 2017-11-26 14:26:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 121
Words: 685,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/651331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flollius/pseuds/flollius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the Company recuperates at Beorn's house, Kili is captured on a solitary hunt and presented to Azog by a band of rogue goblins. After days of searching, Thorin believes his sister-son to be dead, abandoning the rescue and continuing on towards Erebor. But Kili is very much alive. And as time passes and hope of rescue fades, the youngest heir of Durin is forced to forsake his family ties, the customs of his people, even his own humanity, in order to survive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Moondust

**Author's Note:**

> So.
> 
> My first Hobbit fic! And phew it's ending up to be quite the doozy. I think that maybe I need to explain myself a little at the beginning lest I catch anybody up in unexpected feelingses. 
> 
> This is not the normal 'Kili gets tortured and rescued and there's hugs and fluff and tears' fic. I think I have to make that pretty clear from the outset. It diverges from that pretty early on and explodes in a fiery cascade of darkness and pain and feels. It's crazy. I'm crazy. But I think it's working. 
> 
> It's a bit of a slow-burner, and for that I do apologise but for the level of characterisation I have to go into keep things plausible (Because Fili and Kili end up doing some crazy-ass shit) it's unavoidable. So please hang in for the long haul - I promise I will make it worth your while.
> 
> \--
> 
> As a bit of a (very approximate) index/scale for you all (while trying to be as spoiler-free as poss) --  
> 1-25 - Wilderland  
> 25-50 Mirkwood/Thranduil's Halls  
> 50-65 Lake-Town  
> 65-100 Erebor  
> 100+ The Battle of Five Armies

It was the growling of Bombur's stomach that jerked Kili awake.

His eyes snapped open, looking wide and dark at the ceiling. The low snuffling sounds of snoring, which had rocked him to sleep, seemed deafening, jarring to him. He could make out the wooden rafters in the dying light of the cooling embers. He looked to his right, to the face that slept perhaps a foot from his own. Fili was deep in slumber, lips parted in a silent dream. He lay on his back, nose turned up to the shadowed, slanted ceiling. Usually if he couldn't sleep, Kili would wake him with a short jab on the shoulder. He would be grumpy at first, but eventually his brother would talk to him, whispering softly, the low words shielding him against the terrors of the night, until he fell asleep. But Fili was dead to the world. Everybody, except him, was enveloped in a deep, restful sleep. Even his uncle. The recovery was slow and painful, and Thorin sank into a slumber that the dawn would fight to wrestle him from.

Kili stretched out his hand a little to wake his brother, his fingers hovering midair as he realised that he didn't actually _want_ to sleep. The dawn couldn't be far off. It was the dark stillness, that perfect overhanging limbo between night and dawn, when even the beats of the darkness withdrew into slumber.

Kili sat up slowly, trying not to disturb the nest of dwarves (and one hobbit) that surrounded him. So _strange_ , that even though there was a huge heap of space in the hall, the company refused to change their normal sleeping pattern, huddling down like a litter of blind puppies. Balin, Dwalin, Dori, Gloin, Bifur and Thorin all slept on the outside. The aged veterans and seasoned warriors, they protected the pile, laying themselves on the edge. Nori, Bofur, Bombur and Oin all formed a haphazard human shield around Fili, Kili, Bilbo and Ori. The babies. The ones that needed protecting. And somehow, even when he tried not to, Kili _always_ ended up lying in the middle.

He rose to his feet. Sleep wasn't going to come to him again tonight. He picked his way through the pile of sleeping dwarves, trying not to trod on any outstretched fingers or long braids of hair. He paced the floorboards slowly, pausing each time outside the small window beside the heavy closed door. It was a lovely, moonlit night, where the grass was dusted in silver and the waters gleamed with a million diamonds. Kili rested his head against the glass for a very long time, pressing his fingers against the thick pane. It was the sort of night he craved in the Blue Mountains. When he and Fili would smuggle ale down to Malaad Lake with their friends, drinking and singing and dancing until they collapsed in the grass. When they would steal away into the silvered darkness, into the warm light of the taverns of Men, where Fili would lose himself in skin and hair and unraveling clothes, and Kili would drown in ale with twitching fingers and a thick tongue as nerves failed him.

His stomach growled.

Oh, to eat _food._ Real food, unlike the cream and honey that he'd forced down his neck for the last few days. It was far too sweet, and left him dizzy and sick, wracked with unshakeable cravings for animal flesh. A tasty rabbit stew. A leg of wood pigeon. A nice hunk of slow-roasted venison. A whole hog turning lazily on the spit. Kili's mouth watered as the fantasies grew more elaborate. Before the adventure, he'd never gone without at least two sturdy meals a day. While many others in the company had become used to going without, and hiked all day quite contentedly on nothing but a thin bowl of soup, Kili began to have awful gnawing pains as soon as the sun had reached its golden crescendo. And while Fili always gave his brother a good share of his dinner on the pretense of being 'full', Kili had often gone to sleep hungry, his grumbling stomach joining the soft sing-song of snoring, muttering dwarves.

Kili turned away from the window, and resumed his pacing up and down the hall, hoping to lull himself into some sort of sleep. But it wasn't going to come to him, and every time stepped on a creaky floorboard, his body seized up in fear and his heart pounded, as though he was forty years old again, trying to sneak out of the house without waking his uncle. He stopped beside his carefully folded pile of weapons and armour. His travelling clothes and boots. They had been scrubbed and cleaned and polished, waiting patiently to be worn on the next stage of the long journey to Erebor. His bow and quiver leaned against the wall. Once again, Kili's mouth was watering.

How long would it take? Not long, at all. An hours hike, and he would be away enough from Beorn's domain. It would be the grey hours before dawn. Rabbits would be out in the hundreds, falling over themselves to graze in the relative safety of the early, early morning. Kili was an excellent shot, and he would have one killed, skinned and cleaned in a matter of minutes. How long to roast it? No, too long. He would have to cut off the choicest bits and make a stew. It would be more than enough for one. He could have it cooked and eaten just before dawn. And if he ran - not too quickly of course, on a full stomach - he could make it back into his bed just before everyone began to wake.

Rabbit stew. Kili swallowed a mouthful of thick saliva. It was the most modest of his elaborate food fantasies, but his insides groaned in yearning. He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. He could almost smell it.

That did it then. His eyes snapped open, and he reached for his boots. It was wrong, and he knew it. But the taste of just-killed rabbit danced on the tip of his tongue and he couldn't stand it any longer. Danger was only a dancing shadow on the edge of his mind, he paid little heed to it. Kili pulled the tunic and cloak on quickly, working by touch in the deep shadows. Out of habit, he dressed in his full armour, slinging his swords across his back. This was the wild, and you could never be too careful. Not that any harm could home to him. He was a warrior. A Prince.

"Kili?"

The voice came out of the darkness, soft and sleepy. The dwarf froze, heart hammering in his throat as he struggled to place the voice. It wasn't rough or accusing. It was inquisitive.

"Go to sleep Ori." Kili breathed, not looking back. "I won't be long."

"Where are you going?" He sat up slowly, noticing Kili had his bow and arrows across his back, silhouetted plainly against the gleaming window.

"To catch a rabbit or something. I'm starving." Ori scratched at his beard.

"I don't think Beorn would like that." He breathed, careful not to wake the rest of the company.

"I _know_ he won't, that's why I'm going now." Kili hissed back. "I can't stand any more bread and honey. Us dwarves aren't made to live on this mess. I need some meat or I'm going to be sick."

"But-"

"Shh, Ori." Kili cut over him. "I _know_ , all right? Look just go back to sleep. Pretend you didn't see me, okay?" He glanced back at Ori, but all he saw was a shifting shadow int he darkness, which gave a long sigh.

"Just be _careful_. Beorn says-"

"Not to go out, I know." Kili grasped the door handle. "But listen. It's quiet. Nothing is out there. And if they do, I'm armed. I'll be all right. See you in the morning." The threat hung unsaid in the air between them. _Don't you dare tell on me._ As though he was a child to be tattled on. Because he knew if he was caught, he was going to get in trouble. He entertained, for a brief second, the idea of rousing Fili, to take him out and share the feast, but he knew what his brother would say. That it was stupid. And unsafe. That he just had to shut up and stick the cream and honey for a few more days until Thorin was well and the rest of the company strong enough to travel once more. Fili was all for sneaking out and getting into trouble ten years ago, but the last two years drove a new weight of responsibility on his shoulders. He was of age. His childhood was over, and he couldn't be caught sneaking out like some irresponsible boy, things were different now. His brothers voice rang quite plainly in his ears. With a deep breath, Kili pulled open the door, stepping into the outside world.

And all in a moment, Fili's voice was switched off. The smell of the night air in his face, brushing his hair back and flapping his loose bits of clothing, was as instantly cooling and refreshing as a bath in a springtime river. The door closed behind him and he stepped forward into the silvered wonderland. He took another step, and another. Thorin, Balin and Beorn, Gandalf, their warnings and admonitions melted away as he plunged into the wildlands.

Once he had passed the Carrock, Kili turned left, keeping his eyes and ears sharp as he walked through the wood. He didn't realise that he was heading in exactly the wrong direction. He thought he was heading east, away from the Misty Mountains and to the wide green meadows and fields. It was still very dark, and the landscape, which was already alien to him, seemed impenetrable. The moon set and it became completely dark. Kili tried to make a torch but it had rained in the night and nothing from his tinderbox could stick to a damp branch. It took almost an hour and a half of walking before Kili realised that he was lost.

_No._ He screwed up his face, in a long sigh. He wasn't worried about being in any sort of real danger. This wood felt far too calm and soft for that. But he now had two choices. He could either sit and wait for the dawn, climb a tree and figure the direction out of this wood, or he could try and turn around, head forward now and hope that he was heading in the right direction. He could either risk getting even more lost for the chance to sneak back unnoticed, or wait in relative safety, knowing he would get caught for sure.

It was an easy choice. Kili shouldered his bow, trudging on further in the inky blackness, not realising that every step took him further away from the safety of Beorn's hall, and closer to the ancient mountains, looming over him in the night sky that he could not see.

He gave up after he tripped and fell over a gnarled tree-root, falling face-first into a deep pile of cones and needles. Swearing loudly, he struggled to his feet, brushing the fragments of plant matter from his cloak, but as soon as he put his left foot down, Kili collapsed, face contorted with pain. Twisted, at the very least. Probably a sprain. He swore again, pulling off his boot and rubbing at his ankle. It was going to swell magnificently, knowing his luck. With a long, resigned sigh, Kili replaced his boot, shuffling against the thick trunk of a tree with his legs spread out before him, waiting for the dawn to pierce the night. Inwardly, he flogged himself. Stupid. What an idiot. How could he ever think this was a good idea? Kili had been driven by his stomach, like a petulant child, when he should have shut up and stuck out the hunger pangs, like his brother did. His face flushed in shame in remembrance of the times he'd accepted Fili's dinner, downing it in short, wolfish gasps. How his brother used to look at him with both pity and hunger, a sad smile twitching on his lips. Those times, Kili couldn't look at him. He looked so much like their mother, when he did that, he had the same blue glow of her eyes, the same nose and downward turn of the mouth. And he didn't want to be reminded of his mother, so he always looked squarely at his food when he ate, and Fili misinterpreted his brother's avoidance as simply concentrating on his dinner. He didn't think Kili would be embarrassed about his hunger. It was understandable, he was still young, he needed to harden up and it was going to take a while. Fili was all right, he was of age and could hold his tongue and not stare at the cookpot with uncomfortable longing, take his bowl with grace rather than snatch it out of Bofur's hands, spilling the soup in an eager desire to raise it to his lips. Kili would toughen up when he was older.

He certainly didn't feel old enough now. He felt like a childish fool. Kili drew his good leg up to his chest, resting his chin on his knee. A nighttime stroll in the blackness, alone in a strange land? He was just asking for trouble. He leaned back and sighed. His eyelids felt very heavy. His brain was addled and thick as his mother's soup. While he felt wired and energetic as he walked, even while lost, as the bloodflow slowed and his breathing returned to normal, Kili began to feel very, very sleepy. He tried pinching himself through his thick clothing to stay awake, but his leg sank down lax, and his head drooped forward. And as the grey fingers of dawn began to claw at the edge of the horizon, the lone dwarf, lost in the woods with a twisted ankle, began to snore, face twitching as he sank into a dream of dragons fire and piles of gold so large that he could climb them like a mountain.

* * *

Fili arched his back in a long yawn as the first golden rays of sunlight touched him gently on the cheek. He flung his arms outward in a stretch, eyes still closed, his mind thick and hazy. "Sorry Kili." He mumbled out of habit, dropping his arm down onto the warm body beside him.

Except nothing was there.

He frowned, turning on his side as his eyes slowly cracked open. The space beside him was empty. He thrust his hand into the space where Kili slept. It was cold. Fili jerked up suddenly, eyes wide open as he flung back the blanket they shared. His heart froze in his chest. Beside him, Bilbo stirred at the sudden movement.

"Whazza matter?" He mumbled, eyes still closed. Around him, the dwarves started to rise sleepily from their soft beds. Fili stood up, treading on several fingers as he marched out of the circle. "Fili?" He propped himself on one elbow, rubbing at his eyes. A number of dwarves groaned and muttered, sucking on sore fingers. Thorin's eyes slowly opened.

"Kili's not here." The elder brother tried and failed to keep the tremor out of his voice. Thorin rose to a sitting position.

"He's probably in the outhouse Fili." Dwalin muttered thickly, pressing his face in the pillow. "Calm down."

"His bed was cold and-" Fili gasped. Thorin got up on his knees. "His clothes are gone." Ori closed his eyes, feigning sleep as his heart pounded madly. "His bow and swords too. He's taken everything."

"Probably went for a stroll." Bofur suggested, facing the ceiling with still-closed eyes. "Looked like a wonderful night."

"If he did, I'll have his skin." Thorin muttered, deep in his throat. "Beorn told us all to stay inside 'til dawn."

"By the looks of things, dawn was some time ago." Balin noted the morning sunlight rather blandly. "Fili, wait for breakfast and then we can all go out to loo-"

"Fili." Thorin spoke rather sharply as his nephew pulled his cloak on over his pajamas, thrusting his feet into boots. "By Durin's beard, what are you doing?"

"I'm going to look." By this time, all the dwarves were awake, sitting or standing in the hall with sleepy eyes fixed on the half-dressed Fili. All except Ori, who lay very obviously with his eyes closed, occasionally forcing a tiny snore. "You can sit here and eat breakfast but I _can't-_ " He let the heavy door swing closed with a bang, crushing dozens of flowers underneath the weight of his heavy boots as he ran into the morning sunshine, his cloak hanging on his shoulders.

" _I_ _shkaqwi Khazad-ul!"_ The dwarvish curse dropped like a stone into a deep, dark pond. Nine faces turned to stare at Thorin, mouths agape. Even Ori, who still pretended to be asleep, flinched, and his false snore died. Thorin managed to take two steps before sinking into a low chair, clutching at his ribs. "Dwalin, Gloin." He groaned, and jerked his head in the direction of the door. The two dwarves obeyed silently, shouldering their neatly folded travelling clothes and sliding their hands into gloves. All the dwarves noticed Gloin taking his axe. Bilbo looked down, seeing that Ori's eyes were screwed tightly closed, and his jaw was very tight.

"Ori?" Bilbo frowned. Ori gave an audible gasp. "Ori, are you pretending to be asleep?" Bofur and Oin, hearing the hobbit, turned to look at him. Ori gave out a very loud, fake-sounding snore.

"Ori." Oin crouched down beside the 'sleeping' figure. "Ori. Where's Kili?" After several moments, Ori finally opened his eyes with a long sigh, heaving himself into a sitting position.

"H-He said he wouldn't be long-"

"Where is he?" Nori knelt in front of his brother. "Ori look at me. What did he say?"

"He said he was hungry." Ori played with the cuffs of his pajamas, unable to look at any of them. He kept his eyes firmly downcast, stumbling over his words. "He s-said he couldn't eat Beorn's food anymore and he wanted to hunt. He said he would be back by dawn and I couldn't tell anyone."

"Mahal." Nori sighed, shaking his head. Thorin's fists trembled with fury.

"I-I told him not to go, I swear!" Ori cried plaintively, wringing his hands. "I wanted to wake Fili or Thorin but he said he was fine - he told me not to tell anybody and - and-"

"And you _listened?_ " Thorin's voice boomed from the chair. He stood up, face white with the effort, and sank back into his seat. " _Why_ did you let him leave?"

"I don't know!" Ori was on the edge of blubbing, chewing on the end of his nails, still unable to look at anybody in the room. "He had his sword and bow - and I-I didn't want to tell!"

"Thorin, don't stress the poor lad." Balin lay a hand on Ori's trembling shoulder. "Calm down son, nobody is blaming you." Ori nodded silently, but his torn cuticles, antagonising the hole in his fraying cuffs, showed obvious signs of nerves. "Come, we'll get some breakfast. Dwalin and Gloin will find the boys and we'll all laugh about it over supper."

"Nobody is laughing about this." Thorin's voice was a low rumble. Balin gave his King an uneasy look, but still extended his arm to the quivering Ori, forcing his wrinkled features into a stiff, uneasy smile.

"Kili!" Fili's voice carried through the closed door, shattering any of Balin's hopes of calm. He half-staggered as he ran, crushing a bee. He knew the others thought him overreacting. But they could never understand the tight knot of fear that clenched in his stomach, leaving him sick and anxious. They didn't realise how _wrong_ this was. Kili would never be gone this long without warning Fili first. He could understand why Kili could possibly leave in the night for whatever reason. _But he would be back by now._ He would have intended to return to his bed before Fili's eyes had ever opened. He knew how his brother worked. This was very, very wrong.

Perhaps he'd gotten lost. It was possible. Although Kili preferred the trees of the forest to the mazes of mountain tunnels and caves, he was still a stranger in a strange land. In the pitch-black night where the moon had set, it would have been very easy for his younger brother to take a wrong turn and lose his way. Perhaps he'd stumbled in the dark. The image flashed before Fili's eyes, of Kili lying still on the ground, eyes open, with a trickle of blood slowly oozing down his cheek. Fili stopped short in his walk, screwing his eyes up shut. _No no no no no._ He swallowed hard, fighting down the panic attack that bubbled in his chest. _No no no._

"Kili." The young dwarf moaned, standing on the edge of Beorn's bee pastures. The woods loomed out at him, looking dark and threatening, even in the morning sunshine. "Kili _where are you?"_ He whispered, voice shaking. He threaded his fingers through his golden mane, tugging down on the ends in thought. The _stupid child._ What had he done? Once again, the image of Kili lying in the dirt with open eyes haunted his mind, and this time it refused to go away.

"Easy laddie." Fili started at the broad hands tightening on his shoulders. "Did you check the outhouse?"

"Of course I checked the outhouse Dwalin." Fili's voice was thick. "I've run around _everywhere_ and he's gone. I met Gandalf and Beorn out in the hives and they never saw him. He's not anywhere! He's gone!"

"He's not gone Fili, he's obviously wandered off somewhere. Probably tripped in the dark." Fili let out another groan. " _Or_ just gotten himself lost. We'll get the rest of the company together and send out a search party. No doubt we'll find him sleeping under a tree with no idea of where the time went." It was a rare speech from Dwalin, but one Fili sorely needed. "No sense in thinking the worst." _Not yet._ But Fili wouldn't be consoled, and it took some rough-housing from Dwalin and Gloin before he finally gave up and turned away from the wood, returning to the safety of Beorn's hall.

* * *

"'ello."

Something was poking Kili in the throat. He moaned, shuffling a little against the tree. His eyes were still closed.

"Go 'way Fili." He mumbled, wrinkling his nose. The point dug in a little sharper. "Ow!" Kili finally opened his eyes. "Wha-" His voice died in his throat. A lump of ice settled in his chest, his heart skipping a beat.

He was looking into the eyes of a goblin.

"Hands on yer 'ead." It had a sharp voice, like nails on tin. He let out a single, hacking chuckle which sounded more like a cough. Kili swallowed, the tip of the short blade drawing a single bead of blood. " _Now._ " His hands, which were lax at his sides, clenched into fists. "Don' even _try._ " Kili's eyes darted around, realising with a horrible lurch that no less than eight of them had formed a tight circle around him, their yellow eyes staring out in the shadowy gloom. "Hands up." Wordlessly, Kili tented his fingers, resting them on his mop of chestnut hair. The blade at his throat was withdrawn, Kili forced on his knees. As soon as he was sure the sword couldn't catch him, Kili struck. He wrenched his arm free of the gnarled hand on his wrists, surprising the goblin who held him, reaching for the knife in his pocket. He slashed the goblin on the arm, the creature springing back with a horrible shriek, clinging to his wounded limb as blood, thick and black as tar, gushed on the ground. Kili lunged forward, plunging the knife into the stomach of the goblin who held the blade to his neck. The handle was ripped free, and Kili reached for the sword slung over his back. Adrenalin surged through his veins, and he forgot the pain in his injured ankle in the effort to fight. But before he could draw the blade from its sheath, a hard blow to the back of his legs send him crashing to the ground, a well-placed boot into his ribs leaving the young dwarf winded. He rolled over, seeing the flash of the goblin scimitar in the gloom, watching as the weapon plunged into the soft earth just inches from his head. He tried to spring to his feet, but Kili was tackled, pinned by no less than four goblins, face pressed into the dirty mat of rotting leaves.

"Little _swine."_ A voice rasped in his ear. "Pass me the knife, Skon."

"No!" The goblin with the wounded arm shouted, staggering towards the pinned dwarf. "We have orders. Any catch must go to Toz first." Kili's heart hammered in his throat, looking up to see the foul creature licking his lips. He remembered the rumours he heard about orcs and goblins, and what they did with their caught prey. His head spun. _They wouldn't_.

"Mm, I can almost smell it." Kili recoiled at the twisted nose giving an experimental sniff in his hair, stomach turning. _No, no no no._ "Throw 'im on an open fire, skin and all, let the juices run and the hide crackle." They talked about him, as though he were a beast for slaughter. "Turn 'im over, let's get a good look." Kili was forced onto his back, arms and legs held fast. He couldn't move, couldn't speak. His heart was twisted in terror. "Young an' plump." A black finger poked Kili in the cheek, brushing his modest beard. Kili arched his back, cowering away from the goblin-finger "Can' we just eat 'im now Skon? I'm _starving."_ An involuntary whimper sounded in Kili's throat, one heard by the small company of goblins, as his fear burst. He writhed and struggled madly in the tight grasp, panic fuelling his white-hot terror.

"I said _no_!" Still clutching his arm, Skon stood over him. Several drops of black blood landed on Kili's face, and he flinched away, the tiny clearing ringing with hoarse laughter. "Anything we find goes to Toz!"

"But 'e's on'y on the lookout for the Dwarf-scum!" The orc whined. "'e won' care about one little boy-scout." They didn't realise he was a dwarf. They thought he was just a man - and a very young one at that. If it wasn't for the sheer panic that flowed through him, Kili would have been insulted.

"One scout, Ngurk, means more will be about." Skon stepped back. "Strip him down and tie him up." Kili let out a cry as the hands pawed at his cloak, unbuckling his weapons and tugging at his boots. "Hurry up, it's almost dawn already." They took his tunic and trousers, and his undershirt too, leaving him in a rather weather-stained pair of knee-length under-trousers. He curled his toes, hoping nobody would notice the size of his bare feet. _They were looking for Thorin._ Of course they were. They would never stop looking, after what they had done to the Great Goblin. They would hunt down the ones that did it. They would drag them deep into the mountains, where they would never get out, and end them in front of thousands. He shivered at the thought of what they would do, if they knew he was one of the dwarves who slew their King. Rather than being insulted, Kili _hoped_ they would keep mistaking him for a man, and so far (and the fact made his insides shrivel with shame), it was convincing them. Kili had always been scrawny for a dwarf, being early-born in the middle of a terribly cold winter, and several weeks of little food had left him leaner than ever. They tied his hands behind, sitting him up and bending him over, pushing on the back of his head to subdue him. His bare skin flushed golden in the light of the single torch the goblins held, the marks of his old scar almost white. He could feel them looking at it. The mark started at his left shoulder, encircling his prominent shoulderblade and around his torso, ending six inches below his collarbone. The jagged marks of teethbones. It looked like a huge animal which had attacked him, when it wasn't. In reality, it was a rather normal-sized warg. He had just been very, very small.

"Get up." Kili was forced roughly to his feet, black twisted hands on both elbows. They were shorter goblins, creatures from the deepest, darkest holes in the mountains. Kili came up to their armpits, and he seemed shorter, slouching forward in terror of antagonising his wounded limb. He was pushed forward, and as soon as he put pressure down on his injured ankle, Kili screamed, knees buckling. "Oi." He was cuffed over the head, hauled back to his feet. Kili had to limp forward, biting his lip hard to muffle the sounds of pain with every second step. And with every footfall, the cold fear that seized his heart grew, blossoming through his chest, his arms and legs, leaving them heavy and dead. He was deaf to the screeching and laughing of the goblins around him. He was paralysed. _Durin help me_. He pleaded inwardly, eyes stinging. _Fili. Thorin. Gandalf._ Anybody. _Someone_ had to be looking for him by now. _Please don't let them do this._ He felt as weak and helpless as a child, bound and half-naked, dragged along on an injured leg in an alien forest with his weapons out of reach. Was this some sort of punishment, for his rash, stupid actions? For heading out, alone, into the darkness, getting lost, hurting himself, falling asleep? He had been in danger before of course, but never _alone._ Never without his brother. Never bound and stripped and injured.

Kili's body had shut down from the panic - he became limp and unresponsive, and they had to drag him, swearing curses in his ear as he was dragged deeper and deeper into the shadowy, desolate wood.


	2. To Remain Whole

Toz smelled and heard, rather than saw, the small band of goblins approaching the edge of his camp.

It was a small camp, just a dozen orcs with a warg each. Located in the dense woods, within sight of the Misty Mountains, Toz preyed on the few travelers that still attempted to pass through Mirkwood, mostly parties of elves and the occasional merchant hoping to try their wares in the East. There were no caves in the area, but the thick treetops protected the sun's harsh beams from ever touching the ground, and it was dark enough for the orcs to shelter under the protection of tents, waiting out the hours until nightfall.

"Master Toz, we found someone wandering alone in the woods." Toz looked up from the fire at the familar, wheedling tone. Obviously the little goblin wanted his share of the spoils. Their gold or weapons, or most likely of all, their flesh. "A man." Toz sniffed the air, inhaling deeply. Either his nose was wrong, or the smell of manflesh had somehow changed very recently. He stood up as the goblins pulled the figure into the light of the fire, grasp tightening on his scimitar. The tiny figure, barely reaching the shoulder of the small goblins, staggered, his shoulders loose and arms unmoving. A thick mop of dark hair fell over his face, hiding his features. Toz motioned for them to come closer to the firelight, watching the prisoner limping heavily, a whimper of pain escaping his throat with almost every step. The orc stared at his large, bare feet, a frown twisting his already snarled features.

"Drop him." Toz commanded. The goblins complied, and Kili sank to his knees, head bowed. He could hear the heavy breathing of the orc approaching him, and beneath the thick curtain of hair that half-covered his eyes, saw a pair of black boots shuffle closer. Toz grabbed a handful of tangled brown hair, pulling it out of his face and jerking him upwards, looking at his face. He took in the wide dark eyes, the sparse hair that barely touched his jaw, the thin nose. Toz motioned silently for the heavy sack that contained the plunder, standing out of Kili's reach before upending the contents onto the dusty ground. Kili watched his armour and his weapons tumble with his blue clothing onto the dirt, heart hammering in his throat. The orc picked up the bow, testing the string idly, looking from the bow to Kili, and back again. He let it fall, poking through the clothing. The heavy furs, the geometric designs stamped on the leather, the ornate buckles of silver, the huge boots. These were not the clothes of men. They were of dwarvish make. Toz took it all in, alternating his yellow gaze between Kili and the pile of booty. He lifted the cloak, smelling the lining. His face contorted, and he dropped the fabric as though it burned him.

"Dwarf." He spat out, Kili's heart sinking as Toz kicked at the pile. The word had an electric effect on the gathering of goblins and orcs. They began to mutter, to stare at Kili and jeer. Several of the goblins howled, losing their heads and launching into an attack on the bound dwarf prince. Kili cried out, curling over as the fists and feet beat at his back and head, sharp corners of poorly-forged armour tearing into his skin. He tried to crawl away on his injured legs and bound hands, but the throng of goblins around him was too tight, and he couldn't move. He was pushed on his side, and though he tried to kick out at them somebody stamped on his ankle with their heavy boots, Kili's scream piercing the morning air.

"Enough!" Toz cuffed two goblins about the head, pulling the smaller creatures from their relentless assault on Kili. The young dwarf coughed into the dirt, winded. "Skon, control your tribe!" He grabbed Kili by a thick handful of hair, dragging him away from the knot of goblins.

"But the Great Goblin-"

"I said enough!" Toz thundered. "He is _mine_ now. If he's one of the ones who killed your Leader, I will give him to the Misty Mountains." That was a lie - There was someone else looking for Thorin Oakenshield's company of dwarves. Someone willing to pay a much, much higher price. Kili hung by his hair, half-sitting up. He saw the goblins looming over him, clenching the crude makeshift weapons that had bruised and battered his skin. They looked at him, hungrily. They wanted to tear him to pieces. They wanted him to suffer, in the worst ways imaginable. They wanted to destroy him. The fear cramped his stomach, and made him feel sick. Seven plus twelve. Nineteen. Plus twelve wargs. Thirty-one foul creatures who ached to kill him, who left him bloodied and half-naked, bound, far, far out of reach from Thorin and Fili.

He was going to die.

Kili always expected that he would die on the battlefield. In a blaze of glory, after killing too many of his foes to count. Pierced with innumerable wounds before being finally slain by the final blow of a dying Goblin-King. The young prince, who had never seen true battle but heard hundreds of stories of his ancestors, both real and mythical, could not imagine an end more honourable, more fitting, for an heir of Durin.

But that would not be his end. He was going to die, gutted like a fish, unable to fight back after being captured in a moment of sheer stupidity, with nobody to defend him. To be hacked into pieces and eaten like a beast. The only evidence of his existence would be his clothes and weapons, to be traded off and given as trophies, to both allies and foes. He imagined Fili, leaning sobbing over his broken bow, and felt his heart split in two. His _mother_. Oh Durin his mother. She would drive herself mad with grief. Worse would be if they never found a thing, if they heard nothing at all. Perhaps he would remain a ghost, a spirit doomed to wander the forests at the feet of the Misty Mountains as the world grew old. And Kili would forever be known as the one heir of Durin who never laid eyes on Erebor. There would be no dining in the mansions of Aulë for him. Hopelessness rolled over him in a long, crushing wave, and he fell completely limp in Toz's hand.

"Leave!" He barked out a strong of words that were alien to Kili, a list of Orcish curses. Skon and his tiny company turned and fled, shrieking, into the gloomy morning. Toz released his hold on Kili, rolling him over with the tip of a sharp boot. "Get him tied up over there." He motioned his head towards a small tree near the middle of the clearing, thin in trunk, but sturdy enough to hold a dwarf, especially one as battered as Kili. He was dragged by his stiff arms across the carpet of leaves, flexing his fingers as his hands were briefly unbound. For several delicious moments, the intense pressure on his shoulders and arms had been released, Kili taking in the first deep breath for some hours. He was retied with his arms stretched uncomfortably around the back of the tree, wrists barely meeting. He was completely pinned, unable to move his arms an inch. He could turn his head slightly left and right, and could bow his neck, but not look up at the sky. His legs were free, but although he gave a half-hearted kick at the orc who bound him to the tree, the creature merely darted away with a cackle as the knot was tied. The heat of the fire brushed his bare skin, warming his feet, but his arms were very cold. He could bend his fingers, but his wrists were held fast. Kili blew his hair out of his eyes, watching the head Orc crouch down and pick through his belongings. He examined the bow with some interests, running his fingers over the metalwork. No doubt a dwarvish bow was new to him. He tested the arrowheads, muttering assent to their craft, and Kili felt something blossom within him, in grim satisfaction. He'd crafted and sharpened the heads himself. The bow, too, was largely Kili's handiwork. Too small for the bow of a man, and certainly an elf, Kili copied the design of a child's bow, with stronger wood, and a design that fitted his broad hands.

Toz fingered the edge of Kili's tunic, talking to himself in a foreign language. He was studying the design closely, the interlocking geometric design, replicated on the sling of his bow. He cast his eye back to the dwarf, half-hidden in shadow, before finally picking up the one thing Kili had hoped, above all hope, had been dropped on the ground and forgotten.

The orc held the small round pendant, with the broken leather thong, into the firelight, studying it closely. It was not made of silver or gold. It had been a gift from Thorin, tied around his neck the day Kili was born. It was a tiny circle of mithril, the very, very last Thorin had from his days as King of Erebor. Upon it was stamped the crest of Durin. Kili had worn it every day of his life as a reminder of his lineage, his ancestry. Half the size of a thumbnail, the mithril was worth more than a pound of gold, and Kili had always kept it hidden beneath every thick layer of clothing, as advised by his uncle. But in their hastiness to strip him, the leather broke, the pendant fell into the soft folds of his undershirt, wrapped up in the sack with his tunic and trousers. The light from the mithril flashed in the campfire, attracting the attention of all the orcs in the clearing. Toz held it with an outstretched arm, watching the white sheen on the firelight. His face was twisted even further than before as he studied it. He didn't recognise the device of Durin. But it didn't matter. It was mithril and it bore an impressive crest. That was enough for him.

"Send word to Azog." Toz gestured to an underling at his side. Kili gasped at the words, clenching his hands on impulse. The orc crowed in assent as he leaped astride a huge grey warg, crashing out of the clearing. Toz turned back to stare at him, and although Kili tried to keep an impassive face, his wide eyes and trembling lips gave everything away. Toz turned his lips in a smirk, giving the rest of the plunder a dismissive wave before thrusting the pendant in his pocket. The orcs crowed in delight and began to paw all over his things, making off with the warm cloak to line the bed, pulling on his tunic and boots, cackling at one another in laughter, fighting over his sword, too short of any of them, but still the finest blade they could ever hope to hold. Toz ignored them as he approached the young dwarf, Kili's heart sinking further and further with every step the orc took. Toz stopped several feet before the young dwarf, swinging his scimitar idly at his left. Kili drew his knees up to his chest, breathing very heavily. Their eyes met. The orc's narrowed, calculating and as yellow as fire, the dwarf's wide and dark, brimming with tears but refusing to let them fall. Toz twirled the sword, letting the beaten blade catch the firelight. It was broken and blackened, looking very dull against the orange of the fire. Kili kept his lips closed. He refused to speak a word that could incriminate him. As it was, they had nothing that could tie him to Thorin. Just a pendant. A few clothes. Without a name, they had nothing. He had a resolute, dwarvish heart and they couldn't ever break him.

Kili swallowed, transfixed, as he stared at the scimitar turning blackly in the firelight.

_They can't break me._

* * *

Thirteen faces stared at each other around the table. Thirteen pairs of eyes. Some downcast, some looking up at the ceiling, some staring intently at the black-haired figure at the centre of the table. One pair was very red, although the others chose not to notice. Thirteen sets of lips, closed very tightly, refusing to break the heavy pall of silence that enveloped the incomplete company. The silence stretched from seconds to minutes, until finally Fili slammed his fists down on the table.

"We have to go back out." He made to stand up, but Thorin and Gloin grabbed his elbows, holding him fast. Thorin's pallid face strained with the effort, eyes rimmed with heavy shadows. "There's still some time before sunset. If we leave now-"

"Nobody, Master Fili, is leaving this house." The group started at the voice. Gandalf stepped into the hall, the front door squeaking behind him. "Beorn has given me very strict orders to make sure no soul passes through that door." He sat down between Thorin and Fili, the dwarves shuffling aside on the bench. "You cannot begin to imagine the horrors of the wild in these parts at night." The Bears were the least of it. "Goblins have been seen in their hundreds, scouring the countryside for any sign of the dwarves who killed their King in their domain. If you were to be caught-"

"But he _has."_ Fili tore himself free from Gloin's hold, standing up. "Kili - he's _out_ there! He's out there  _alone_ , with the place crawling with goblins who want to kill him!" Bilbo's heart swelled at the sight. "You're all _brothers_." At this, Thorin's eyes went very dim, staring down at the tabletop, sinking into dark memory. " _Please._ " His voice had faded to a soft gasp, his wild eyes swiveling across the long table. But nobody could meet his gaze. They were all too afraid to look at him.

"We will go nowhere until morning." Thorin's voice was slow, and steady, but nobody could ignore his shaking hands, curled into fists. "We will organize search parties, with Beorn's horses to help us cover more ground." Fili leaned forward, hands on the table. Fili's golden braids cascaded downwards, brushing the smooth wooden surface. "Fili." Thorin's voice rose. "Nowhere until morning, do you understand me?" Fili's bow deepened, until his forehead touched the table.  "Fili."

Fili responded with a low animal roar, in the base of his throat. Bilbo jumped at the sound as Fili upended the long table, the hall filling with the sound of plates and cups and cutlery scattering about on the floor, with the curses and sounds of alarm by the dwarves as they scuttled out of the way. Only Gandalf, ever unperturbed, continued to puff away on his pipe as though nothing had happened. Thorin stared at Fili with wide eyes, mouth gaping silently in a vain attempt to speak. Fili stood panting over the debris, his shoulders heaving, lips parted as he gasped for air. The short, ugly breathing was the only sound in the otherwise silent hall. For what seemed like a very long while, the rest of the company stared at Fili in complete silence, agape. Nobody had ever seen him lose control like this. Fili was the strong, sensible one. He always kept his head. This sort of outburst was completely alien to them, even in this situation. Even Thorin was at a complete loss for words. Everybody held their breath, tentatively waiting to see what he would do next, expecting him to scream or lash out or cry. Fili stood, stiff and rigid, as though expecting something from somebody, the breath escaping from his body in those awful loud gasps.

Eventually, Thorin stood up. He winced at the motion and a hand drifted to his ribs. He gently touched Fili's shoulders, one arm snaking across his back, pushing down on him. Not pushing. He  _lean_ _ed_ on his nephew. His bearded chin dug into the crook of Fili's neck. And slowly, with the stiffness of the aged and enfeebled, Fili sank into the long bench seat. His head sank downwards, face hidden by a long falling mane of gold. The thick fingers of his broad hands threaded through the mass of curls and braids, Fili's shoulders shaking with the soft, snuffling sound of someone crying, and trying not to show it. Thorin's hands tightened on his shoulders, the other dwarves watching as he whispered something in Fili's ear through the curtain of blonde hair, on the edge of his breath, so soft that even Fili struggled to hear it. But whatever it was, the effect was immediate. Fili's taught shoulders slackened, and his hands fell lax, arms resting on his knees. He looked defeated.

"Well now, let's get this up." Gandalf rose to his feet, resting his pipe between his teeth and gesturing to the heavy table. While Bilbo and Ori watched, Thorin and Fili remaining silent on the bench, the others heaved the table into its original place with no small amount of muttering and low swearing. They cleared the ruined food, doing their best to mop up the spilled drinks, and stacking the dishes in neat piles. Bilbo's hands trembled as he set an empty cup down on the table, reminded very painfully of his home at Bag End. But this party could not be further from the merry night when Bilbo began his adventure. While the sun began faded outside, the company rolled out their blankets and furs in the familiar tight pile. While Gandalf puffed away at his long pipe, Dwalin and Gloin carefully helped Thorin out of his clothes and into his pile of thick furs before returning to the table. Some of the dwarves lay down and tried to get some sleep, knowing they had to be ready to leave at first light. Ori sat cross-legged, reading. Balin muttered to his brother at the table, glancing down at a worn map and counting on his fingers. Dori fiddled with his pipe. Bofur slowly whittled. But Fili had remained in his seat, head down. Limp as a doll, he didn't respond to Gandalf's hand on his shoulder, and the wizard had to shake him very hard before Fili raised his head.

"I think it best you try to get a few hours of sleep before the dawn." He flashed a kindly smile, but Fili gave no expression. His eyes were awfully blank, lips slack in silence. Tear tracks had dried on his cheeks, glimmering in the firelight. "Come now." He gave Fili a little push, but the dwarf remained seated.

"Fili, go to bed." Thorin barked from his place on the floor, resting on one elbow. " _Now._ " Fili's eyes flickered, from the firepit to Thorin. The hollow expression left Thorin cold and he looked uneasily down at his hands. But Fili slowly rose to his feet, walking around the table with heavy, dull thumps on the floorboards. He shrugged off his cloak and left it in a puddle by the beds, kicking off his boots. He left most of his clothes in a rumpled lump, the dwarves making way as Fili shuffled through to his bed in the center. Fili lay down on his side, staring at the empty space where Kili should have been sleeping. His bed had still been set up, the thick mantle beneath a warm woven blanket, a spare shirt rolled up as a pillow. Fili stretched out his fingers, threading them through the thick fur. He closed his eyes but sleep was not going to come to him that night. His mind tortured him, with images of Kili broken and bloody, tumbling down a ravine, being torn to pieces by wargs and shot and stabbed by goblin weapons. He opened his eyes again but Kili's lifeless face seemed to hover before him, on the furs, and that was worse. Although the rest of the dwarves slowly bunked down, the soft murmurs growing quieter and slower until giving way entirely to snores, Fili remained awake, with his hand in Kili's bed, the words Thorin had whispered in his ear rolling around and around in his head.

_Sons of Durin do not scream and cry._


	3. The Mouth of the Beast

The day seemed endless to Kili.

While the sun hung unchallenged in a clear sky, light failed to pierce the heavy canopy of leaves that enfolded the campsite, which lay shrouded in a dull, green gloom. The air was hot and smoky, with the horrible, stale odour of meat starting to turn bad. He didn't know how much time passed, tied to the tree. Nobody bothered to put a watch on him - the camp was busy enough with orcs scurrying about, and Kili was held very fast to the slim tree. So he stared at the huddled figures around the fire, catching snatches of conversation. Sometimes they got carried away, talking too loudly before looking up and noticing the young dwarf staring at them. Then they lowered their voices, or switched into their native tongue, a horrible, cursed language that scratched on Kili's ears. As the day wore on, Kili's stomach cramped tighter and tighter, his mouth drew drier, his limbs stiffer and colder. Kili couldn't stay still. He shuffled and fidgeted and mewled, pawing at the ground with his bare feet. Flashing glances of annoyance were tossed Kili's way, but he refused to stay still and quiet, even as his breathing grew slower and more laboured, with the sheer effort of staying conscious.

"Oi." Kili's eyes were dazed and unfocused as he received the heavy cuff about the head. Toz crouched down before him, a snarl fixed on his warped features. Kili stared for a moment, lips parted in a heavy breath as he realised the orc held something in a black claw. A flask. His eyes widened, and was only able to manage a short cry of protest before the flask was shoved into Kili's mouth and upended. He sputtered as the molten liquid slid down his throat, settling in his stomach like a hot coal. Toz let the flask empty in the dwarf's throat, and Kili coughed as the orc withdrew, a few drops remaining on his dry lips. Satisfied, Toz turned back to the campfire, bawling out some joke in that awful native tongue. Kili swallowed and spat and coughed, trying to get the taste out of his mouth. It was the bitterest thing he'd ever tasted. But it had _worked_ somehow. His stiff arms felt more relaxed, his ankle didn't hurt and he'd forgotten about the darkening bruises plastered over his quivering torso. Kili sucked in a deep lungful of air as he realised the sensation as it slowly built in his stomach, spreading to his limbs. He was drunk.

Kili's head lolled on a slack neck, drooping forwards as exhaustion and pain and the effects of the drink began to erode at his stout iron will. Even though he whispered under his breath, refusing to cave into sleep amongst these people, Kili's heavy eyes began to hang down, as his shuffling and struggling grew slower and weaker until his limbs remained still. And as sun began to drawn downwards into a reddening sky, Kili sank into the soft embrace of sleep. Toz untied the snoring figure from the tree, binding his hands and feet and tying him onto the back of a warg. Kili's nose fell into the coarse grey fur, and he burst into a terrifying memory-dream of flashing yellow eyes and sharp white teeth looming over him in a blue hour of twilight, with a scream and a rushing cascade of blood. He moaned aloud and struggled against the bonds, lost in a nightmare. Toz paused as he realised the dwarf was talking in his sleep.

"Fili no... Help..." Toz filed the name away in his memory as he bent down to check his boots. "Fili please." He pressed Kili's face into the fur, muffling the sound as he leaped astride the grey beast. Azog's message in response was swift and concise. He wanted the dwarf - _there_ \- as soon as possible. By nightfall.

And with a grim smile on his face, Toz struck the short whip against the side of the warg, plunging from the relative darkness of the campsite into the murky green light of the wood.

* * *

It was the hour before dawn, when Fili finally shoved aside the blankets, clambering unceremoniously across several sleeping bodies to get at his clothes. Muttered swearing bubbled in the hall, several cracked eyes glaring at Fili pulling on his trousers. Thorin, who had lain awake all night listening to his nephew tossing and turning, sat up slowly, watching the figure grope about in the gloom.

"Going somewhere Fili?" His rough voice was enough to rouse the few that had managed to sleep through Fili's thumping and shuffling. Fili's silhouette jerked in the light, and he looked over at his uncle.

"We have to get ready." He spoke shortly, making his way to the low table, half-dressed. He sniffed at the remains of last nights dinner, cramming a stale loaf of bread into his mouth.

"The lad's right." Dwalin groaned, pulling himself out of bed. "We best be ready to leave on the verge of dawn." He kicked at a half-sleeping Dori, who muttered in response. "Up, lazybones."

Fili bent down, blowing life into the fire as the dwarves began to sleepily pull themselves together. They were all tired and annoyed - but nobody dared to mutter anything aloud. In fact, they all dressed and ate in rare, pensive silence. More than one looked at the empty space beside Fili, brow creased. Eventually Thorin filled the space, sitting down heavily in his pajamas. He'd resigned himself to the fact that he would be staying behind, and watched silently as Balin spread his hand-drawn map out on the table.

"Dwalin and I sketched this last night." It wasn't entirely accurate, but it have an approximate representation of the local landmarks and dangers. Maps of this part of the world were hard to come by, either being out of date, or left entirely blank. Their heads all bent over the table as Gandalf stepped into the hall from his alcove room. "Thank Durin it's summer, and we have a good fifteen hours of daylight. That means seven hours of riding before we would have to turn back. That means we can get about here." He sketched a rough line ten leagues around Beorn's hall. "Maybe less for the forest if it's hard going." Thorin had a hand resting on Fili's shoulder. "Although single riders would cover more ground, we'd be running into the exact same problem. So we'll be going in pairs. Balin and Ori, Oin and Bilbo, Gloin and Nori, Bofur and Bombur, Bifur and Dori, Fili and Gandalf, and Dwalin can hold his own." His brother nodded silently. He'd tried to match the hardiest warriors with the youngest and least experienced, and knew that without Gandalf to keep him in check, Fili wouldn't stop and turn back in time to make it home before dark. "It's a search mission above all else. If you find Kili and... and he's in some sort of trouble, you're not to play the hero. Memorise where you are and come back so we can go as a group." Gandalf stood with his arms crossed, surveying the group. "I cannot stress this enough." Balin looked very hard at Fili. "Far too often in this situation, it's the searchers who land themselves in trouble." The rest of the room nodded silently, except for Fili, who was staring down at the map.

"He would for us." Fili spoke so softly, only Thorin could hear him. He received a stony glare from his uncle in response, and kept his mouth closed.

"We all want him back, laddie." Gloin's eyes crinkled in an attempt at a warm smile. "We'll find him, no worry. How far can one dwarf go on foot?"

"We couldn't find him yesterday." Fili stood up. "And if we don't leave _now_ _,_ we won't find him today." He collected his swords, slinging the weapons across his back. Fili turned towards the door, but before he could take a step, the young prince froze, seeing Thorin standing before him, white-faced and hollow-eyed.

"Don't for one second believe you are alone in wishing him back." Fili swallowed as the mask cracked, and for just a moment, the grief and pain and anxiety that plagued Thorin and hindered his recovery was written all over his face, set in heavy lines and dark shadows under his eyes. Fili thought he felt bitter loss and anguish. But he had _no_ idea. The fear of losing Kili had wracked Thorin ever since he stepped foot out of Ered Luin. He was too young, too rash and impulsive and naive for this quest. He didn't listen to Thorin, didn't keep out of danger, didn't check anything, almost drowned himself and his brother too, lost the ponies and landed them into the trouble with the trolls. He'd been misbehaving since they'd left Bag End, and this felt like Thorin to be the final blow. If - _when,_ not if - he was found, Thorin was sorely tempted to send him home. He would have done it earlier, if had been anybody else. But Kili was the baby of the company, not even of age. He was the one that needed checking, needed looking out for, and Thorin took his role as protector of his young nephew very seriously. It wasn't Fili or Balin Thorin had screamed for during the fight of the stone giants.

But it was only a flicker, and within a heartbeat, Thorin's expression settled back into his usual, gruff mask, not looking Fili in the eye as he clumped over to the table, sitting himself down with a silent wince. The other dwarves packed up what was left of the food and put their boots on under a heavy, quiet shroud. They were dull and slow. Thorin watched them go, slumping forward on the table as the company disappeared into the grey, pre-dawn light. He rested his head on a crooked elbow, his left hand clutching at his ribs.

Kili. He let out a low moan, closing his eyes. Kili, Kili, _Kili._

He refused to think that he would never see his youngest nephew again. That he would never see Kili's cheeky, impish grin and those wide eyes. His untidy mop of chestnut hair that he inexplicably refused to braid. Thorin's heart ached in remembrance. Was it really seventy years ago, when he held the tiny child in his arms, whispering soft lullabies and gently rocking him to sleep? When Kili's hands were so tiny, his little grasp could barely fit around Thorin's thumb? When he could lie stretched out on Thorin's torso, his little head tucked just beneath his bearded chin, legs kicking at his stomach? Fili had been a strong, boisterous babe, with a powerful cry and red, chubby cheeks. But Kili had been thin and sickly, far too pale, with all the bones showing beneath his skin, and a stretched, pitiful wail that barely rose above a whimper. When Fili began his weapons training  at the tender age of fifteen, Dwalin declared the child a prodigy of the sword, if a little clumsy with an axe, and he spoke Khuzdul with easy fluency. His beard came in early, he was stronger than children several years older than him. He was quick on his feet and until Kili's growth spurt, could beat anybody in a foot-race by several yards. Fili couldn't wish for a greater heir, and he wrote to Dain with considerable enthusiasm for his nephew, wishing for the boy to spend some years in the Iron Hills, learning the ancient customs of Durin which had begun to crumble in the settlement of Ered Luin. He had to wait until Fili was forty, but away the adolescent dwarf went, coming back in seven years with a magnificent yellow beard, his lion's mane braided with gold. Thorin tried to give Kili the same privelege, but his cousin wasn't interested in the bow-slinging younger brother, smooth as a child, with clumsy Khuzdul and no skill with a forge, and Kili stayed behind, morose and abandoned.

It was then when Thorin realised that Kili was never going to be a true prince of Durin. He lacked the conduct and discipline, the skill with dwarvish weapons, and most painfully, the beard. He was painfully reminded,  _every day_ , of Frerin, who twisted his brittle wrists at weapons practice at least once a month, who would push aside his books and draw all over the paper, designs and sketches of things he wanted to make. Who would come in when Thorin was sleeping and whisper that he had a bad dream and couldn't sleep, and could he stay with Thorin for the night? Who walked in the shadows of Erebor, ignoring the despairing gaze of Thrain and Thror while Thorin was hailed as the finest dwarf prince the kingdom had ever seen. And terrified of history repeating itself, heart sickened with memory, Thorin caved to Kili's natural attraction to archery, and let the boy take lessons from a neighboring town of men, ignoring the rumblings of discontent from his comrades. When he slacked off on his Khuzdul and stopped paying attention to Balin's classes, Thorin brought Kili instead into the forge, giving him pieces of scrap to tinker with. Rather than ignoring the boy or beating his ideals into him, Thorin allowed Kili freedom and happiness enough to pursue his own goals. And Thorin thought it worked. He was a very, very fast runner, and his skill with the bow was impressive even amongst men and elves. He was fond of puzzles and riddles, and his quick mind could untangle any logical knot. When Fili returned from the Iron Hills, he noticed the remarkable change, and even went so far as to say the separation had done Kili good, who had aged on his own terms without measuring himself against his brother.

But Thorin still babied him. It became painfully obvious to everybody that he treated Kili differently. His expectations for Fili, his immediate heir, bordered on the unrealistic. Fili, who had mastered his swords, must then learn the axe, and the nuances of the forge, the literature and lore of his ancestors. And while Kili practised shooting rabbits in the woods, Fili slaved over a red-hot fire. While Kili slept soundly in his bed, Fili sat hunched over dusty tomes of histories in the complicated phrasing of ancient Khuzdul. But not once did Fili harbour discontent towards his uncle and brother. Fili had deep memories of the glory and opulence of the Iron Hills, and felt cheated as he trudged along in the Blue Mountains. The love of gold and jewels which had consumed his grandfather and great-grandfather began to grow within him. His heart began to be drawn to the kingdom beneath the Mountain which was destined to be his. Thorin felt Fili's discontent plainly, even encouraged it. Complacency, he knew, would destroy their hopes of ever regaining their homeland. So when Fili finally came of age two years ago, Thorin stood in the packed dining Hall, eyes shining in the light of a hundred lanterns, his hand tightly clinging to his nephew's shoulder. And he announced his intention to reclaim Erebor. Two years had passed, two years of sending messages to their brethren in isolated mountains, of drawing and puzzling over maps, of forging new weapons of thick, polished steel, weapons they hoped could withstand dragon's flame.

And two years later, he sat alone in the morning-lit room, surrounded by empty plates and scattered crumbs. Listening to the muffled sounds of birds and bees, as his wounds pained him and head hung heavy and tired. Thorin straightened, looking behind him to the cluster of beds. None were as close together as his nephews. They even shared their blankets on cold nights, Kili sleeping with his head on Fili's shoulder like a child. He couldn't stand to look at it. With a sigh, Thorin forced himself to stand, making his lopsided way to the front door. The morning sun was as rich and warm as butter, and he sat down in the grass quietly, leaning against the side of the Hall with sunbeams piercing his face.

 _Mahal._ Thorin whispered a short prayer in Khuzdul, lips resting on his clasped hands. Protect him. Guard him. Ensure his safety. Nothing could move the unshakeable fear that hung in Thorin's chest, threatening to explode. Fear that his kin would return with Kili's body or worse, a scrap of bloodied clothing, a few bones. Any anger at Kili had been displaced by the crippling fear. Thorin found it hard to breathe. He arched his neck to take in the sunlight on the face, as though it would burn out the unease that swelled within him.

But despite the glorious late-summer morning, Thorin felt very, very cold.

* * *

Kili was halfway between dream and waking when he fell heavily onto the ground.

He was having the nightmare again, where he was in the woods, with the warg, and he screamed for Fili over and over but he never came and the warg pounced on him, with a horrible rushing sound. Usually in the nightmare, Kili awoke before the warg ever touched his skin, but this time, he watched, screaming and crying as the warg lifted his tiny body easily in a set of monstrous teeth, shaking him like a broken doll. As he was thrown in his dream, Kili was dumped onto the ground in real life, falling-face-first into the ground. His eyes cracked open, half-asleep, to see the teeth of a warg inches from his face.

He screamed, twisting about like a fish on dry land, thinking for a terrible moment that the dream was _real_ , that he was twelve again in the woods outside his home, cornered and defenseless. It was the loud shouting above his head of the orc, calling the beast back, that brought reality crashing down, and Kili remembered what had happened, falling still.

It was a cool night without a whisper of wind. The moonlight dusted the orc's boots by Kili's face. Kili struggled into a sitting position with hands and feet bound, knocking himself against the legs of the orc and receiving a sharp kick in response.

"Toz." Kili's head whipped around at the word, heart freezing in his throat as he saw the figure on the other side of the clearing. His white skin shone iridescent in the moonlight, eyes looking very black in his pale skull. He took one step towards the pair, and another, sizing the bound dwarf up. His beardless face and his unbraided hair, his eyes that struggled to hold back tears. He was barely above a child, certainly not Thorin himself. Azog had little memory of Thorin's company, his mind at the time preoccupied with Thorin and the _cursed_ halfling that dared to stand before him. But there was little doubt in his mind that this particular dwarf ranked amongst their numbers. Kili backed into the orc behind him, breath dead in his throat as the Azog approached him. He started speaking to the other orc in Black Speech, his existing arm pointing downwards, at Kili.

"Who is this? This is not Thorin Oakenshield." Kili caught his uncle's name, swallowing with a very dry mouth. Toz visibly quailed under the harsh words of the orc king.

"I-I know he looks young, but-"

"This _boy_ wouldn't have been _alive_ during Azanulbizar." The disappointment was painfully obvious, even to Kili. "You fool!"

"But his clothes - they were kingly! His sword was fit for a prince!" Toz whined. "He - carried this." He thrust his hand in the pocket, withdrawing the mithril. Toz had hoped to keep it hidden, to trade off when he had returned to his southern homeland; now he bartered for his life. Kili looked up at the glimmering pendant, shining like a polished jewel in the light of themoon. It was dazzling. Azog took the trinket, the metal looking very small in his hand. He studied it closely. Yes, he knew the device of Durin very well. It had been on Thror's helmet when Azog beheaded him. Thorin wore it on his belt, the hilt of his sword and axe. This paltry scrap of mithril was doubtlessly one of the most precious things remaining in the hands of the former inhabitants of Erebor. Azog looked from the pendant to the shivering dwarf which had worn it. He stared at his wide brown eyes, his thin nose and angular jawline. Too young, indeed. His neck rolled back as a long, slow laugh exploded into the night, a fresh wave of terror washing over Kili at the awful sound.

"Bring him." Azog turned away from Toz, towards the open mouth of the cave where he rested. Kili saw the flicker of firelight from deep within, heard the banging of iron and the occasional hoarse screech and curse.

"N-No." Kili protested as Toz grabbed him by the hair. "You have the wrong person!" Did Azog speak Westron? Could he hear Kili's pleas? Or were his cries of desperation nothing but foreign, garbled gibberish in the night? "Stop!" He was slung over the orc's shoulders, and though he kicked out and screamed, Toz bore the weak attacks silently, his mind focused on the reward which awaited him within the cave. For him, it held the promise of luxury.

But for Kili, weak with hunger and thirst, bruised and shivering, the cave promised only unspeakable pain and horror.


	4. The Wildlands

"Perhaps you would like me to tell you a tale, Master Fili." The wizard broke an hour of pained silence with a gentle aside, one so soft and nondescript that Fili, who had kept his eyes fixed on the narrow path before them, looked up in surprise.

"With all respect, Gandalf, this is not the time for stories." His hands tightened on the reins. Thin, loose things they were, for show more than actual use, but it comforted Fili to hold them. It gave him the illusion of control.

"Oh, I think you should like to hear it." Gandalf pulled his pipe from his sleeve, rifling about for his pouch of tobacco. "It concerns your father." At this, Fili stiffened, and looked away from the wizard.

"I wasn't aware you knew him." Fili muttered, gaze lowered down to his hands. Gandalf studied his reaction carefully. "I've had nothing to do with my father for a very long time."

"Oh yes, I'm quite aware." Gandalf lit the pipe with a finger. "However, I myself find the entire business abhorrent, the hushing-up and skirting around. The truth should always be told, even in matters such as these." He blew out a long cloud of smoke. "This is something you deserve - you _need_ \- to know." Fili couldn't look at him." I've been meaning to get you alone for a while," he explained, "but it is difficult when you refuse to let your brother out of your sight." He sounded almost accusing. Fili's head snapped up, and he gave the wizard a molten stare. "Am I right in assuming that he is ignorant to the truth?"

"Of course he is." Fili wound the reins around and around his fingers, watching them turn purple. "Kili thinks he died a hero before he was born. Nobody will tell him otherwise."

"And you believe this is wise?"

"It's not my right to decide what is wise." Fili snapped, face paling as he realised just who he had been talking to. "Sorry." He whispered. "What... What did you have to say about him?"

"I found him rather recently." Gandalf had a wonderful way of talking. His words babbled and flowed, like a gushing river. Even the most grisly details had the gentle cadence of a child's nursery story. It thrummed comfortably in Fili's ears. "It was about, oh, six or seven years ago," _Recently?_ He supposed that was recent, for Gandalf. At any rate, it was better than the last time Fili had laid eyes on the man - almost seventy-eight years ago. "I was travelling along the Eastern provinces of Enedwaith, and-"

"What in Durin's name were you doing out there? I've heard it's nothing but ruins and barbarians." Fili interrupted. Gandalf raised one of his magnificent eyebrows, merely heaving a sigh before continuing with his story.

"I was travelling along the Eastern provinces, and crossed into Dunland. It is the only way to enter Isengard west of the Misty Mountains, and I don't have to tell you the troubles of _that_. Now I'm sure you've heard rumours of the Dunlendings. Savages and barbarians, all of that. But as long as you don't bother them, and you're not a man of Rohan, they are quite accommodating. Saruman gets along quite decently with them - they haven't attacked his tower at least - and if you pass through with enough gold and iron, they will treat you like one of their own." Fili looked over at Gandalf, wondering where he was going with this story. "I spent a night in their Hall - if you could call it that - and got to talking about this and that, who they had seen and whatnot. And the leader, Aelgar I believe was his name, told me of those who had passed through their company. Like most desolate tribes in the wildlands, they become quite a haven for outcasts and vagrants of more noble peoples." Fili's head drooped, as he realised where the story was going. "And they mentioned a rather youngish dwarf, who had dwelled in their realm some years before."

"Was it _him?"_ In line with the custom of Dwarves, Fili could never utter his father's name aloud, or write it down. It was banished from the hearts and minds of his people, for ever. He was _Isimun Ghunum._ Eternally lonely. Not simply dead - it was as though he had never been. Nobody was to ever mention him again. Nobody was to attempt to seek him out. He had been shaved and branded and cast out into the wilderness, left abandoned by his people for ever. To be _Isimun Ghunum_ was the worst punishment a dwarf could suffer. Worst than death. Centuries of loneliness, cut off from not just their kin and tribes, but the entire dwarf people. It was a sentence delivered only by a king (or king-in-exile, as the case came to be), for the absolute highest of unforgivable crimes. Because Fili, Dis, and Thorin refused to ever speak or write it, Kili actually had no idea of his father's name. And when, as a child, he tried to ask anybody else, he was met with silence, as though he were a ghost, or an obvous, forced confusion. _I don't know who you're talking about, laddie. Run along now_. Fili shouldn't have been listening, even now. He should have told Gandalf to stop talking, to deny that such a being ever existed. But how could he do that? He _did_ exist. Fili was proof of that. Kili too. Although the name had been scratched away, his and Kili's would remain, passing down the ages, as proof that a dwarf of that name did indeed once exist.

"Yes. I asked after his name, and Aelgar spoke it. He had been wandering about for the better part of sixty years, drifting about and eeking an existence from whatever labour and smithwork he could grasp. The Dunlendings kept him around for some time, contracting him to forge new tools and weapons. Most wouldn't stoop to such a low level, but desperation claims us all."  Gandalf respected the dwarf customs, but he was not going to keep Fili from learning the truth about his father. Fili was painfully aware of the heartbeat rushing in his ears.

"Have you told Thorin about this?"

"Thorin does not want to hear it. He considers the dwarf gone in the world, struck off the tongues of the living and the writings of the dead. He is determined that history shall never remember him." He blew out more smoke, the horrible sick feeling rising in Fili's chest.

"You said _had_." He swallowed, mouth dry. "What happened to him?" Gandalf took in a very long lungful of pipe-riddled air, noticing how wonderful the sky looked. But there was no way he could dodge the question. He had started this story, and was held to finish it.

"He got on quite well with them for the most part. He spent what little money he did earn on drink. He didn't speak much about his past, but he did mention to Aelgar that he had a son. One son." So he never knew about Kili. Fili's heart tightened. He had never known he had a second son. "He didn't mention what terrible deeds he had done, to get himself banished, but his past demons came back to haunt him." Gandalf gave one last puff on his dying pipe. Fili stared very hard at him. "He drank too much one night, the fool, and climbed into bed with Aelgar's youngest daughter." Fili closed his eyes and bowed his head, the awful rushing exploding in his ears, a roar. "She screamed loud enough to wake the Hall and he was found guilty for attacking her." That slow, pleasant rolling in Gandalf's voice had disappeared. He now sounded low, in pain. "I don't need to go into how they did it. But he has left this earth, Fili." The young dwarf's head was bowed. "Be assured of that."

"Did...Did Thorin ever tell you what he did?" Fili kept his voice very low. He didn't feel bitter or angry or upset. Not yet. He just felt numb. Perhaps in a few hours, the full extent of what Gandalf had said would sink in, and he would either burst into tears or break the furniture in a rage. But now, he just sat astride the pony in a stunned silence. Gandalf shook his head, emptying the pipe of its burned fragments.

"He believes such things are a matter of family. But I can guess." Fili looked over at the wizard, hands very tight, as the confession bubbled on his lips. The one that he had kept sealed for his entire life. One that his kin refused to hear. Fili couldn't bear it. Learning about him, his death, peeled the scab off the wound, leaving it fresh, raw, and bleeding. "It is a grievous crime, to warrant such a punishment."

"I was four." Fili looked down at his hands. Gandalf stared at the young dwarf very closely. "I-I know I was young but..." Even though the pipe was empty, Gandalf placed the stem between his teeth out of habit, looking very deep in thought.

"You remember." He finally spoke, as the pipe finally disappeared into his sleeve. Fili nodded, looking very white.

"Yes." Fili closed his eyes, breathing in and out, very very slowly. "I remember." His hands trembled plainly on the reins. "The things they say about Kili... They're not true."

"Oh? What things?" Gandalf feigned ignorance, but Fili was no fool. He gritted his teeth, shaking his head.

"The _things_. About him. Not being... Not being whole." He couldn't bring himself to say the word. Not about his own brother. He would never dare. He couldn't even think it. He closed his mind to the concept. Gandalf stared at him with those tired, half-lidded eyes. It was blasphemy, to utter the word itself. It was an insult to the honour of his mother. Of her lineage and ancestry. It was some moments before Fili could say how exactly he knew. He would never, ever dare to speak it to one of his kin. Not even Thorin. _Especially_ Thorin. But Gandalf, the wise, aged wizard, was different. Although an outsider, he was considered a friend - at least, enough to somehow receive Thrain's map and key. He could be trusted. It was still some moments before he could speak. "They had red hair." His voice was very, very quiet. "He can't be..."

"Ah. I never suggest for a single moment he was." There was a new seriousness in Gandalf's voice. "And I believe you would be hard pressed to find somebody who actually believed it."

"But they call him-" Fili stopped himself. Even if Gandalf was a friend of the dwarves, he was tentative to speak Khuzdul around him. "Well, it doesn't matter, the exact word..."

" _Burm_?" Gandalf guessed, arching his head to look over the hill they were slowly climbing. His lips twitched in a flicker of a smile as he noticed Fili's surprise. "Don't tell your uncle, but I learned a little Khuzdul on my travels." He didn't mention who it was from. One thing at a time. "Idle gossip. Pay no heed to the chit-chat of bored housewives and underworked tinkers, Master Fili. I promise you, I have seen at least two or three mixed dwarves in my time, and your brother doesn't resemble them in the slightest. If he were a foot higher, I would be concerned." There was that familiar, lilting tone back in Gandalf's voice. It soothed Fili. "If there is one thing which infuriates me most of all about dwarves, it is their stubborn insistence on relying on the past." Fili's eyes flicked up to him. "It is dead and gone. And you must move forward. I told you the story of your father so you could put it to rest. So you could be consoled in the knowledge that he will never play a part in your life again. Not to tear open a fresh wound. Do you understand me?" Fili nodded silently, unable at that time to give a vocal response, even if Gandalf had been completely _wrong_. "Good." Gandalf craned his neck again, as his extra height have the wizard a view of something Fili could not yet see. "I do believe Masters Balin and Ori are beyond that ridge. I wonder how they got so far ahead." Gandalf gave the dwarf a pleasant smile. "I rather enjoyed our little outing together Fili." There was an odd note of finality in his voice. He considered the matter closed. They were not to speak of this to anybody. Gandalf obviously enjoyed partaking in secrets. Fili understood the implication in Gandalf's words.

"Yes." But it was a disembodied voice. It didn't sound like his own. "I enjoyed it very much."

* * *

"Look sharp, boys!" Azog's voice boomed low, the clattering of scimitars and spears filling the cavern as the orcs jerked to attention. Kili yelped as he landed heavily on the ground, landing on his bruised back. He rolled over and managed to get onto his knees, arching his neck to stare up at the ceiling. But it faded away into a deep, inky blackness that the firelight couldn't penetrate. "Gurk." Azog jerked his head towards Toz. "Money for this orc." Although he didn't understand the language, Kili watched the underling disappear behind a large rock, emerging with a small pouch of gold. Toz couldn't hold back his glee, his hands stretched out greedily and eyes shining. As the bag was pressed into his hands, the orc let out a loud whoop, and with a short, cursory bow to Azog, turned tail and ran out of the cavern. Kili would never see him again.

"What orders from my master?" Gurk wheedled, with a leer towards the young dwarf. Kili screwed his eyes shut tightly, reverting to the childish game of _if I can't see you, you can't see me_. But it didn't work and he could feel those dead narrow eyes boring down into his fraying soul.

"A band of goblins patrolling the woods came across this lone dwarf." There was the barest hint of sarcasm at Azog's voice in the last word, aimed obviously at Kili's sparse chin. The cave erupted in jeers and mutterings. They all understood the implication - This dwarf obviously had some connection to Azog's chief foe, Thorin Oakenshield. Azog pulled on a handful of dark tangles, Kili gasping aloud as his neck was forced back. Their eyes met. The orc twisted his broken lip in a snarl as he struggled to remember the angular, beardless face in front of him. _Maybe_ he was even one of Durin's line. The thought sent a shiver down Azog's spine. To lay his hands one so young, to snuff out the life of an heir of Durin before a beard thickened on his chin, would be a sweet, rare victory. Royalty or not, there was no doubt in his mind that he was at least one of the refugee dwarves of Erebor. The mithril proved that, although Azog could distinguish no farther. Perhaps it was simply too hard to tell them all apart, when they had been stripped of their clothes and armour, their weapons torn from their hands. Without the heavy leather and fur, a very small dwarf knelt on the ground, trembling at his feet. Kili let out the breath he had been holding, as Azog released his tight grasp on his dark hair.  "Get everything you can." Azog stepped away, turning towards the fire. Kili watched the retreating form with a sick heart. He didn't understand a single word, but he could imagine the meaning very, very clearly. Thorin didn't speak much on the terror of orcs, but the rest had all swapped stories around the campfire at  night. Stories of wars, raids, imprisonment. They all painted a dark, a very dark picture of the creatures that now surrounded Kili. He was alone and defenseless, bubbling with a growing conviction that he would never, ever leave this cave. The cold fear cramped in his bones.

"Ogash, Bakub, build a frame high enough to string 'im up! Ulfish, heat our blades on the fire! Morbol, shred a bit o' leather to make a scourge!" Gurk barked the orders to the scurrying underlings. The orc crouched down before Kili, jagged fingernails digging into his chin. Gurk was reading his face, his emotions. What he read was typical. Terror gripped this young little dwarf, swallowing him whole. This wouldn't take long. He let out a low, dry cackle, his yellow eyes reflecting the firelight. Kili couldn't look at them. He should have counted his bessings. The orcs didn't have their sturdy, sophisticated machines in this cave, the ones that broke the bones and stretched cartilage. The ones that caused the most pain. Still, Gurk would make do with the simple tools he had here. Beating and burning would bring enough suffering to extract any information from this pathetic little creature.

That was the pleasure of dealing with these soft, weak bodies; they were so susceptible to pain.

* * *

"I've been counting."

Dwalin lay crouched in the bushes, the other four straining to hear his voice over the rustling of the leaves. Balin lay down on one side beside him, Fili on the other. The dull glow of the firelight came from below, flickering in Dwalin's eyes, his heavy body unmoving. "Twelve all up. And their wargs." Fili looked over at him, jaw tight.

"Have you seen..." He struggled to finish it. Dwalin kept his eyes forward, unable to meet Fili's gaze. "Have you seen any sign of him?"

"A-Aye lad." Dwalin choked the words out. "One o' the goblins was fiddling with his sword a little while ago." He could feel the young body close enough to touch him stiffen. Gandalf pressed a hand to Fili's shoulder, keeping him pinned into the earth. "He was here." Although his location now was anybody's guess.

"We need to get the others!" Ori's voice broke beyond a whisper, and Balin looked at him sternly. "Sorry."

"Nah." Dwalin shook his head. "Too long. I've been thinking. They're asleep at the mo', so it's the best time to strike. Gandalf, remember your stunt with the pinecones?"

"Of course." The wizard allowed a note of pride to creep into his voice. Dwalin grinned.

"Well imagine that - on a bigger scale." He pointed at a fallen tree alongside the warg pen. "Think you could set that ablaze?"

"I would be a terrible wizard if I couldn't." Balin gave his brother a sidelong look.

"Good. They're terrified of fire more than anything. That will be enough to get them running. If we do it all at once, then we can catch the orcs when they're being shaken awake. If we take a tent each, then it only leaves the last for us to deal with together." Fili's eyes were fixed very firmly on Dwalin. "What sort of dwarves would we be if we couldn't take down four orcs each, huh?" He clenched his fists, the metal clinking. Balin, you take the one on the left. I'll take the middle, Fili you go on the right. Ori, stay here and keep a lookout." Ha. A lookout. Ori bit back the insult, keeping his face straight. He knew the implication. _Stay out of our way and let us handle it._ But he didn't protest or argue. That sort of rash arrogance was the sort of thing that had led them all into this. He wasn't going to attempt any heroics.

"Are you sure about this?" Balin asked carefully, giving his brother one last out.

"It's been two days." There was a hard edge to Dwalin's voice. "We're running out of time. We can't afford to regroup and waste another night." He clapped Fili on the shoulder. The young dwarf swallowed the lump in his throat, his face sagging in gratitude. "And I'm not leavin' without a fight. Not if he's here." He was low and fierce. Dwalin was remembering the little mop of brown hair that used to scurry around at his knees and pull on his beard, touch his bald head and ask where his hair had gone and if that would happen to him too, had fallen over the first time he'd ever picked up an axe and almost severed his toes, who begged to be told stories of battles and warriors of old, the bloodier the better, who would steal his furs and run about growling like a wolf. Having watched the one he fiercely loved married to a brute and left with two fatherless sons, Dwalin came to tentatively treat the children almost as his own, reserving a special affection for Fili, and _especially_ Kili, not seen in any of the other dwarrows. He played 'what-if', and for the most part, Thorin had let him get away with it.

"When do we move?" Fili whispered, staring down at the dying embers of the fire. Dwalin gave him one last long look, before raising his head.

"Now." He crawled on his stomach through the low bushes, ducking his head to avoid the low-hanging thistles. Fili's golden hair was caught, and he heard the sound of swearing followed by a snapping twig, Dwalin looking back on Fili, admonishing him silently. The aged warrior crouched on the ground at the edge of the campfire, careful not to move a muscle. The wargs all slept, but they knew very well the smell of dwarf, and Dwalin was painfully aware that his scent could set them off at any moment. He looked around for Gandalf, a frown marking his forehead. But eventually he saw him, a shadow of grey in the green gloom across the campsite. How did he move so fast? His beard loomed out of the shadows, jerking in a nod. He could hear the other two breathing softly behind him. Fili's hands were on his swords, the low hiss of metal sounding at his right. The orc guard sat with his back to the trio, whistling to himself as he played with Kili's sword. He looked bored. Fili's heart thudded in his chest as he caught sight of the blade, his blood rushing in his hears. How _dare_ he touch it. To see something so close and familiar in the hands of such a disgusting creature rent his soul. Dwalin walked very quietly, hands empty. He didn't need weapons for this kill. The orc didn't hear anything until Dwalin was right behind him, and then it was too late. Dwalin's hands were on his head, and with a sickening crack of a broken neck, the orc dropped to the ground, head twisted almost backwards, dead eyes staring up at the leafy canopy.

Then the fire roared. Fili sprang to his feet, rushing for his tent as the Wargs began to howl. He burst inside, his burnished blades shining in a brilliant flash of firelight. He made out several huddle figures in the gloom, clambering sleepily about. It was all blood and steel and golden hair - Fili lost his sight in a fit of raw, primal bloodlust. All he could hear and see was the black blood of the orcs spilling over his clothes, and their choked, gargled screaming. They were already dead, but he kept up with his slashing and stabbing, breath coming out in broken sobs. It wasn't until the blade stuck in the ribs of a lifeless orc, tearing the handle from his blackened fingers, that Fili slumped foward on his hands and knees, gasping painfully for air. He tore at the tent cloth, feeling it give beneath his hands, as heavy green light fell over the bloodied corpses in front of them. Three broken bodies, hacked to pieces, littered the ground. They were the black limbs of orcs. Fili let out a long, low moan, which was cut short as a piece of blue cloth caught his eye beneath a limbless torso. A very, very familiar piece of blue cloth.

He grabbed the fabric and pulled, blood splattering as the cloak was heaved free of the littered pieces of orcflesh. It was blackened, but it was his. Fili's hands shook uncontrollably as he pressed the hood to his nose, breathing. Beyond the acrid stench of flesh, he caught the familiar scent of Kili's hair. Fili's head jerked up, battling out of the broken tent, staggering across the ground with Kili's cloak in his hands. He took several steps before collapsing onto his knees, the fur of the hood still against his face.

The rest of the campsite had already been desecrated. The wargs had fled - Gandalf saw to that - and the orcs had been polished off by the other two. Balin and Dwalin had seen that the rest of the company had been killed, and they were crouching over the bodies, ducking in and out of the tents, returning to a place by the campfire and setting things down in a pile. It took Fili some moments before he realised what they were.

Kili's sword. Kili's bow. Kili's boots. Kili's gauntlets. Kili's quiver. Kili's trousers. Kili's tunic. Fili stumbled across to the pile of possessions, the cloak trailing in his hand as he fell down beside his brother's scraps of clothing. All of his things. _But no Kili._ Tears poured down his cheeks as he picked up Kili's tunic, shaking his head. _No. No no no no._ He looked up to see Dwalin crouching down before him, his palm stretched out towards Fili.

Kili's hair clasp lay on a blood-stained glove. Fili stared at the trinket, shaking his head as his shoulders began to heave with sobs. They sounded animal, so unlike a sound he had ever made before. Dwalin pressed it into Fili's hand, wrapping the clammy fingers into a closed fist. Fili raised the fist to his lips, biting on a knuckle in an attempt to stifle those horrible sobs.

"There's nothing else." Balin announced softly, standing behind Fili. "I've checked." Fili buried his face in Kili's cloak, his sobs unable to be muffled. "Dwalin..." The grey-haired dwarf looked haggard and torn. His voice broke with the next words. "Th-There's some cooked meat in a pot by the fire." Confusion contorted Dwalin's face for several moments, before breaking in sick realisation. The horror on Dwalin's face could not be surpassed. In all of his years, Balin had never seen such an expression on his brother. Even the death of Thror didn't bring this level of pain.

"No..." Dwalin's voice was thick. "You're not... Not saying..." He breathed deeply, feeling a panic attack swell in his chest. No. It was impossible. It couldn't happen. They were only rumours made to scare people, to sully their reputation. The orcs didn't actually consume their prey. They wouldn't have the gall.

"There's nothing else." Balin repeated, and his voice was shaking. Fili's sobs stopped, and he looked at Balin with a shocked confusion. He didn't understand what the elder dwarf was saying.

"What do you mean?" He whispered, lips quivering. "What did they _do_ to him?" Balin looked at his brother, feeling sick. "B-Balin?"

"Lad." Balin crouched down in the dirt. He tried to gently take the clothing from out of Fili's hands, but his grasp was unmoveable. He let them be, staring down at the ground. "You... You know the stories. About what orcs do with their prisoners, when they've... finished with them." Fili's eyes were blank at first. He struggled to untangle what Balin had said, trying to recall the rumours and stories through his thick haze of grief. Balin's heart thudded as he slowly realised that he was going to have to say it aloud. He was going to have to tell Fili point-blank that his brother lay in the stomachs of the orcs they had slain. But as he opened his mouth to speak, Fili's eyes widened in realisation. He shook his head slowly, utterly beyond words. Dwalin knelt in the ground with his eyes closed. Fili held his stomach and pitched forward with a groan.

Balin realised what was happening, and he managed to grab on to his shoulders, turning Fili away from the scattered clothes and weapons and onto a naked pile of dirt, holding the golden braids out of his face as he threw up.


	5. Whispers from the Fire

Kili watched the orcs working busily with heartsick dread.

The wooden frame rose out of the looming shadows over the course of an hour, the two orcs keeping their heads down and tongues still as they lashed the wood together with thick rope. It was built to be high enough to keep Kili's feet from touching the ground, and he watched the pair jump up to hang from the crossbeam, testing the height and strength. The frame held the both of them, feet dangling six inches from the rock floor with their arms outstretched. Gurk nodded, motioning for the frame to be brought close to the fire. He stood behind Kili, the blade of his scimitar resting on the dwarf's shoulder, curling around his collarbone. One false move and Kili's neck would be slashed, and he would bleed out on the cave floor within minutes.

Perhaps that would be better.

Kili tried not to show his fear. He tried to keep his head held high and face straight and impassive. But his thin body was wracked with violent trembling, spasms which robbed the air from his lungs. How could he be brave? This wasn't like being trapped beneath the Misty Mountains. Kili was _completely alone_. There was no Fili to grab his hand and say that it would be all right. No Thorin to thump him on the shoulder and tell him to run. Gandalf's light wouldn't guide him out of the darkness. He would die here, alone. So very alone. _Why had nobody come for him?_ Surely by now Fili must have been close. He must have found one of the bands of orcs and figured out where he had been taken. Fili wouldn't stop until he found his brother. Kili still clung to the desperate, fading hope that Fili would be somehow rescue him, but he was beaten down. Helplessness and exhaustion had swallowed him, a deep abyss where the walls rose forever and he couldn't get out. He had no idea how much time had passed since he fell asleep in the wood. He hadn't slept beyond a few scarce hours. Nothing passed his lips, save that awful amber liquid that left his limbs as weak and lifeless as straw. Kili couldn't keep his head up any longer, it hung downward, the cold metal of the scimitar touching his chin.

"Oi!" Gurk wiggled the blade against Kili's frozen skin. "None o' that." He kicked at the dwarf, receiving only a murmur in response. The life had leaked out of him, oozing over the cave floor. With a heavy frown, Gurk sheathed his weapon, crouching down in front of Kili and taking his limp head in both hands. He angled the face upwards, brushing away handfuls of dark hair. Kili's eyes opened halfway, dull and glazed. His lips were cracked, the colour of dust. He was dangerously close to passing out on the ground. With a low sound of annoyance, Gurk turned towards the fire, Kili's face still in his hands.

"Water." His command was short and clipped. "And meat." Kili's eyes were pointed towards the ground, unseeing. Gurk took the crude whittled bowl of water presented to him, pressing it to Kili's dry lips. It was brown and smelly, horrible stagnant cave-water that left the stomach cramped and sickly, but the sensation of liquid in his mouth lit a fire inside Kili. His eyes snapped open, and he opened his mouth as wide as he could to greedily accept the water. It dribbled down the sides of his mouth, splattering on his chest in his haste to drink. Gurk angled the bowl upwards as the last drops of water slid down Kili's throat, raising an eyebrow. He'd downed the entire bowl in ten seconds flat, a third of it winding up down his front. Kili sucked in deep, wolfish gasps of air, punctuated by the odd cough. The water had done good - he kept his head erect on his own, his lips were already pinker, and his eyes reflected the firelight like two stars, watching Gurk with a new clear brightness. But water wasn't enough. Gurk was willing to accept the band of orcs in the forest hadn't wasted their precious food on him, and the visible bones beneath the dwarf's skin suggested it had been far too long since he'd had a decent meal. It wouldn't do to have their prisoner so weak and lifeless. So he took the lump of meat set aside for Kili, breaking a piece of with a clawed thumb and forefinger. But while Kili guzzled the water shamelessly, he stared closed-mouth and untrusting at the grey lump of meat in Gurk's hand.

"Eat." Gurk pressed the meat against Kili's closed lips. The dwarf turned his head away, stomach curling at the charred smell. He couldn't do it. These were the same people who spoke of eating _him._ They had vivid images of his body spit-roasted over an open fire. Who knew what poor creature had been cooked for this meal? It could have just been rabbit or mutton, but it could also have been warg or horse. Or worse. A shudder ran through Kili and he let out a moan, the sound locked behind his closed lips. "I said _eat._ " Gurk grabbed Kili by the jaw, trying to force his mouth open. The water had brought out a new fire in Kili, and he struggled fiercely against the orc's hand. Gurk pushed him down into the stone, pinning his writhing body to the ground with his knees as he tried to prise Kili's iron jaw apart. But Kili still had enough fight in him, the disgust and horror at eating the orcish food jolting through his body like an electric current. With an ugly snarl twisting his features, Gurk reached out, seizing Kili's nose and pinching it closed. He pressed down hard into the stone, Kili unable to jerk himself free of the grasp. His eyes grew very wide as he realised what the orc was trying to do. He would either eat the meat or suffocate. And despite his violent horror, his body would not physically allow himself to be smothered. His face turned red, then purple, straining limbs growing very weak beneath Gurk's hold. Just as black spots began to gather on the corner of his vision, Kili's lips parted in a rough, jagged gasp, and Gurk thrust the lump of meat between his teeth, hand still on his nose. "Spit it out and it'll be one of your fingers next." It wasn't an idle threat. Tears gathered in Kili's eyes, and he chewed silently.

It was charred and stone cold, but the taste sent an awful shudder through him, touching his core. It wasn't game or livestock, he knew the taste of deer and beef and rabbit and mutton well enough. It was heavy and metallic. The meat of something that lived on flesh. His mouth empty, Kili gasped for air. Gurk allowed him a short respite before forcing another lump of cold meat down his throat, a bigger chunk this time, that Kili couldn't chew with his mouth closed. The juice escaped out of the corner of his mouth, Gurk's stomach growling with a longing hunger. The more Kili ate, the weaker he grew. Rather than give him life, the grey lump of meat sapped the energy from his weary bones. He tried to lie to himself. It was just a chunk of mutton. A bit off the leg, that had been left in the fire for too long. But there was no fooling himself. The taste was too different, too thick and _red._ Kili once had a haunch of bear-meat as a child, and it tasted a little like this. But while it only had an edge of iron to it, this was unbearably bitter, and stringy. It wasn't bred for food. Whether it was a psychological trick or a a suspicion of reality, Kili had a heavy knowledge in his heart that this was the flesh of something with two legs. Something with language. It had always been the thing that repulsed Kili the most, of all the orc-tales. The stories of torture and humiliation, those he expected of their people, and he'd even listened in on with a sort of grim relish. But whenever any of his people ever whispered about coming across an orc campfire, with bones that couldn't belong to a four-legged beast picked clean, Kili always paled and turned away. It was the thing that truly set orcs apart from any other foe, their consumption of their prey. It was the strictest taboo, one no man or elf or dwarf had ever committed in written or oral history. It was a horror reserved only for the inhuman sadism of orcs.

And now Kili.

Satisfied he'd force-fed the dwarf enough, Gurk stepped back, releasing his hold and watching as Kili curled on his side, his torso wracked with dry retching. He was going to throw up. He was certain he was going to throw up. He had to throw up. _He had to._ He couldn't keep this within his body. His stomach had to reject it. Kili's slim chest heaved for some moments, but his stomach clung doggedly to the scraps of food, refusing to give it up. Physically, the meat was fine, not undercooked or decomposing. The revulsion was in Kili's mind. The retching died down after a time, Kili's breathing hoarse and shallow, his face wet. He couldn't stop the sobs from shaking his bruised frame, any tentative illusion of stoicism and bravery thoroughly abandoned. Even though the real torture hadn't yet begun, Kili was violated and beaten. Gurk dragged him up by the hair, a moan passing Kili's lips as he saw the wooden frame awaiting him beside the fire, the one that had been built just to torture him. The eroding hope that Fili would come for him had shattered. There was no rescue, there would be no rescue. Even if they were to come for him, if twelve dwarves were to rush the mouth of the cave, Kili wouldn't be saved. Not now. They had already broken and corrupted him. There was nothing left for his kin to save. He couldn't handle this. He was so sure he would crack within moments. As the first blow came he would collapse, scream out everything they wanted to know and more. He would give it all up in a heartbeat. He would betray them all, Thorin and Fili and Bilbo and the rest. He would surrender them to Azog as the first drop of blood fell to the floor.

Kili closed his eyes and shook his head as despair began to claw at the last shred of his humanity. His dwarvish iron will, the one that his people spoke of his reverence and pride, had dissolved, cracked, broken into pieces at his feet.

And for the first time in his young life, _Kili wanted to die._

* * *

It was an astonishingly beautiful sunset that went ignored by the large wooden Hall. Somewhere in the far western distance, a fire had raged. It turned the sky red, streaked with gold across the horizon, fading to dull, velvety purple towards the east dotted with the very first stars. Thorin sat outside, still waiting, but he paid no attention to the sky. Beauty in nature failed to captivate his attention at the best of times, and now his stare was focused, very hard, on the edge of the pastures where his company had ridden off in the dawn light. As the red sky began to fade to purple, and then to grey, as the twilight deepened, as night began to take hold on the little cluster of sanity within the wildland between mountain and wood, and the shadows disappeared completely, sinking to gloomy darkness, Thorin waited.

He was not alone. Dori and Nori sat on either side of him, each lost in their own thoughts. Nobody attempted to speak. They were tightly wound, on the point of snapping. Thorin felt the two dwarves breathing slowly grow faster and faster, as fear began to take hold of them.

"He's with Balin." Dori's attempt at reasoning broke the silence. Nori jerked at the sound, his face brittle and strained. Thorin sank deeper into his glum frown. "He knows what 'e's doing. And Fili - he's got Gandalf at his side. They're in good company." And everybody knew Dwalin could hold his own. "Maybe they're even all together." Thorin _hoped_ so, for Fili and Ori's sake. Everybody else had returned to the Hall in hour before sunset, but these five had stayed out. And now the day sank into night and still nothing came out of the darkness. Thorin was torn once more between anger and fear.

"Anything yet?" The door swung open, revealing Bofur and Bilbo on the doorstep. Bofur took a seat on the ground near the three, mug of honey mead in his hand, and Bilbo remained standing behind the exiled king. Thorin shook his head wordlessly, not shifting his eyes from the puzzle of darkness. Bilbo gave his newfound friend a gentle squeeze on the shoulder. Thorin's hand clasped around his wrist tightly, and for a moment Bilbo thought that his hand was going to be cast away. But Thorin only tightened his fingers around the thin little wrist, and let his fingers rest lax on Bilbo's hand, accepting of the comfort. Without Balin and Dwalin, Bilbo knew that Thorin felt, at that time, quite friendless. None of the others had formed the same sort of weathered relationship of close kinship with Thorin like the aging brothers. The sky above them had sunken into an inky blackness.

"I knew this would happen." Thorin's voice rose from a whisper into the darkness. "I knew a search would only result in more loss. It always does. We can't-"

"Look!" Bofur broke Thorin's despondent train, and the rest of the dwarves glared at him for having the rudeness to interrupt their king. But Bofur had stood up, pointing past them all into the darkness. "I saw a light."

"Firelight?" Bilbo asked. Dori and Nori shared uneasy glances. "So torches?"

"No." Bofur frowned, peering through the thicket of trees at the edge of the pasture. "It was white. Real white. The sort we saw beneath the Mountains." Thorin stood up at the words, ignoring the pain in his chest as he stepped out into the darkness.

"Easy Thorin." Bilbo warned, grabbing onto his sleeve. But Thorin brushed him aside, narrowing his eyes to peer into the darkness. There it was again, a flash of light, passing through the trees. They all saw it this time. He didn't realise he had been holding his breath, until it escaped his lungs in a long sigh. It flickered again, passing through the trees. Gandalf. Thorin waited in silence, hands clenched into trembling fists. He was going to _kill_ them. There were orders, distinct orders that had deliberately been broken. They risked their own safety, as Thorin knew they would do. They put themselves in danger. The thought left Thorin's mouth dry. He wasn't happy with Fili venturing outside the Hall, even with the guidance of Gandalf. The loss of Kili was a hammer on his heart, and he knew that without his older nephew, he would break completely. They were his _heirs_. This was all for them. Everything. Thorin knew his own life had only one purpose - to restore his people to their former glory. And without Fili to carry on his legacy, his entire existence would have been worthless. He poured his soul into his lion-haired nephew.

The mane shone by the light of Gandalf's staff at the edge of the pasture. Thorin let out a low groan in his throat, heard only by Bilbo. He was safe then. Safe enough to ride under his own steam. He felt relief roll over him in a long slow wave. There were five ponies in all. The rest of the company _had_ met up in the woods. They all broke into a trot as they recognised the light of the Hall, the silhouettes of Bilbo and the dwarves outlined plainly against the inside firelight. Dori and Nori let out audible gasps of relief at the sigh of Ori's familiar shape, his cowl pulled up and head bowed. He was crying quite obviously, his little sighs and sniffles carrying across the quiet darkness. Thorin's heart constricted as they grew closer, seeing for the first time black blood was splattered all over Fili. He didn't use the reins at all - his hands were wrapped around a soft blue cloak. A single gasp sounded from Thorin's voice at the sight, and he took several steps towards the approaching ponies, arms outstretched and joy in his face. But his heart froze mid-leap, the smile falling like a stone as he realised the cloak was empty. Fili cradled it to him like a child, head bowed. Thorin reached out and seized the thin reins, the pony shaking his head in annoyance at the motion. Startled, Fili jerked up, his eyes meeting his uncle.

"What..." Thorin reached out, touching the hem of Kili's cloak. He wanted to shout at Fili, to demand answers. Where was he. What had happened. What else did they find. But his voice died within him when he saw Fili's face. His questions were answered. Fili's face wasn't contorted in grief or pain. He didn't scream or cry. He was blank and lifeless as a mask. His eyes were horrible, empty holes, gaping down into a deadened husk, a pit where his soul once rested. Thorin looked desperately at the other four. Ori continued wiping his eyes with his sleeves and Dori dashed forward, coaxing his baby brother out of the saddle and into his arms. Dwalin couldn't look at Thorin. He cast his eyes up to the black sky, with the deliberate, frozen expression of a staunch warrior fighting back tears. Balin looked as though he had aged about fifty years. He merely nodded red-eyed at his king, shoulders slumped in defeat. Gandalf was staring very intently at the light of his staff, his eyes hooded and mouth turned downwards. Fili gave no recognition on his face that he saw his uncle, as Thorin sank to his knees. The sound of his broken cry tore into the night, the remaining dwarves inside the hall clambering to their feet and peering out the door. Balin and Dwalin quickly lit from their ponies, crouched on the ground at Thorin's side. Bilbo stood very still, aware of a low hammering in his heart. Fili remained entirely motionless on the pony, still clinging to the bloodstained cloak. He would never let it go. Thorin lost himself completely. He had no memory of the following moments. Just a rushing in his ears, his chest paralysed with grief. Balin told him later that he just pressed his forehead into Balin's shoulder and screamed, but Thorin was suspicious. There was a bruise on Balin's cheek that Thorin did not remember seeing before. He knelt in the thick grass, smelling the dirt and orc-blood on Balin's weather-stained clothes. At the doorway, the other dwarves clustered, whispering amongst themselves. They were numb with shock as Gandalf slid from his horse to talk to them all. Dwalin couldn't trust his voice, Ori was already inside, sitting on his bed with Dori's arms around him, and Fili remained seated on his pony, looking past everybody, into the darkness. Balin pressed his forehead to Thorin's, murmuring to him in Khuzdul. Bilbo stood between them in the little stretch of awkward darkness, the shadows of the huddled figures towering across the grass, into the night. Nobody had dared to utter it aloud, at least not to him, but even a fool could gather what had happened.

"Fili." Dwalin finally spoke. Bilbo watched the bald dwarf approach the waiting pony, arms held out. "Come down lad." It was as though he was guiding down a child. Fili sat stiff and unmoving, his knuckles white around Kili's cloak. "Come now." Dwalin tried again. The tallest of the company by several inches (although Kili was - _had been_ \- catching up), he could have lifted Fili out of the saddle quite easily. And after a few more moments of stubborn silence, Dwalin did just that, heaving Fili over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. He expected the young dwarf to struggle or cry out, but Fili allowed himself to be carried, limp and silent, to the rest of the company. Dwalin set him down gingerly on the grass, unsure if Fili would stand of his own accord or collapse onto the ground. Fili swayed, but stood up, his hold on the cloak as tight as ever.

"We should - get inside." Even Gandalf found it hard to talk. Everybody except Thorin and Balin were near the open door. The night had descended upon them, the blackness closing in, writhing, it seemed, with the crying and rustling of beasts and monsters. "I'll take the ponies. Gloin, do you think you could help?"

"'Course." He seized the reins of the nearest horse, giving Fili a sidelong look. Like the others, he remained quiet. The affirmation of Kili's death was yet to strike him. Gandalf hadn't told any of them about what they suspect had happened to him. Although judging from the way Thorin clawed at Balin's sleeves, crying brokenly in Khuzdul, he knew. He turned away from the light of the Hall, hoping that the rest couldn't see his tears. Bilbo watched the others retreat to the warmth and safety of the Hall. Dwalin walked with his arm around Fili's shoulders, guiding him as he stumbled in the grass. And then only Thorin and Balin were left, with Bilbo looking on, torn. He wanted to flee to the firelight, but the sound of Thorin's voice pulled him into the night.

"C-Can't - it can't-"

"Spare your voice Thorin." Balin's voice was warm and rich as he referred to his King so personally. This was not the time for titles. "Come, lets get by the fire and-"

"No." Thorin cut over him, voice very thick. "N-Not yet." Balin nodded at the shadowed figure, in understanding. He didn't want the rest of the company to see him like this. Thorin sat on his knees with his hands splayed over his face, Balin crouched down before him.

"Do you want me to stay?" He spoke to Thorin as though he were very young or sick. Balin looked up into the open door, seeing a flash of gold move in the firelight. Thorin shook his head silently. With a sigh, Balin rose to his feet, giving Thorin one last pat on the shoulder, leaving him to grief. Bilbo stepped back, sheltered from the yellow finger of light that leaked out of the open door. Balin didn't see the hobbit as he made his way into the Hall, leaving the door open just a crack. The moon was beginning to rise, and the starlight gave him just the barest edge against the blackness of the night. Thorin remained on his knees, this time his face turned up to the iridescent stars. Dwarves didn't have many names for the stars. Not like elves, who had hundreds of names for the constellations, mapping their progress throughout the sky as the years wore on. Why would the dwarves care for stars, when they lived below ground? Bilbo watched the exiled king in silence, his breath very shallow in his throat. It appeared that Thorin had no idea he was even there, and now Bilbo was stuck. He was an outsider, spying on a very, very private moment of grief, one so raw and deep that he had sent away his oldest and closest friend. Bilbo had no right to be here.

Thorin started whispering to himself in Khuzdul. Bilbo held his breath as he listened to the low prayer in the language he didn't know, and never heard. The dwarves were careful to hold their tongues around him, and although since the incident with Azog the company allowed their speech to become more peppered with the proverbs and idioms of their secretive mother tongue, they were still guarded against the hobbit. The whispering stopped, not at a natural end, but punctuated by a sob, as Thorin let out an odd, keening sound like a dying animal. Bilbo's heart hammered in his throat, fingers searching in his pocket for his ring. Thorin's arms were stretched out, hands closing around nothing. It wasn't just Kili's death that destroyed him like this. It was to sick revelation that Kili's end was at the hands of nothig more than a rabble of disorganized orcs, and then - and then to have his body-

A fresh sob welled up in his throat at the thought. He turned his face back down to the ground, deeper, forehead pressing into the grass. His heart had broken. Fili had shut himself off from the world - Balin told him how he'd thrown up and had a terrible fit before falling unconscious, and since waking hadn't spoken a word - but Thorin's grief was entirely different. While Fili had lost his other half, Thorin had lost his heart. That was what Kili was to him. If Fili was the embodiment of his soul, his pride and grit and strength, Kili was his heart. His joy and love and tender kindness. His _hope._ The night was irrepressibly black. Thorin breathed in a deep lungful of earthen air, feeling the grass grow wet beneath his face. And Bilbo watched him silently, hands twitching at his side as he ached to kneel down beside Thorin and embrace him, offer his comfort and sympathy for the lost sister-son that Thorin had so obviously, dearly, loved.

But he didn't. He remained in the shadow as his nerve failed him, watching the desolate figure in the darkness, an unwelcome spy.

* * *

They tied a fresh piece of rope around his wrists first, with a long trailing end that they threw over the top of the high frame. Kili let out a short cry of protest as the orcs pulled and he was forced to his knees, his feet, and higher, arms and sides straining as he hovered in the air, his feet dangling a foot above the ground. There was something almost ceremonial, the way the orcs all sat around the fire, watching him intently. It was a ritual. Sweat broke out on Kili's forehead, from the heat of the fire or from sheer panic, he didn't know. Azog sat on a chair, the only chair, across the small firepit, the white warg crouched at his side. His hand rested on the warg's head, giving the white fur the occasional stroke, a scratch behind the ears. She leaned into his touch, waiting in patient silence.

Gurk pulled on the knotted straps of the scourge, testing the elasticity of the leather. It was good and stiff, but with enough spring in the hide to give a good snap back. Kili closed his eyes, but realised very quickly that was worse. So he kept them open, watching as Gurk paced back and forth in front of him, letting the knotted cords of leather swing back and forth.

"Name." He stopped very close to Kili, the handle of the whip under his chin, forcing the dwarf to lift his head. Kili's dark eyes widened, and he found his mouth was dry, voice choked in his throat. He opened his mouth but couldn't make a sound. The orc snarled leaning in closer. His rancid breath washed over Kili's face, his stomach churning. " _Name."_ Gurk gave him one last chance. Kili tried to speak, but his voice was lost. The orc disappeared, Kili turning his head to try and see where he had gone, but his head was forced in place by his bound arms. _No._ Kili gasped for air, a plea on the edge of his lips. He heard the _crack_ of the whip first, but felt nothing. Gurk must have struck the floor. But a heartbeat later, it came. And Kili screamed, the air finally tearing from his throat as his back exploded with agony. Seven long stripes lay parallel on the skin, oozing blood. They were nasty, deep marks, and Gurk looked on in satisfaction at the blow. This was indeed a good whip. He would have to hold on to it.

" _Name._ " This time he leered into Kili's ear, his black fingers running along the marks, digging into the broken skin. Kili was gasping for air, stunned, but didn't dare to remain silent.

"Kili." His voice was high and frightened. Azog's lip twisted in a smirk at the sound. Fear. The young dwarf stank of it, across the fire. He was thoroughly enjoying this. "Kili!" He spoke again, terrified that he hadn't been heard.

"Well, _Kili._ " Hearing the orc utter his name sent a fresh stab at his heart. Kili's breath hitched, listening to the orc behind him. "What were you doing in these parts, so far from home?"

"T-Travelling." Kili choked out. Why did they ask such a stupid question? Of _course_ they knew what he was doing so far east of the Blue Mountains. Azog must have known who he was with, why he was there, the way he looked at that pendant and laughed. They had their proof. They wanted the words to come from his mouth. They wanted Kili to betray his own people. And several minutes ago, he felt he would have done so, willingly. But to see those hungry yellow eyes staring at him in cruel mockery, to have Azog himself watch the exchange with a smirk on his split lips, brought something out within him. Despite his stupidity, his naive rashness, Kili still held onto the slimmest thread of pride. And if this was going to get out, if people were going to know, Kili could not stand the humiliation of having Thorin and Fili know he gave them all up without a fight. The answer obviously wasn't enough. The whip cut into his back again, harder this time as Gurk grew more accurate. Kili gasped but didn't scream, biting hard on his lip as tears sprung at his eyes. Gurk waited several seconds, giving Kili another opportunity to speak, before raising the leather tool. This time, he landed the blow perfectly, directly over the previous marks, and Kili couldn't quite choke back the short cry that spilled from his lips as the knotted cords cut deeper into his flesh.

"What were you doing here?" His voice was harder, more demanding. Kili looked up from the ground, across to the fire. Azog stared at him, his fingers snaking through the white hair of his precious warg. Kili fixed his smouldering gaze on the orc king in a challenge. Already, Azog was beginning to frown as he watched the young dwarf. This already wasn't going the way he expected. And he couldn't place the patronymic for 'Kili'. It was starting to irritate him, and it was made worse by that dark, challenging stare.

"Hunting." He was going to restrict his answers as much as possible. Enough to avoid a beating, without giving too much away. Kili wondered how long he would last. In his heart, he knew, he wouldn't win. They would have him broken within a few hours, dragging every name, every piece of information, out of his sobbing lips. But he _couldn't_ go down without some sort of struggle against them. He couldn't dishonour the name of Durin by being a coward. Gurk snarled, the whip swinging in his hand.

"Hunting what?"

"Food." Kili wouldn't look away from Azog. He didn't realise that the longer he did that, the longer the pale orc studied his gaze, his nose and eyes, trying to place that face amongst the others he had seen. He let out a whimper at the crack of the whip, screwing his eyes shut as the stare was broken, struggling in vain. He kicked out, but his legs only met air. "Rabbits, deer, something! I don't know!" He began to babble, his voice growing higher. High was good for Gurk. It meant he was afraid.

"Alone?" Kili swallowed at the words. "Surely the rest of your company will be wondering where Kili has gone?" Kili kept his mouth closed. "Why haven't they come looking for you?" Why indeed? A shadow passed over Kili's face, one that Azog noticed. It was what made it unbearable - to be completely alone, cut off from his people. He could endure this if Fili was at his side. But without him, this frail show of strength and pride, played out to an empty audience, was cracked and broken. Enough damage had already been done. Kili's knotted stomach would _never_ feel the same. "Are they too far away perhaps?" It was a rather roundabout way of asking where they were, but perhaps it was less obvious than demanding outright. Gurk was a master at interrogation, he worked with fear as well as he did pain, and knew how to play with his prisoners for hours, drawing out their insecurities and teasing them. Azog chose him for a distinct reason.

"I don't know." Kili spoke honestly, for he had no idea where he was. He didn't know how long he rode the warg, unconscious, how long it had been since he'd seen his brother, what direction he walked in as he stumbled blindly through the black forest. But the answer wasn't good enough for the orc, and Kili cried out as he received another blow across the back. "I don't know!" He answered again. It was becoming his favourite answer. Gurk snarled. Perhaps he was soft in the head.

"Surely you didn't wander into the wild without knowing where you were going?" Kili's back was already wet with blood, the red starting to soak into his knee-length pants. He had. "These parts are dangerous and no other dwarves have been seen yet. They're hiding somewhere." Kili swallowed. "Aren't they?" The answer fought to escape behind closed lips. His back was on fire; he didn't know if he could stand another blow without breaking completely. They were deep cuts, they worked through the skin and tore into the thin muscles as the leather bit deeper and deeper inside with each crack. Kili's scream caught everybody unaware as another solid blow landed on his broken skin. It caught the small of his back, cutting into a tight bundle of nerves and muscle, and Kili felt as though something red-hot and very heavy had been crushed against his spine.

"Beorn!" Kili sobbed, trying to ride out the wave of agony, terrified that the same spot would be hit again. "Beorn the shape-shifter - his Hall - been there for days-" Kili screwed up his eyes, biting on his lip as the rolling tide of pain began to subside. His legs felt oddly numb. A trickle of blood began to slowly ooze down his calf. Azog leaned back in his chair, one of his rare, wide smiles stretched on his face. Kili's head hung down, humiliated. He gave them up so quickly. So much for the grand tales of hours of torture - he'd barely lasted a few minutes. Gurk stepped back, satisfied his job was done. But Azog was not going to let up so quickly. Kili was bewildered. _What else did they want from him?_ They knew where Thorin and his Company rested - what more could they possibly want? Kili didn't realise that Azog had no intentions of even approaching Beorn's stronghold. The magic hung thick in the air about the wooden Hall, the threat of Beorn's clan of bears too great. It would take hundreds to storm the seemingly unassuming house. If there was another way, Azog would surely take it. And oh, there was another way.

"Ask him who his father is." Azog's voice rose over the crackling of the fire, the muttering and jeering of the orcs. Gurk turned back to look at his king.

Kili's eyes snapped open at the sound of the leather whip falling onto the stone, an ember of relief daring to spark. But it was quickly doused by a cold wave of fear. The orc didn't turn away from Kili entirely. Instead, he shifted closer to the fire, crouching down at the white-hot embers. They bristled with the handles of swords, scimitars, toasting forks, spears. Anything made of iron that they could get their hands on. Despite the heat of the fire burning so close to him, Kili felt very, very cold. Gurk pulled on a heavy oilskin glove, extracting the handle of a long eating-knife. The tip of the blade glowed red-hot. Kili had been burned at the forge one before - he wasn't paying close enough attention, the scrap he'd been working on slipped and landed on his leg. It wasn't big, and it was through his trousers, but it made Kili howl, and for a week the wound was wrapped in soft bandages and slathered with creams. His mother didn't let him into the forge for a good month after that, and for good reason. Even though Kili was thirty, far too old for childish theatrics, the burn brought him to tears, and even Thorin clucked and said nothing hurt more than an accidental brush with red-hot metal, especially against skin as soft and youthful as Kili's, but it would toughen up eventually.

It never did.

Kili couldn't hold back the moan as Gurk stepped towards him with a heavy scowl. The blood, which pooled on the hollow of his ankle, dripped to the floor as Kili to kick out at Gurk, but his legs were heavy, too weak to move beyond a few inches. _No._ This was worse, much worse than any whip. Kili knew he was going to give out in a moment. He would say, would do anything to avoid the press of burning iron against his skin. It wasn't worth it at this point. They knew where Thorin was - what else could Kili say to hurt them? He had already betrayed his kin. Gurk leaned in close, close enough for Kili to smell the rancid breath that once more washed over his face. There was no trace of courage or pride on this wet face. He'd crumbled so easily. The orc was more than a little proud. Kili breathed heavily through parted lips, as his back throbbed with every heartbeat, more blood oozing out of his broken skin, looking black in the shadow of the firelight. _Just do it._ He was trembling violently, ready to answer any question. To give up anything he knew. But the one question Gurk asked, the one Azog wanted to know, was the one that Kili could never answer.

"Who is your father?"

Kili burst into tears. His voice was completely lost in his throat and he shook his head, gasping for air. He began to hyperventilate from the sheer panic, bracing himself for the inevitable searing pain of hot iron against his bare skin. The honest answer, the only one he could give, spilled from his lips in a soft, broken whisper as blood dripped on the floor.

"I don't know."


	6. Burning Embers

The Hall was already silent as Thorin pushed open the door.

He'd stayed long enough for his eyes to return to normal, for his breathing to become long and regular, but everybody still knew what he'd been doing. Nobody met his gaze. Balin shuffled along on the bench to make way for his king, Thorin forgetting the pain in his ribs as he took his place at the long table. Beorn sat at the head, his feet on the table, Gandalf beside him. It was laden with half-eaten food, plates pushed away and cups left filled. Fili still clung to the stained cloak, his glazed eyes hanging downwards on the table. Dwalin rested his hand on Fili's shoulder, giving Thorin a single nod as he took his seat. Ori still sat on his bedroll, not daring to come near the rest of the company. He felt disgraced.

"Gandalf told me what happened." Beorn spoke up as he realised Thorin wasn't going to talk. Bilbo slipped inside, the door creaking ever so slightly shut. The wizard was the only one to notice his entrance. "Terrible business. I am sorry." And he meant it, too. Even if he'd scoffed when he first heard Kili had gone missing, said he would wind up into trouble and it was better if he did, because Beorn had a few short words to give him and no mistake, he was still sorry to hear the young little dwarf had been taken from the earth. He was rough, but not heartless.

"Thank you." Thorin's voice was a hoarse quaver. "I- Thank you." He repeated, thinking the better against a longer response. He'd dried out, and now felt dead and hollow and completely exhausted. He wanted to sleep, to lie down and close his eyes for a century. Better than this waking world of death and pain. Thorin's hand trembled as he reached across Fili's shoulders, pulling him in close. His nephew's head lay in the crook of his neck, Thorin's nose filled with golden hair. But Fili was still lifeless and silent, shut off completely from the outside world. He didn't relax into Thorin's touch, and remained stiff. But Thorin held the embrace, his grasp tightening around Fili's arm. "I-I think we should leave soon." He spoke to the rest of the table. "There's little point in staying on," he continued. "We are all much fitter than when we arrived  - I think I will be strong enough to travel, at least on horseback for the next few days." He just hoped Beorn would make good on his promise of giving them ponies until the edge of the great wood. "Tomorrow, B-Balin and the elder dwarves will-" Thorin let out a long, shuddering breath, finding it hard to speak. "will go out and find a place to bury - Kili's things." Thorin bowed his head, eyes screwed up tight as a fit of tears threatened to attack him. He gritted his teeth, and in several moments, it passed, and he was able to regard the rest of his company once more. Most of them dabbed at their eyes with their sleeves, looking very glum. Ori sniffled on the floor, Thorin frowned at the sound and scanned the table, realising they only numbered eleven dwarves. He caught Dori's eye, jerking his head towards the young dwarf, gesturing to the table. Dori nodded silently, getting up from the table and taking Ori by the arm, coaxing him to join the rest in front of the uneaten food. "Bifur, you have the most skill with a chisel. Can you - can you carve something?" The dwarf nodded silently, indicating that he understood. Ori sat down at the table silently, head hanging very low. He couldn't look at any of them. "Ori." Thorin spoke softer now, gaining more control over his voice. With a squeak, Ori looked up. "I do not blame you for this. Neither does Fili." His nephew gave no recognition hearing his name, imprisoned in the tight, uncomfortable embrace. Ori nodded silently, but he still played with the cuffs of his knitted sleeves, eyes firmly downcast. "Now - if you will all forgive me, I - I think it's time for me to retire." He motioned to Dwalin, standing up with Fili still in his arms. Dwalin took the blonde from his charge, Thorin limping to his place on the floor.

But as he walked past the brown sack which held all of Kili's things, a fresh stab wounded his heart, and his knees buckled. Kili's bow, and the hilt of his sword, were clearly visible. He sank to his knees, shaking hands reaching out for the burlap sack. The rest of the dwarves pretended not to see him, talking amongst themselves in low, strained voices. Dwalin sat back down with Fili, pressing his lips into the golden curls for a heartbeat, a rare show of affection. But Fili still stared straight out before him, fingers wound in the clothing. Thorin lifted Kili's bow out of the sack, running his finger along the string. Sixty years ago, it was, when he took Kili with his brother out into the town of men, intending to forge a new line of trade with a recently established merchant. But Kili got bored, he wandered off, and walked into an archery range. When Thorin eventually found him, one of the townspeople had humoured Kili and given him a child's bow to play with, showing him how to pull back the string and position his arrow. They did it for laughs, the men holding their sides as they stood around watching a bare-faced dwarf of seventeen holding an elvish weapon. Thorin watched silently, unseen by them all. Kili's face was bright red, but he refused to set the bow aside and pulled the string with his head held high. His first shot was terribly clumsy and missed the mark completely, to the hollering of the men. The second hit the edge of the target. The third and fourth didn't fare better. But the fifth was six inches from the center. Everybody had fallen silent then, and watched as Kili hit the middle of the target with the sixth arrow he'd ever fired. And with a smile of pride, Kili turned about to see Thorin standing before him with his arms crossed.

Thorin had given him a thick ear and a harsh scolding, torn the bow from his hands and thrown it to the ground. Was he being unreasonable? Thorin didn't think so, at the time. Kili stood before him with very bright eyes but a high, defiant chin. Thorin said he was to never touch a bow again, and in response Kili said his uncle was being ridiculous. He was good at it, it felt natural to him, better than the clumsy, unwieldy axe and sword. He got a hard knock for that too, one that made his face smart and eyes water, and it was twenty years before he dared to pick up the bow once more. Thorin set aside the weapon, swallowing the horrible crushing sensation that reared in his chest. He lifted up the sword, running his fingers along the hilt. It was thinner than the broadswords carried by their kin, designed especially for Kili who developed the lithe, slender form of an archer. He withdrew the blade several inches from the scabbard, the polished steel gleaming in the firelight. A single tear dripped down Thorin's cheek as he raised the hilt to his lips. He wanted terribly to keep it with him, but it was impossible. He was already weighed down with numerous weapons, and another sword to add to his belt would bend his back. The bow too, would be buried beneath the ground. Thorin wanted nothing more than to bring them to Erebor, to lay them beneath the Lonely Mountain, in the halls of his ancestors, but he was terribly pragmatic. He knew they would be lucky to reach their lost homeland with their lives, let alone a sack of clothes and weapons.

Thorin reached into the sack, pulling out the clothes and running his hands over them for the last time. The gauntlets, the boots, the tunic and trousers. He spread them out across his knees, absorbed in memories, feeling the bottom of the sack. He'd seen the hair clasp glinting between between Fili's fingers, but he couldn't see the pendant. He fingered in the corners, but it wasn't there. Even Kili's tinderbox was there, and his small knife. Thorin clasped the knife, the tiny necklace forgotten. He gave it to Kili as a present the day Fili left for the Iron Hills. It was his own blade, gifted by Thror on the day Thorin found his first hair on his chin. It was the last remnant Thorin had of his grandfather, one of the last treasures of Erebor, and he intended to keep it at his side until his dying breath. But the day Fili left, when Kili tried to keep his head up high even as his eyes glistened with tears and his hands shook with grief and humiliation, Thorin pulled him aside, slipping the blade into his hand. Kili embraced him so tightly the breath was knocked from his lungs, holding on for several minutes as he blinked his stinging eyes. He whispered in Thorin's ear that he would make him proud, he would earn the name of Durin, and die with it at his side, in honour and glory.

The knife slipped from Thorin's hand as his fingers fell lax. He felt sick and cheated. How could he emphasize death and tradition and honour on his nephew, above love and spirit? Was that why Kili always fell short in his eyes? Because Kili cared more for laughter and joy than the sombre ritual of his people? What Thorin took for stupidity and selfishness was Kili's unbridled sense of wonder and adventure. He bit down on his lip tightly, wanting to scream aloud in pain and frustration. Kili had _died_. And it wasn't the noble, heroic death that he so wished for. It was stupid and inconsequential. It was the last sacred tradition that he had stepped on. It was the final insult to Durin's name. And how long was the list? How many crimes had he committed against the customs of his people? How much embarrassment had he caused? But as Thorin fingered the hem of Kili's cold tunic, he realised how little it mattered. He didn't care for any of it. He didn't care if Kili couldn't wield an axe or forge a decent blade or recite Khuzdul poetry. It could not matter less to Thorin at that moment. All he wanted was to stretch out his arms and wrap them around that skinny little body with an unbraided mop of chestnut hair and tell him how very much he loved him.

But Thorin's hands only closed around empty cloth.

* * *

Of course they didn't believe him.

Kili arched his back and screamed as the red-hot iron was pressed into his side, feet kicking out uselessly, touching nothing. The orc dragged the knife slowly against his skin for several moments, before letting the knife clatter to the ground. Kili gritted his teeth, forcing back sobs of pain. The knife had been pressed into the soft, sensitive skin just beneath his ribs, burning through the skin and into the muscle. He watched as Gurk extracted another handle from the fire, unable to quell the moans in his throat, escaping through closed teeth.

"I'll ask you again." They were almost eye-level. But as the orc stepped close to Kili, he found his eyes lifting higher and higher to maintain his stare into those awful yellow eyes. "Your father. Who is he?"

"I don't know - I swear I'm telling the truth he never-" Kili's desperate plea was cut off by another scream. There was a grim satisfaction in the way Gurk dug the toasting fork into his stomach. He knew how to miss the vital organs, he wouldn't cause any irreparable damage, but damn it still  _hurt._ "I. Don't. Know." His breath was harsh and erratic. " _Please."_ Why did he waste his breath on trying to reason with these orcs? How could he explain this to them? How could they understand that his mother had only a white scar on her wrist, where his father's name had been burned away? Gurk turned away, shaking his head as he approached the fire. "He died before I was born!" His voice was thin and weak, struggling to raise above the crackling of the flames, but Azog heard him. "Nobody will tell me anything - please _I don't know!"_ A scimitar was pulled from the fire. " _Please!"_ Kili begged, desperation giving him a new strength. "I don't know his name! I don't know anything!" It was a huge, thick blade, with at least six inches of it burning bright red. He couldn't begin to imagine the damage it could cause. "I swear - _please -_ no! _No_!"

It was a horrible scream that filled the cave, one that sent a shiver down Azog's spine. He curled his fingers into the warg's fur, closing his eyes as he relished the sound of pain. He opened them to see the dwarf hanging lifeless by the arms, all pretense of strength long abandoned. Kili's neck lolled, horrible sobs paralyzing his chest as he struggled to breathe. His cheeks were slick with sweat and tears, hot and sticky. The blood, dripping from his feet, splattered the ground. The orcs could smell it, rich and metallic. Their chests heaved with deep, longing sighs. They longed to have their turn, to tear him down and throw him on the fire, to roast him whole and devour the burned, broken flesh. Gurk seized Kili by the chin, forcing his head upwards to look him in the eye. His eyes were half-open and glassy, the orc's fingers slipping on his wet skin. He squeezed hard, his sharp nails threatening to break the skin. That was enough to wake Kili up, his dark eyes widening.

"One last chance." Gurk whispered. "And I start cutting off fingers and toes." He would do it too, Kili knew. They didn't need him in one piece. They just needed him alive. And even that was only temporary. He was living on borrowed time. Minutes it would be, hours at best, before they threw his lifeless body on the fire, before he died in the bottom of the cave, to be abandoned forever. Kili's heart hammered in his mouth. He opened his mouth to speak, but his voice was dead. His dry throat burned from the screaming. His lips shaped the words, but nothing came out. He almost cried from frustration, his chin trembling. The orc raised an eyebrow, and waited.

" _I don't know._ " Why didn't he lie? Why didn't he at least try and float a false name? Kili was sure that he wouldn't be able to pull it off. They would see straight through his lie. They would smell it on him. And even then, he couldn't think a name up, on his feet. He grasped desperately at the last fraying threads of his consciousness and sanity. He would fall, if they didn't stop, and either die or lose his mind completely. It wasn't a cold, mocking stare that was fixed on his face. It was level, deep in thought. And something snapped in his face, as Gurk realised, _finally_ , that the bound dwarf was telling the truth. Perhaps a battle-hardened warrior could hold up longer, but not this creature. He was soft, young, too thin and frail. The orc was surprised. Men of course had bastard children in their hundreds, but female dwarves were too rare and precious to be subjected to such treatment. At least, Gurk had thought.

"Fine." His eyes narrowed. "You don't know." He kept his tone cool and sardonic. Kili stared at him with wide, alert eyes, terrified of what would happen next. "Your mother then." He turned back to the fire.

"M-My what?" Kili breathed, watching as yet another handle was extracted from the collection bristling on the fire. No. No no no. He couldn't take more. "My mother?"

" _Yes_ Kili, your mother." There was a nasty sneer on his lips. "Or is she a mystery too? What are you Kili? A foundling, or just a bastard child?" Kili's face flushed red at the insult, just the reaction that the orc wanted. Kili's jaw tightened. He was _neither._ It struck a nerve within him, one of his deepest insecurities. He knew he wasn't illegitimate - there was a name on his mother's wrist at some point - and he didn't _need_ a father, when he had Thorin and Fili and Dwalin.

And yet...

"Dis." Gurk thought at first he'd made some sort of cough or gasp in his throat. "Her name," Kili's voice trembled "is Dis." He watched the orc relay the information back to Azog in his native tongue. And Azog leaned forward in his chair, staring at his prisoner very closely. Kili, exhausted and beaten, was still yet to understand why Azog wanted to badly to know where he came from. And even if he did, it wouldn't have made much difference. Not anymore. He'd spilled too much blood, had suffered too much. He'd let go. He couldn't endure another touch of red-hot metal, another blow with that awful whip. His will, his indomitable strength, had been beaten out of him, it dotted the ground in red flecks, oozing down his back, soaking the tattered scraps of his clothes. Kili had set aside any hopes of survival. Gone too, were his preoccupations of dying with honour and glory. He stared limply at his end, without moving his bound arms and bloodied feet. Simply waiting.

"Dis, then." Kili's eyes flickered at the mention of his mother's name, and he was dragged back into the firelight as his soul spilled out onto the floor. "Do you at least know _her_ father?" Kili's breath hitched in his throat. He hesitated, the pause of one who knew the answer but just not how to say it. Gurk didn't give him another chance, he struck with the still red-hot blade in his hand. He pressed it against Kili's collarbone, the iron vibrating as the dwarf screamed. He would think twice before hesitating before Gurk. As he tried to regain himself yet again, Gurk grabbed Kili's ankle, pulling the injured limb out, intending to press the iron on the underside of Kili's foot. _No._ Kili shook his head with a moan, kicking out with his good leg, but his blows were weak and ineffectual. Gurk gave him one last chance before delivering the blow would would truly disable him. "Her father, Kili!"

"Thrain!" His voice rang out in the cave, a cry that didn't sound like his own, the orcs falling silent as the name fell amongst them. Azog stood straight up, and even Gurk jerked backwards, as though he had been burned, the blade falling from his hands. Azog's heart leapt in sick joy as his suspicions were confirmed, as he knew it was indeed one of Durin's line, bound and bloodied before him. The line that he had sworn to wipe out. Kili curled his toes, panting as he watched Azog walk around the firepit. _Mahal._ What had he done? Kili forced down the wave of sickness, screwing up his eyes. He heard the low, heavy thudding, and couldn't keep his eyes closed any longer. He opened them, looking up at the white face that was focused on his. Azog watched him with narrow eyes. Thrain's grandson. Obiviously a sister-son of Thorin Oakenshield. What a prize. He would have to seek the orc who handed him in, pay him double. This was as good as Thorin himself - no, this was _better._ He knew Thorin had no children of his own, and with his younger brother dead, the beardless dwarf that hung before him had to be his only heir. Not only would he do anything to get this snivelling little creature back, but how he would scream and howl, when he saw what Azog had done to him! How it would break him, to see his beloved heir reduced to a bloodied mess curled on the floor at his feet! Just the thought of witnessing such misery on his keenest foe sent another shiver down Azog's spine. Kili's eyes fell downwards. He expected - anticipated - death.

But not yet. Azog trailed a finger along his burned, bloodied skin. Kili shrank away from the touch, turning his head to the side and letting out a disconsolate whimper. The orc King withdrew his hand, his white finger stained with red blood. He lifted it to his lips, breathing in deeply as he licked his finger clean.

Yes.

This was indeed the blood of Durin.

A new spark lit in Azog's eyes, as the primal fire rose within him. He reached for the knife at his side, Kili raising his gaze at the hiss of steel. Azog gently, longingly trailed the tip of the blade up Kili's chest. How easy it would be, to dig through his ribs and tear out his heart. To feel it beat within his fingers, to spill that rich, sweet blood along his arms and on the stone ground. To rip it to shreds with his teeth and have streams of red trickle down his chin. The blade was on Kili's face. Oh, how he longed to spill the blood himself. To watch it trickle down the glint of his knife and pool at the hilt. To drip onto his white fingers. So he did just that, pressing the knife into the soft flesh of Kili's cheek, watching as the red line welled up and spilled over. Kili winced at the touch but didn't cry out. He seemed numb, dead to any further pain. Although Azog could surely fix that. He could make him scream once more. The knife continued its travel northwards, smearing blood along Kili's arms. Kili couldn't arch his neck, but he looked up with his eyes, breath shallow. A smirk flickered on the orc's lips as he twisted the knife, tearing through the rope that strung Kili up on the sturdy wooden frame. He stepped back as Kili fell, tumbling to the ground. He landed heavily and rolled onto his side, crying out in pain. He struggled to sit up, arms stiff and completely numb. Azog turned to look at his company.

They expected him to kill the dwarf. To slit his throat or pierce him in the heart or cut off his head, to let the blood of Durin spill on the ground. They anticipated the violent bloodshed, hoping that they would least get a taste of the remains. If it were anybody else, Azog would have. And he'd thought about it. But the temptation of using Kili to torture Thorin, it played on his mind, and now he'd entertained the idea, it refused to leave his head. Kili would not have the sweet reprieve of death. Not yet, at least. Azog would wait. He could wait, he was patient when he needed to be. Decades it had been, since his last deadly brush with Durin's line. He'd ended two lives that day - three if you counted Thrain, which Azog hesitated on - the grey-bearded King, and his youngest grandson. And soon, very soon, he would end two more, the heir and his nephew, within the space of another single day. 

"Nuglub," He called for his best archer, withdrawing the mithril pendant from where he'd thrust it into his waistband. The glint caught Kili's eye and he watched the necklace dangle in the firelight. Azog saw Kili's gaze, letting it swing idly in his hand. He curled his bound hands into fists, heart beating madly in his throat as he realised that this was far from over - Kili hadn't outlived his usefulness to Azog. Not yet.

"Yes, your malevolence?" Such a greasy, begging beast. Azog didn't think much of him. But he was by far the sharpest shot, and there was no way he could attempt this twice. Azog turned to regard Nuglub, the broken, bloodied lump of dwarf huddled abandoned at his feet.

"Send a message to Thorin Oakenshield at Beorn's Hall."


	7. Drowning

They unbound his hands.

Kili sat on the floor of the cave in shock, looking down at his stiff fingers as his wrists were parted for the first time in days. He bent and flexed the aching bones, curling his hands repeatedly into loose fists, watching the knuckles turn white. His heart, it pounded madly in his chest, his raw and open back throbbing in time with his racing pulse. He couldn't breathe, not properly, it came out in shallow gasps as he fought down convulsions of pain and terror. He couldn't think, couldn't see. Kili closed eyes, hearing again and again in his mind the crack of the whip, the sound of screaming as he fought for life and sanity. How he had broken, completely, strung up like a gutted carcass, suspended in midair as his strength bled out of him. It was agony, just to sit, to breathe and have his skin moving in time with his expanding chest. He brushed his cheek, blood coming away from the back of his hand. Kili's breath trembled in his throat as he touched the cut on his face gently, checking the wound. It stretched along his cheek, from the joint between his jaw and cheekbone, almost to his cracked lips. More blood dripped along his trembling fingers. Kili swallowed and looked down at the bruises that coloured his ribs, the nasty marks on his collarbone and stomach, the worst on the skin just over his heart. Half a hand's breadth had been burned away from the red-hot scimitar. He craned his stiff neck, but couldn't see any of his back. He felt it though, the drying blood sticky and hot against the broken skin, that burned like fire. Every movement of his arms, tensing and stretching the flayed muscles and flesh of his back, sent a new wave of pain along his spine, Kili gritting his teeth.

All in all, he was lucky. Ha. _lucky_. How ridiculous that sounded. To be trapped and tortured, alone in a cave with an orc king who wanted his line dead - and to be _lucky_ about it. But he was. They could have broken his bones, pulled his teeth and nails or cut off his fingers. Even with just a handful of crude weapons, there were dozens of cruel, inventive ways they could have interrogated him. But they didn't want to _maim_ him. They just wanted him to suffer.

And now Kili knew why.

His breath halted as one of the orcs approached him, swinging a thick chain in his hand, attached to some sort of metal ring. Durin, what was this? What did they want to do _now?_ Kili backed away, shaking his head, but another orc behind him simply grabbed the dwarf by the arms, holding him fast. Kili's cries of protest were ignored as the ring was unlocked, the orc crouching down and bringing it down over his head. Kili watched it fasten around his neck and lock into place. It was a collar, made for small prisoners like him. It bolted into place with a tiny key, half the length of his index finger. The orc turned away from Kili, stepping beyond him and into the darkness of the back of the cave. His arms released, Kili rested on his hands and knees as he watched the shadowy figure step up to the edge of the underground pond, their source of water and the occasional fish. Kili bit his lip as he saw the orc toss the key carelessly into the water, the tiny fragment of iron sinking to the bottom, never to be found. He swallowed, the collar pressing down hard on his throat at the sensation. Kili's hands curled into the rock. It would _never_ come off. His hands went to the iron ring, feeling the intricacies of the joints and hinges, for any weak spot that he could break apart with a stray rock. But it was sound, the iron very thick and sturdy. Even an experienced smith couldn't get out, not without some sort of tool. His eyes fell to the abandoned weapons on the ground, the ones that had been used to burn him, and he reached out. The orc stepped hard on his fingers with a growl, Kili snatching his hand back, cradling his injured fingers as the beast shook his head, leering over him. He seized the heavy chain and pulled, Kili forced to stand on his own two feet for the first time in many, many hours. He staggered, protesting, pulling back on the chain as every step upset his tender back, but the orc didn't let up, dragging him around the firepit.

The rest of the cave fell back into their pattern of work, Azog returning to his chair with his legs stretched out before him. At his side, the warg lay on the stone, snarling at Kili was he was brought before the orc. The chain was offered to Azog wordlessly, and he took it with a silent nod. Kili wavered on his unsteady legs, hands trembling on the chain. Azog pulled hard, the jerk forcing Kili onto his knees. Azog motioned with his head to the left side of the chair, beside Nink, giving the chain another tug. Kili shook his head, unable to look at the awful white warg. They were in his darkest, most fearful nightmares, wargs. They gave him his oldest scar. He couldn't bear them. It was why he faltered, out on the plains, when they were first attacked by the creatures. Why he remained crouched underneath the rock for so long, before stepping out to deliver the fatal blow. There was an ugly expression on Azog's face at the disobedience. The sharp point of the metal forced through his amputated arm pressed into Kili's sternum, ready to twist in and break the bone, spill the blood. He made another jerk of his head towards the direction of Nink. This time, Kili obeyed, crawling on hands and knees to take his place beside the chair. He couldn't lean against anything with his back; he sat with his arms wrapped around drawn-up legs, resting his forehead on his knees as he breathed heavily. With every heartbeat, his skin thudded against the metal collar, the ring that fastened him like a beast, the end of the chain wrapped firmly around Azog's wrist. The silvery fur of the warg, glistening in the firelight, brushed his side, a shiver passing through Kili at the sensation. He was tired. So tired. How long since he had slept? It passed in a horrible nightmare of darkness and fire. He'd fallen down, it pressed around him and his memories grew dark. He didn't know when the days ended and nights began. How many times the sun and moon walked across the sky. How long it had been since he wandered in the woods, so alone and carefree and naive and _innocent_. How he had fallen from that to this, chained and stripped and beaten, his stomach filled from an unspeakable taboo.

Kili tried to turn inward, tried to block out the sounds and smells and pain. Hoping that if he pretended he was somewhere else, the terror in his heart might lessen, that he could even get some sleep. But the collar on his throat thrummed with every heartbeat, and Kili could not for one moment forget where he was, what had happened. He tried not to think about how he had given Thorin and Fili away, how the orcs would come for them next. They would tell his kin that he gave them up, that he squealed and screamed. They would all die, because of him. Fili would die. Thorin too. They would show them the pendant and burn the Hall to the ground, rooting out the last remnants of the aged, fading warriors of Erebor, the fragmentary line of Durin.

Kili had no idea that Azog had something much, much more sinister in mind.

* * *

It was pitch-black when the solitary orc reached the very edge of the wide green pastures. The house, so modest and humble from the outside, was lit by the dying embers through the single window. The night was entirely silent - even Beorn was sleeping, as the moon had passed its glistening crescendo, sinking deep below the horizon. Dawn was just a few hours off. The wooden building seemed so far away from here - he could hide it with his thumb over an eye. But Nuglub didn't dare treat any closer. He drew his bow from the quiver, working by touch in the dark. The piece of cloth, torn from Kili's pants and written in black ink, bore only two words. _Carrock. Midnight_. He wound it around the arrow, reaching into his pocket for the tiny mithril pendant. Nuglub tied the whole thing together with the broken string, fingers fumbling a little in the darkness. He shrugged off his bow, pulling back the string and aiming the arrow directly at the tiny square of amber light. He wasn't going to miss. He never missed. He could pin a Mirkwood moth to a tree from fifty yards away. He couldn't miss.

The arrow flew over the roof of the house and into a tree, but Nuglub didn't know it. He listened for the hiss, the soft thud of an arrow in wood, almost imperceptible in the night. He stretched to hear it, convinced he heard the barest whisper less than a heartbeat after he let the arrow fly. But it wasn't buried into the side of the house, waiting to be seen in the morning light as the front door was first opened. It was embedded high in the trunk of a thick tree, hiding within a thick canopy of heavy green leaves. It would be seen by Beorn in the winter, much too late to save Kili, when the leaves withered on the branch and fell, when snow dusted the earth, and the cloth had rotted away almost completely but the mithril still hung, shining as bright as ever, peering down at the shapeshifter between the naked branches.

But in the summer, it remained invisible.

Satisfied his job was done, Nuglub turned back, and not slowly either, slinging the bow across his back as his walk turned into a jog, and then a run, aware of the sleepy wooden eyes that stared at him across the grass. He never missed. Not once.

* * *

It was a bitterly hot day.

Bilbo cursed the sunshine as he sat cross-legged in the tall grass, head bowed. How he wished for rain. Heavy, black clouds to pour water down on him and wet his face. To hammer the drops into him, as hard as nails and warm as tea. Instead, it was the most beautiful of afternoons, with a pristine blue sky, the grass buzzing with bees, hundreds upon hundreds of flowers, some familiar, some utterly foreign, swaying gently in the soft breeze, their faces turned up to the sun.

_Sun on the daisies, yes yes..._

Bilbo tried to bury the memory of darkness, those wide, lamplike eyes that shone so unbelievably blue. They seemed almost childish in that bony grey face. Bilbo shook his head, chasing the images away. At his side, Gandalf looked down, lowering the slim pipe from his lips.

"Anything in particular troubling you, Bilbo?" The hobbit shook his head silently, but Gandalf rested his hand on the little shoulder. Bilbo let out a long, shuddering sigh. "I imagine they won't be going for too much longer."

"I don't mind." Bilbo choked the words out. "I-It's... It's a lovely day."

"Yes, yes it is." Gandalf took a deep drag from his pipe, sounding almost distasteful. "Although it's wasted on a day like this." Bilbo nodded silently, looking back at the mouth of the cave. They had walked far enough out earshot to leave the dwarves in privacy. Neither were fit to listen in on a Khuzdul service. Neither wanted to. Bilbo had a hard enough time keeping it together, and Gandalf couldn't trust himself to keep up the mask any longer. Not if he had to watch them seal up the possessions of that dear little dwarf, entombing their last remnants of him in the stone. Bilbo wiped at his eyes. He still struggled to believe it. Kili, although older than him by some twenty years, had seemed so _young_. He remembered his first impression, the dwarf who wiped his feet on his mother's glory box and tried to make off with his ale barrel. The one who teased him about orcs in the night and coaxed him into following the ponies.

The one who was the first to leap into the troll's domain for him.

"Do..." Bilbo swallowed hard. "Do dwarves, well... Where do they go? After?" Gandalf looked at him. "Well, when elves die I know they go to the Houses of the Dead, and they're reborn in Valinor." His grandfather had told him that, in one of Old Took's many childhood stories. "What about, well... What about them?" He looked over at the cave.

"Ah." Gandalf looked off into the distance for some time. "It depends, of course, on who you ask. The dwarves believe that upon their death, Aulë brings them to Halls in Mandos, much like the elves. The Seven Fathers are said to reborn through their own kin, but the rest remain to be among the Children of the End." He took another puff of the pipe, taking his time before speaking. "The elves believe there is nothing after death for dwarves. That they simply return to the stone from which they were made, and nothing more." Bilbo stared at Gandalf, his face white.

"Nothing?" He breathed, and his eyes stung. Gandalf shook his head slowly, fiddling with his pipe as he always did when he found it hard to speak. "Nothing..." Bilbo looked down at the grass, hanging his head. He wasn't much of a spiritual man (hobbits never really had much thought for those sorts of things, living their comfortable, sunny lives without much fear of death), but it was a heavy blow to him, to think that Kili's soul had vanished when the his heart stopped beating. Not to be reborn, not to wander in any hall or valley, but to simply vanish, a puff of smoke in the wind. He blinked rapidly, and wiped at his eyes. "What do you believe?" He looked up at Gandalf, the wizard chewing absentmindedly on the end of his pipe. He stared beyond Bilbo, beyond the grass and the earth, into the depths of lore and magic and legend. The lines on his face seemed to have grown heavier, even in the last few minutes, as the two outsiders sat in the sun, while beneath them, the people of the earth paid their final homage to a fallen prince. "Gandalf?"

"I believe," and he spoke slowly and deliberately, "that the soul is something beyond the physical. It is indeterminable. And we cannot weigh and judge it in words used on this earth." Satisfied that he had answered Bilbo's question, he reached for his tobacco, quite ready for another fill of his pipe. Bilbo was staring at the ground, a heavy frown on his face. He squinted through the sun as he looked at Gandalf again, head tilted to one side.

"So... You're saying you don't know?" Bilbo stretched his toes out on the thick grass. Surprised at Bilbo's boldness, Gandalf set down his pipe, and looked very thoughtfully at a bee which landed on Bilbo's hairy foot.

"No. I don't." He sighed, eyes shaded by the brim of his hat. "I know as much of the next life, Mr Baggins, as you do." But there was a flicker of the mouth, one that Bilbo did not see, and he disguised the motion by putting the pipe in his mouth. Bilbo sighed, and lay down on his back, staring up at the sky. He felt very, very small. Smaller even than normal, as he rested in the grass, with the immortal sun beating down on him. Even Gandalf seemed shrivelled, hunched over. One little life, a single light, had been snuffed out. And as he lay in the grass, Bilbo honestly could not think of anybody who shone brighter than Kili. Even the sun seemed watery and pale, as Bilbo remembered Kili's infectious brightness and joy. Even as Bilbo grew hungrier and more homesick, as the days dragged into weeks and he wandered further from home, Kili always, _always_ made him smile. Always had a joke, a laughing sing-song, tumbling from his lips. Even after the Misty Mountains, when they brushed death and fire, Kili had kept up his brightness. Thorin scowled and Oin complained about the naivety of youth, but the smile was as warm and sweet and golden as treacle, to Bilbo. The world seemed darker - Bilbo didn't know how he was going to bear the rest of the journey underneath this shadow, with that bright smile at his side nothing more than a fading memory.

A low, gutteral scream sounded from beneath the earth.

Bilbo sat up very suddenly, and Gandalf gripped his staff out of habit, their eyes meeting at the sound. It took them some moments to place the source of the scream, Bilbo's head sinking into his hands. It was Fili. Gandalf's hand felt very heavy on his back, moving in tight, reassuring circles. They both sat in silence, waiting for the small procession of dwarves to emerge from the newly-fashioned underground tomb. Dori Nori and Ori were the first to step into the sunlight, followed by Oin and Gloin. The rest trickled out as Bilbo rose to his feet, milling about themselves in the unbearable afternoon sun. No eye was dry. But Bilbo waited, and Fili, Balin, Dwalin and Thorin remained underground.

"How long...?" He murmured softly to the little clutch of dwarves. Bofur shrugged silently as he came to stand beside Bilbo.

"Give 'em some time. They knew Kili the best, after all. Balin's helping Thorin stay on his feet and Dwalin, well, Kili was always his favourite." There was no hint of his usual mischief around Bofur's eyes. "He toned it down for the trip, but if you'd seen 'em in Ered Luin, when the brothers were wee ones, you'd be suprised. Dwalin was always a softie towards Kili." The corners of his mouth hung downward. Everybody knew why. With his chestnut locks and dark eyes, Dwalin could pretend that Kili was his own.

"Hush Bofur," Gloin hissed. All eyes turned to the mouth of the low cave, watching as Thorin and Balin stepped into the light. Thorin tried not to let his pain show, but he leaned heavily on Balin, gripping his arm with white knuckles. He kept some degree of composure. They all heard Fili before they saw him; his dry, wracking sobs echoed against the walls of the cave. Fili staggered with Dwalin's arms around him, the aged warrior struggling to hold the young prince upright as he battled his own crippling grief. His golden mane shone wildly in the sunlight, glistening as he stumbled on unsteady legs. He struggled to breathe, face hidden by a thick curtain of hair. His silence finally broke as they rose the chiseled marker over the shelf cut from the stone wall, hiding the weapons and clothes from mortal eyes, for ever. He sank to his knees in a scream and beat his fists at the stone, as though he could pound the life back into the bloodied lumps of fabric and fur sealed behind an unassuming gravestone. Thorin watched him, the words he whispered in Fili's ear whispering throughout the cave, that sons of Durin didn't scream and cry. He would never dare to speak those words aloud again. His own wet eyes and hoarse throat reeked of hypocrisy.

Thorin released his hold on Balin's arm, standing up of his own accord. He stared at the small circle of dwarves, Gandalf and Bilbo hovering about on the outside. They all met his gaze, except Fili, whose knees had gone weak. He hung in Dwalin's arms, his sturdy frame convulsing in shuddering gasps of air. The exiled king took in a very long breath, looking into the black mouth of the cave, where Kili would rest. Underground, like his ancestors.

Except not.

"We should go." He turned away, unable to keep looking at the cavernous hole in the green mound of grass and flowers. His walk was slow, shuffling through a painful limp. Balin hovered at his elbow, but Thorin rejected the support and comfort. They lingered for several moments before moving, Bofur taking one of Fili's arms. He was gently coaxed away, physically, but his soul and heart remained buried beneath the earth, sealed within the makeshift crypt that held all the earthly reminders that his brother ever existed. Fili's eyes dried up and he regained the use of his legs eventually, and after that outburst he didn't cry loudly again at the thought of Kili, not with the howls and wails that consumed him beneath the earth, but with stinging eyes and sniffles, deep beneath the blankets at night as he looked across to the face that slept beside him, the face that wasn't his brother's. He wouldn't speak of him like the others did. He wouldn't mention Kili at all, not to the Company. Did that make him heartless? Perhaps he was.

Fili felt very cold as he walked in the sun, as though the warmth and light inside of him had died.


	8. Weight of a Soul

"We'll leave at dawn."

Fili nodded silently at the words, hunched over the long table. They sat apart from the rest, at the end of the table away from the warm light of the fire. The others left them alone, maintaining a strained chatter amongst themselves. He didn't touch any of the food. Kili's hair clasp lay in his hand. He turned it over and over in his fingers, watching the firelight catch on the silver. After a long time, they had finally pried him free of Kili's cloak in the cave, laying it to rest in the stone. He couldn't take it, they reasoned. Fili wasn't going to wear it, it was too small for him, and he couldn't expect to carry it to Erebor, not with his back laden with packs and weapons. But he kept the clasp, holding it tight in his hands and they didn't dare to take it from him. Thorin too, slipped the knife into his belt, reclaiming his gift. Sitting across from Fili, Thorin set down his honey-smeared bread, pushing a plate towards his lone nephew.

"Eat." It was a short, clipped command. Thorin tried to remember the last time he saw Fili put food in his mouth. Not today, he knew. And he couldn't recall Fili eating yesterday, either. His face was pale and drawn, dark shadows hanging under his eyes. He looked like a ghost. He half expected Fili to protest, to throw the plate at him and shout to leave him alone. He would have been well within his rights. But Fili took the plate. He looked down at the clasp in his hands, realising he would have to let it go to eat. Thorin watched as his Fili hands went up to his neck. He unfastened the first button of his undershirt, a tiny glint of mithril gleaming in the dim light. Fili fixed the hair clasp on the leather cord around his throat, the silver resting cold against his chest. He did with slow, methodical motions, disconnected. Thorin's frown deepened as Fili returned his attention to the food, breaking a chunk of bread off in his fingers, nibbling silently on the crust.

A hot, sick wave of panic rushed over Thorin. He never saw the necklace. He closed his eyes, an axe splitting his heart. It was so tiny, so insignificant-looking. No doubt it would have been lost, thrust into a pocket or at the bottom of a pack. He didn't blame Balin or Dwalin for missing it; they wouldn't have known to look for it. Thorin told his nephews quite firmly to keep their pendants hidden, even from their own people. Mithril, even a tiny flake of it, could do strange things to a dwarf. They coveted it above all else, above gold and precious stones. He remembered Frerin losing a finger in a fight, a year or so before he died, for want of his mithril ring. He didn't suspect them once of taking it. Why would they, when such treasures awaited them on the other side of the wood? Not his oldest and closest friends. His kin. Thorin leaned back in the chair, eyes half-lidded. He felt sick with longing. How could he allow it to fall out of his mind? Fili kept his head down, engaged in his reluctant chewing. The mithril still glistened, maddening his uncle.

"Fili, your shirt." He couldn't stand the white glow, it hurt his eyes. Fili's head jerked up, and he looked down at the trinkets hanging off his neck. He fixed it silently, hand resting over the lump beneath the cloth as he chewed on the corner of his bread with the small bites of someone reluctant to eat. Thorin found it hard to breathe, he bent down with his head hanging below the table. He waited until the sound of Fili's chewing had stopped before he stood up, walking around the end of the long wooden bench. He paused, to place a hand on Fili's shoulder and give it a tight squeeze. Fili set down his bread to clutch Thorin's wrist, his left hand still wrapped around the silver beneath his undershirt. Thorin lowered his head to Fili's, resting his lips on the golden mane.

"I know your agony." He spoke softly into Fili's hair the other hand tightening on his shoulder. "And I _promise_ you Fili, you will one day think on Kili without pain. His memory will bring light into your mind." But Fili stared down at his bread. Thorin didn't see his trembling mouth.

"You're talking about Frerin." Fili's voice was low, and dead. He felt Thorin nod against his hair. His hand tightened on the clasp at his throat. "How long ago was it, Thorin? Eighty years ago? A hundred?" Thorin swallowed, saying nothing. "And you honestly think of him without grief or sorrow?" His fingers curled into Fili, and he kept up his silence, terrified his voice would betray him. But Fili knew enough. "That's what I thought." His voice broke at the last syllable, hand slipping from Thorin's wrist, curling into a fist on the table. "And you - you had a goodbye - a body - a-" Fili gritted his teeth. _"_ I have _nothing."_

"You have this." He bore Fili's anger, biting back his retort that no, Thorin had _less,_ much less, because Frerin was barely forty when _he_ died, and he didn't have an uncle to hold his hand and wipe his tears. Because he lost not only his brother, but his father, and grandfather too, all within the space of a few hours. He was to protect Fili from such pain, not remind him of it. Thorin's hand shifted, and Fili thought he was going to touch Kili's little silver trinket. Fili's hand shook on the table. But Thorin's hand drifted lower, taking Fili's clenched fist.

He took the hand, pressing it over his nephew's heart. "This is his."

* * *

The drag of the chain started Kili out of a fitful sleep, where he dreamed that he was climbing a tree, back at home in Ered Luin, and it had caught fire. Fili had managed to jump across to a neighboring pine and he held his hand out to his brother, blue eyes wide and pleading, mouth fixed in a scream. Kili took a deep breath, looking down to the fire before jumping, launching his body out into the the vast open of the night. But his fingertips only brushed Fili, he didn't make it, and he was falling into the flames. It was almost welcome, to be woken from such a nightmare. Even if it was to have Azog scowling down on him, the chain wrapped around his wrist. He turned, and began to walking, the slack of the chain quickly giving way as Kili fell forward onto his knees. The white warg followed silently. Kili choked, hands clenched around the iron collar as he struggled to breathe.

"Stop - please -" He didn't know the words, but Azog heard the pain and desperation in the dwarf's voice. He pulled up short in his walk, allowing Kili enough time to get to his feet before marching out of the cave. Kili walked past the firepit, the eyes on him, stomach curling under their awful stares. "Where are we going?" He recieved only a grunt in return, a short angry tug on he chain in silent command for him to walk faster. Kili's head swam as he lurched after the orc king, knees weak. He was sleep-addled, almost delirious with hunger and thirst - not that he would touch any food placed before him, if he could help it - and couldn't move a limb without his torso flaring in pain. When they stepped into the moonlight, Kili after two days of cave-darkness was dazzled. He blinked, holding a hand over his eyes as he struggled to adjust to the brilliant silver light. Azog noticed the reaction with a curl of his lip. This dwarf obviously didn't spend enough time below ground. Still, he waited a moment before yanking on Kili's chain, guiding him over the jagged rocks and onto the grass. Oh the grass. Kili's toes curled around the blades in his bare feet, and he breathed in deeply. The air was exhilarating, after the hours and hours of stuffy darkness of the cave, warm and moist and reeking of orc. His chest heaved in deep gasps, and he ignored the goosebumps breaking over his skin, weak limbs shivering.

The warg crouched low in the grass, waiting. Azog pushed Kili in the small of the back, earning a sharp cry, the dwarf stumbling on the grass towards the waiting beast. He didn't speak of course, but he gestured to the white hide, a snarl on his lips. _Up._ Kili's throat closed in panic, and he shook his head, backing away.

"No." He breathed. "N-No I ca-" Azog hit him, right on the collarbone where he'd been burned. Kili gasped and clutched at the bone, fighting back a rolling wave of pain that spread to his fingers and toes. He couldn't scream. He couldn't give Azog the satisfaction. Heart thudding loudly in his chest, Kili approached the warg, reaching out with shaking hands. _It's all right, it's just like riding a pony. A crazed pony that could turn around and rip you in half at any moment._ He gulped, clenching a handful of white fur at the base of her neck. He lifted one leg over the beast slowly, his pulse fluttering in his throat as the warg let out a low growl. Azog leaped easily astride his beloved creature, tucking the chain into his belt as he reached for the scruff of the Nink's neck with his existing hand. Kili looked down at the heavy white limb, so close to his own, trying to keep his breathing slow and steady. The cold night air had shocked him out of his sleepy torpor, and he began to finally feel _awake._

Then she leaped into action. Kili yelped and seized hold, white fur bursting in tufts through his fingers as he ducked his head against the wind. The alien forest swept around him as he clung tightly to the animal, blood rushing through his ears as the three tore through the night. The orc King and his royal prisoner astride the finest and quickest of the wargs. It was the fastest, most terrifying journey Kili had ever made. Even the eagles, soaring through the night, didn't induce this panic. Even though the ground lay hundreds of feet below, a rumpled patchword quilt, Kili hadn't been afraid.

That must have been because Fili was holding his hand.

But it wasn't Fili behind him. It was the white, powerful form of Azog, his good arm snaked around Kili as he clutched a handful of fur. The orc's hand was twice as big as his. Kili always had thin fingers for a dwarf - good for archery, his instructor had said - and his own hands looked very small in comparison. Like a child. Kili shivered in the rushing air, reminded of how small he really was in relation to the orc. Azog towered over him, even seated in the warg. Kili closed his stinging eyes to the wind, gritting his teeth. Where was he _going?_ There was no contingent following behind. This was just Azog and Kili in the wilderness. Azog, Kili, and the warg, he reminded himself, tightening his grip on the fur. He couldn't forget that. He dared to open his eyes for a heartbeat, catching a rush of silver and black and a wide open grass before he ducked back down, shaking madly from cold and fear. Was he being taken to be killed? No, surely Azog wouldn't go through this effort just to kill him. He would have done it at the bottom of the cave, where he didn't have to put up with Kili's struggling. Not that he put up much of a fight.

 _What if he wanted an audience?_ Kili held his tongue, but his heart quickened at the thought. What if he was being taken to Beorn's? To be slain before Thorin and Fili, to have them watch, as he desperately gasped his last breath of air? While he screamed in pain and begged for release? A shudder ran down Kili's spine. He wouldn't be able to stand up to any more torture. There was nothing left for him to give, body or soul or mind. He was hollow, mechanical and willing, under Azog's thumb. He'd stopped struggling.

Kili's eyes opened, as after what felt an age, the warg slowed. Water gushed nearby. The sheer walls of the Carrock rose before them, glistening in the moonlight. Kili arched his neck, remembering the long, slow climb downwards after being dumped (rather unceremoniously, he thought) by the Eagles. Azog pushed on the small of Kili's back, the dwarf tumbling to the ground with a cry as Azog slid easily to his feet. He waited for Kili to rise to his feet, wincing as he rolled his shoulders, before starting his way up the stairs cut into the rock. Kili looked up at the towering stone, the hundreds of stairs that faced him, cold and hurt and hungry, heart sinking. He plodded behind Azog slowly, struggling to keep up with the orc's tall, powerful strides. He slipped more than once, the collar jerking painfully on his neck as he coughed on hands and knees. The wind froze his bare skin, cutting like a knife into the exposed, bloodied flesh. Kili walked hunched over, embracing himself as he stared at the ground, focusing only on setting one foot down in front of the other. The chain was pulled taut, and every time he tried to tug back on it, to get some slack and release the pressure on his neck, Azog deliberately quickened his pace, and Kili inevitably slipped or stumbled, landing on his back or side or stomach against the stone and crying out into the night.

Kili sank to his knees as they reached the top of the Carrock, bending over on the stone as he gasped for air. Another violent shiver tore through him at the wind, and he wrapped his arms tightly around his chest. It was so _cold._ Azog let the chain fall to the stone, taking several paces across the high table of stone, to the edge that overlooked Mirkwood, and beyond. The tiny shape of Erebor could just barely be seen in the moonlit sky. He grasped for the weapon slung across his back, hefting the iron in his hand. Kili grasped at handfuls of the chain, hugging it close to himself. Could he use it as some sort of weapon? He looked up at Azog, illuminated in the moonlight as the lump grew in his throat. His nerve failed him before he even considered it. Azog had two weapons. He was stronger, bigger, faster (at this point). Even if he managed to somehow subdue him and flee, Kili would still have the warg to contend with. There was no way he could do it. So Kili remained in still silence on the stone, watching Azog as his heart pounded and mouth bubbled with questions that he couldn't answer, waiting for something to happen, something he knew nothing of, as he grew colder and thirstier, joints stiffening as he remained hunched over in the darkness, his eyes never leaving Azog's waiting figure.

* * *

The dawn brought no relief for Thorin.

Sleep finally claimed Fili, after several nights of open eyes staring into darkness. Thorin managed to snag him by surprise, asking him to come sit next to him on the bedroll and have a drink. Dori had found a patch of chamomile flowers two days ago, spreading them out by the fire at nights to dry. Two heads of the dried plant in boiling water, and Fili was out like a light, snoring on Thorin's shoulder still in his cloak and furs. Thorin undressed him like a child, his fingers trembling as he peeled the layers of cloth and animal hide from his nephew's body. He had Fili's blanket rolled out beside his own. He considered keeping Kili's bedclothes, but Thorin eventually had it all rolled up and place alongside the rest of his things. They wouldn't have use for another blanket for some months, and by then they would have most likely lost it. Better it lay in the stone with his memory. The rest of the pack drew in a little closer, Bilbo and Ori laying side-by-side in a shrinking center. And for the first time in seventy-six years, Thorin tucked Fili into bed after getting him into his nightclothes, kissing his brow and sitting cross-legged beside him as he slept. Fili lay with his golden hair spread out across the pillow, face completely calm and relaxed from the soothing tea, a welcome brief respite from his grief and anguish. Thorin couldn't help but run his fingers through the tangled locks, wrapped in barbed layers of memories. Mostly about Fili and Kili as children, Thorin recounting how he used to treat them, trying to figure out in his mind if he favoured one over the other, if it could have had any influence over how they turned out.

When that hurt too much, Thorin was reminded of Frerin. Five years younger than he, with wide dark eyes and a ratty mop of brown hair. He too, never had a beard longer than an inch of sparse stubble. He had long, bony hands that his father said were too brittle for any real work. But Frerin had cunning, and he could shape metal into objects of curiosity and wonder, with a detail not found in the rest of his kin. He had been in the forge the day the dragon struck, deep within the bowels of the mountain, and Thorin had always wondered how he managed to get out. He realised now that his brother would have been accompanied out through Thror's secret door. The door that he'd never seen. He was quite good with a bow too, although he didn't wave it about the way Kili did. Thorin was supposed to tell Kili that. He closed his eyes as a fresh wound pierced his heart. He never told Kili about how his own younger brother was considered odd. It was, they said, why he had been killed. A warrior with real skill wouldn't have fallen the way Frerin had. It haunted Thorin. And on the day he gave him the knife and realised that Kili would never be like him, that he would be more like his dead brother, Thorin stood in the doorway of his nephew's half-empty room, and swore on Durin's name that he would protect little Kili from the dangers and darkness of the world.

His failure made it hard to breathe.

And in the darkness, Thorin sat beside the last faltering fragment of his family as the ghosts of his brother, his father and grandfather and nephew breathed on him, leaving his face hot and flushed. He wound his fingers in the hair and pressed his forehead's against Fili's and _swore_ that he would give his own life before letting any harm come to his last surviving heir. But it was a false, hollow promise. Fili didn't need or want it. Fili was _perfect_ , he was noble and valiant and strong. He was a lion. Thorin's protection was as frail and ineffectual as a shield of glass over mithril armour. But Thorin clung to his last empty promise in the night. And as the dawn rose and he opened his eyes after several hours of sleep, Thorin lay on his side and watched his nephew in slumber. He willed himself to believe in his own oath, fighting for conviction. But as the promise tumbled once more from his lips in the flickering light of burned-out embers, he pressed his lips together and fell silent. He rested his head on Fili's shoulder, bowed under the weight of his own shame and failure.

But while Fili would instinctively curl into Kili in his sleep, winding an arm around his brother and resting his cheek against that thick mop of air, Fili remained on his back as Thorin's long hair brushed the skin of his neck, arms lax in his slumber, as he endured the touch of what felt a stranger.

* * *

The dawn saw Kili cold and lonely.

He still sat hunched over, watching with dark eyes as the white figure strode back and forth before. As the night wore on, the orc seemed to become more and more agitated. He started to pace, his heavy boots clumping across the stone, from Erebor to Moria and back, the weapons swinging from his limbs. Kili was curled into a very tight ball, nose and mouth buried in folded arms. Only his eyes were visible. Each time Azog passed the dwarf in his pacing, Kili lowered his gaze, to the stone, his arms, his feet, holding his breath. Each time he expected some sort of blow to end his life. And each time, the shadow passed, and when Kili dared to raise his head, Azog was on the other side of the Carrock, his back to Kili. His frozen fingers dug into his arms, teeth starting to chatter as the dry, hot day sank into a crisp night, on their table suspended in the fading moonlight. If Azog was cold, he didn't show it. Maybe the pacing helped to keep him warm. Kili rested his chin on his knees, joints aching as the heavy blackness in the sky sank into the deepest hour before dawn, the moon drifting below the horizon, Kili unable to make the orc out at all in the darkness. But Azog, with his vision shaped for the darkness of caves and tunnels where the light never reached, saw him, and his wide eyes staring unseeing out into the black night.

Azog himself was cold, but he would never, ever show it. Unstead he kept his head raised, staring out at the night, ears tuned, listening for the slightest whisper, the barest noise eminating from the shadowy night. He waited in silence, his limbs growing tenser with each passing hour. He was _sure_ Thorin would come. It was inconcievable, to think he would not. This was his _nephew_ , his heir, the closest thing he had to a son. And he was a prisoner of Azog. It was only a matter of time before Azog would hear the footfalls of heavy boots making their way up the side of the Carrock.

He had a speech figured out. He'd asked one of the orcs to teach him one single line of Westron. _Your life for his._ He recited it in his mind. Kili would walk free, while Thorin and Azog fought to the death. Thorin was the prize, the king, the foe. Azog had no concern for the trembling child who crouched in the moonlight. Let him run away. He was no threat to him or his company. Even if he somehow rejoined the rest of the dwarf-scum, how long would it be, really, before they would track them all down, and Azog would have his head? Especially after breaking him. There was nothing left to conquer, the fight had been won. He was a husk, living on borrowed time as his life ebbed away. Azog was no longer interested in Kili. He yearned for the king, Thorin Oakenshield. He would accept nothing less.

The sky turned to grey, and Kili still had no idea why he was there. The smudge of white began to take shape, as the first threads of light began to settle on the darkness, Kili watching as limbs, a head, became visible against the darkness, gaining sharpness and clarity with each moment.

As the sky gave way to whiteness, a rim of gold on the horizon, Azog turned abruptly away from his view of Erebor, boots clumping towards the dwarf who crouched on the stone. Kili bent his head, waiting for the sound of heavy footfalls to pass him. But they stopped in front of him. And he heard the sound of heavy breathing above him. Heart frozen, Kili slowly arched his neck upwards. Azog had an ugly snarl on his face as he stared down at the young dwarf, twirling the heavy mace longingly in his hand. Kili's throat stuck, and he tried to back away, but his joints felt frozen shut, his hands and feet completely numb. He couldn't move.

What did he want? Kili remained frozen, trying to read the expression on the orc's face. It was twisted in anger. Deep, genuine anger. Kili's blood felt like ice in his veins, heart struggling to beat. Azog lifted the mace over his head, and Kili squeaked, screwing his eyes shut in anticipation for the blow that would certainly kill him. But Azog was merely slinging the weapon across his back once more. A huge hand thrust into the tight bundle of Kili's arms and legs, and the dwarf yelped in fright, eyes still closed. He struggled to beat Azog's arm and legs away, but his weak blows were easily endured as Azog found the the chain Kili had huddled close to him, yanking hard. It _hurt_ , Kili choked as he was forced to his feet, staggering as the blood flowed sluggishly to his arms and legs. His hand gripped the chain to steady himself, gasping for air. He opened his mouth to protest, that he was in pain and he couldn't breathe, but Azog started to walk without looking back. This time, he didn't care if he had to drag Kili down the side of the eyot by the neck until he was raw and bleeding. If Kili wanted to stagger and fall, then so be it. His patience had been worn completely through, after a night of fruitless waiting in the piercing moonlight. Kili's breath was a harsh gasp as he struggled to keep up with the orc, trailing his hand against the rock as he tried to keep his balance with stiff, numb legs and arms, squinting through the grey light. Twice he slipped on loose rocks, and once he fell almost over the ledge, and would have tumbled to his death if Azog didn't reach out and seize his arm.

Kili let out a long sigh as he sank to the grass at the foot of the Carrock, struggling to breathe through a pain in his lungs. He'd been weakened already, after his days in captivity, his weary body not able to hold up to the physical stress. But it was only a short reprieve, a few moments, before Azog grabbed him by the hair, dragging him to his feet and practically throwing him on the warg. He wasn't going wait for him to delicately mount the beast this morning. Kili grabbed handfuls of hair as the warg rose to her feet, head arched as she sniffed at the lightening air. She took off quickly, leaping easily across the shallow ford despite the heavy load. Kili's head ducked back down as he struggled to process the events of the night. He'd been torn out of the cave, carried miles away to the Carrock, and left there in the open for the night, with Azog pacing as the darkness gave way to light, only to be dragged back down, presumably back to the depths of the cave. It seemed utterly pointless. But Kili had watched Azog all night, watched him start to crumble under impatience and anger. He was waiting for something to happen. Only Kili didn't know what, and he couldn't ask him. As the first rays of light began to brush the treetops, the warg leaped through the heavy forest, Kili keeping his head down, praying to himself that he wouldn't fall.

* * *

Miles away, Fili rode at the back of the Company on his sturdy little pony, the flimsy show-reins slack in his hands. Every step, every thud of the hoof into the grass, was another footstep on his heart. He was treading it flat. It was behind him - Rivendell, the Misty Mountains, Beorn's home, _Kili_ \- it was all behind him, vanishing into the past. Fili's head hung low, shoulders bent under the weight of his pack. No, not just the pack. Fili's eyes were closed. He didn't know if he could ever lift his head upright again. The awful weight pressed down on him, two hands bending his neck down and holding him fast.

He allowed himself one last look backwards. The sky, blood-red, burning with fire, hung over him, the mountains rising at the edge of his vision. Beorn's house was already a little dot. They were anxious to get started early, to leave. Fili couldn't tear his eyes away. This was his brother's land, now. He lay within it. While Fili would hope to rest in the Halls of Erebor, Kili would remain in the wildlands, a desperate stretch of land inhabited by darkness, guarded by a solitary shape-shifter. His hands tightened on the reins as a sob built up in his chest.

But he forced it back. And, lowering his eyes back down to his hands, Fili turned back to the rest of the departing company, as they walked away from the mountains, from the past, plunging forward into the dangerous unknown.

 

 


	9. Morning Light

They took bets on whether or not Azog would return.

Not of course, that they would _ever_ let their leader know. And they didn't have much to trade with each other. But they exchanged rations of food, spare weapons and socks. Ogash had a tight racket going. The favourite of course, was that Azog would return with Thorin Oakenshield's head, but there were other wagers. That he would not come back at all, that he would have escaped, perhaps wounded, without his prize. Gurk of course protested he would return with the body of Thorin and of Kili too, and they would eat well that morning. Bakub bet his best knife that Thorin didn't even show up, and that they would finally be able to gorge themselves on the flesh of that tender-looking dwarf that had been driving them mad with hunger for days. Nuglub wagered three arrows that Thorin sent someone else in his stead, and they themselves had been killed. He was a crafty orc.

So when they heard the scratching and snuffling of the warg at the cave, the clutch of orcs dropped what they were doing and looked up in interest. Ogash, with the sack of loot hidden from Azog's eyes, stood up, craning his neck for an early indication. He ran to the edge of the cave passage, peering out. He swore - his bet at least, hadn't come through - and ran back, seizing the sack from the base of the rock, and in a fluid motion, dropped it in Bakub's lap, taking his place beside the fire as Azog entered the dark chamber at the back of the cave. Bakub crowed with delight, stuffing it into his pack as the rest of the orcs muttered, some throwing small stones at the lucky one.

But they all rose respectfully to their feet as Azog slid down from Nink, seizing Kili by the collar and throwing him to the ground. Kili took it silently, fingers curling into the rock. This was not good. This was _terrible._ A horrible lump of ice had settled in his stomach, refusing to move. Gurk stepped forward, head in a bow, eyes fixed hungrily on Kili.

"The night... Was not victorious, your Malevolence?" Kili stayed on his hands and knees, palms scraped and bleeding.

" _No."_ Azog's voice was sharper than ever. The muttering of the orcs grew. "Thorin never came." He kicked Kili in the side, the burned side, Kili gritting his teeth as he withstood the blow in silence. He caught Thorin's name, eyes darting from side to side in desperate thought. What did Thorin have to do with it? They never went near the Carrock, and Thorin didn't show up at all last night or-

Kili closed his eyes, trying to stop the wheeling of the earth beneath his hands and feet.

_Thorin didn't show up at all._

Kili put the pieces together, realising what had happened. Azog _had_ been waiting. He had been waiting for Thorin, and he never came, and now Kili wasn't of any use to him anymore. Kili wasn't simply a source of information to them. He had been a bargaining tool, a ransom. _That was why they wanted to know his kin._ They'd reasoned that Thorin would have done _anything_ to save the life of his nephew. They waited on the Carrock for _him._ But Thorin never came. Nor did Fili. They never came to his rescue. Kili's sick stomach lurched. No. There  _had_ to be another explanation. There was no way that Thorin, that _Fili_ , would stand back if there was any chance that he could be saved. They would never, ever, _ever_ leave him to die.

_They wouldn't ever abandon me._

Gurk couldn't refrain from licking his lips as he stared at the hunched figure on the ground. It was some time since they had dwarf. They were as a rule tougher than men, but usually stockier, with more meat on their bones. He watched the movement of Kili's muscles through his bloodied skin, weighing him up. He wouldn't be as leathery as normal dwarves. He wouldn't be tough at all, Gurk decided. A little on the thin side, yes, but the flesh would be sweet and tender. So tender.

"What are your wishes now?" Gurk made a motion to the dwarf on the ground. Kili looked up, realising that the two had started talking about _him._ He looked wildly from one orc to the other, eyes dark circles in his skull, shadowed in the firelight.

"I have no use for him." Azog said simply, letting the chain fall from his hand. He stepped away from the pair, turning towards his chair at pride of place before the fire. Kili's heart hammered in his throat, shaking his head as he noticed the orc looking him up and down, sectioning him in his mind, a pale grey tongue darting over his lips.

"No..." Kili backed away, seized with terror. "No - _please_ \- no!" Gurk grabbed him by the arms, lifting him up. Kili tried to lash out at him, kicking the orc in the shins. " _No!"_

"Morbol, help me get 'em clean." Kili was doing more damage to his bruised and bleeding feet, ruined from being dragged up and down the Carrock, than to his own legs. So let him try to fight his way out. He slung the chained dwarf over his shoulder, Kili's screaming bouncing off the walls of the cave. This wasn't a cry of pain. This was of pure terror. _Please no they wouldn't do this why didn't they come where are they Thorin where are you no no no Fili please help-_

"No!" Kili screamed again as the cave-pond loomed before him. "Please -" The two orcs walked thigh-deep into the water, and Gurk slung the dwarf from his arms and into the cave-pond. The water was _freezing_ , it shocked his quivering limbs. How could they bear it? Kili found his feet in the water, standing between the two as the pond-tide lapped at his waist. He sputtered through the water. It was so _cold._ They held him down so the water ran over his shoulders, Kili enduring his violent bath with sputtering cries and pleas for mercy.  When he was satisfied they'd gotten the worst of the dust and dried blood from their dinner, Gurk lifted Kili out of the water. He shook uncontrollably, his lips blue as he fought to keep air in his lungs. He'd never been so cold. _How was the water so cold?_ But the orcs didn't feel it, the water only lapped at their knee-high boots, splashing against sturdy clothing made from animal hide. Numb all over, Kili sank to his knees when he was set on the ground beside, water running from him in rivulets. He'd swallowed a good amount of it, and while that battled his painful thirst, his stomach felt bloated and cramped.

"How d'ya wanna do it?" They spoke in a language he knew, quite on purpose. Kili moaned, rubbing his hands together as he struggled to regain the feeling in his fingers.

"Slit 'is throat." Kili closed his eyes, gasping for air between his blue lips. "Ear-t'-ear, and save the blood." Morbol looked over at his King. Surely, he would like to do the honours. "Your Greatness." He spoke in orcish again. Azog looked up at the title, to see Kili curled on the ground, waiting for death, with Morbol holding out the knife in offering. Gurk found a nice wide bowl to catch the blood, blowing out the dust and fragments of ash. A smile formed on Azog's scarred face, and he rose slowly to his feet. Kili pressed his hands over his face, shaking his head and moaning as the orc King walked towards them.

" _No_!" Kili's lungs burned in one last, desperate plea for his life. Morbol held his arms, the other orc pressing the bowl into his chest. The collar was a pain, but they would have to deal with it. His hair was was grabbed, Kili's neck forced back, exposing enough white skin, darkened with the barest whisper of hair, to slash. Azog saw the pulse thud in Kili's throat, beating against the collar. Kili couldn't breathe, he tried to struggle but the orcs held him fast, arms pulled taut and legs pinned to the floor with their knees. His throat broke in a sob. How could this happen? He tried to think of some sort of prayer, a plea to one of the Guardian's, to guide his soul, but only one thought ran through his frantic mind. _Fili why did you let this happen to me where are you how could you abandon me why aren't you here you're always here always why aren't you here where are you why didn't you save me please please please please-_

The knife stopped inches from Kili's throat as the mouth of the cave erupted in a roar.

Azog jerked backwards, catching a flash of black fur approaching the fire. _Beorn._ He reacted in an instant, wrenching Kili free from the orcs, circling an arm around his waist and slipping into the water. Kili was too frightened to make a sound - he managed to take in a short gasp of air as the pair plunged into the water, Azog pulling him under. Kili hadn't seen the figure of the huge black bear, he thought at first that Azog was trying to drown him. He kicked out against the arm around his waist, ears filled with the sound of rushing as he was pulled deeper and deeper under. Kili inhaled water, lungs burning at the crashing and whirling, light-headed. Finally, his head broke the surface, Kili choking and sputtering and coughing up water. The collar and chain were too heavy, Kili fighting to keep his head above water as he gasped for air. So Azog held Kili around the chest, keeping him afloat. It was completely and utterly black. Kili's breath was shallow in his throat, thinking for a horrible moment he had gone blind. He reached out with a hand, fingers brushing stone. They were in a tiny pocket of air.  He was dazed. So close, he came so _close_ to death, to having his throat slit and bleeding out, held down while they collected the spilled blood in a bowl. And something had saved him. Whether fate or dumb luck, something burst in, and he didn't see what. His heart leaped in his mouth. _What if it was Thorin and Fili_. Kili took in a deep breath, ready to scream.

"F-" Azog felt the jerk of Kili's chest, the sharp intake of air, and covered Kili's mouth, the dwarf pressed against his chest, unable to move. Kili's scream became a muffled sob. He trod water smoothly, head cocked, listening. The low, bear-like roar thrummed through the stone walls, coupled with the screeching of his orcs. The sound of steel crashing on stone. Azog was very still and quiet, waiting for the sounds to die down. Kili's mouth was still covered. He tugged at Azog's wrist, but the orc held fast, eyes up to the low ceiling as they waited. Something slithered past Kili's leg, and he fought back a shudder. The air slowly grew warm and stale. Azog was no fool; Beorn had a nasty habit of rooting out tribes of orcs that wandered too close to his domain. But the great Bear had never been seen this far west. Something drew him out. If Thorin and his company sought shelter in Beorn's Hall, then it was very likely he knew Kili was missing. Perhaps he had even come himself, at the behest of Thorin, to rescue the lost dwarf. Sneaky and underhanded indeed, if Azog's suspicions were correct. Kili felt the orc's heart beating against his back, breathing ragged and uneven. The minutes seemed to stretch into hours, the icy water sending violent tremors through Kili's limbs. Beorn was fierce, he'd caught many of the orcs by surprise, and their wargs too. His hide was thicker than their flimsy weapons, but they still fought back. Finally, silence fell. _It was so cold._ He shivered hopelessly, chin barely above water. But the air was hot, as though his head had been beneath a blanket for too long. The darkness was terrifying, it pressed in on him. 

Then he was pulled under. Kili managed to suck in half a lungful of air before the water rushed around him, remaining limp in Azog's grasp as he was pulled deep down in the underground pond. His ears thudded under the pressure and head swam, white spots prickling behind his closed eyes. It seemed to take longer this time; Kili would have counted but his nerves were tattered rags. Then, when he felt they couldn't have gone any deeper, they rushed upwards, Azog kicking off from the floor. Their heads broke above the water, Kili's gasps of air reverberating around the cave. When the water reached Azog's waist, he let the dwarf go, walking slowly from the underground pond as he surveyed the broken scene.

It was utterly ruined. The fire had been stamped out, the dying embers casting a dull red pall over the images of destruction. The bodies of orcs and Wargs littered the stone floor, some in pieces. The stink of death fouled the air. Kili staggered to the edge of the water and heaved himself out, crawling on weak, frozen limbs, panting. He lifted his head, the breath dying in his throat as he realised the cave was chillingly silent, apart from the sound of Azog's heavy breathing. Kili rose slowly to his feet, the chain dangling from his hand as he watched the orc dash between the bodies, checking desperately for any signs of life. He found one, breath bubbling with blood as he lay, chest slashed open and a leg missing. Kili watched the white figure sink to his knees, grabbing the front of his shirt, begging for answers in his mother tongue. Kili walked slowly towards the destruction on bruised and torn feet, scarcely daring to believe it. _What had happened?_ He made out the blackened figures in the dim light, the chain rattling in his trembling hands. These weren't the clean cuts of axe or sword. They had been torn apart, literally shredded. It was the mark of a horrible beast.

Kili looked down. Beside his own foot, the print of a magnificent paw was imprinted clearly into the stone, made from black orc-blood. It would have towered above any of the orcs, even Azog. He stepped around the broken bodies. They had all died this way. There were no weapons. Tooth and claw had killed them. Two Wargs had fallen; the rest would have scattered. Kili caught a glimpse of white fur. The lifeless eyes of Azog's warg shone red in the dull embers. Kili couldn't breathe. What would have happened, if he hadn't been dragged under? Would they have torn him to shreds too? Would his body litter those among the ground? He had no idea it was Beorn - the mystery of the shapeshifter, the dancing bears, it had all been solved after he went missing from the Hall. He hoped, deep in his heart, that it was somehow Thorin and Fili, they had come to rescue him, and finding him missing, had left to raid another goblin horde. But their weapons didn't cause this. Nothing made by dwarves did. Or could. Kili's heart was a stone, heavy and cold. It wasn't some sort of fateful rescue, not in his eyes. It was simply an attack by one of the many creatures of the wild. Nothing more.

A low sound came from behind Kili. He started, turning to see Azog standing beside him, eyes fixed on the lifeless body of his prized beast. He staggered forward slowly, Kili remaining rooted to the spot as Azog sank down beside the dead warg, moaning something incomprehensible. Kili held his breath as he watched, knuckles white on the chain. The orc stood and kicked out at a broken body, a growl of frustration sounding low in his throat. The growl became a roar, he lifted the orc and threw it over his head, the sound of bones breaking as it hit the stone wall sending a chill down Kili's back. Azog panted in anger and hatred.  _They would pay for this._ He now had no doubt in his mind that Thorin, somehow, was behind all of this. Even if he wasn't directly involved, he had a hand in this destruction. Beorn wouldn't have done this otherwise. This cave had never been raided. Only now, when Thorin Oakenshield's nephew was in the his grasp, did Beorn suddenly have an impulse to pay this place a visit. It was no coincidence. Someone was going to suffer for this. Dearly. Kili watched the display of anger, and didn't dare make a move, a sound. He eyed the mouth of the cave, mouth dry. _Why didn't he run?_ He looked at Azog, heart thudding. _Run. Run. It's your only chance._ _RUN._

But he couldn't will his legs to move. He stood, absolutely frozen in the cave. What was wrong with him? Why couldn't he move his legs? Why did he stand there, stiff and cold as stone, as his last, desperate chance at escape passed by? Perhaps he was because he knew it was inevitable. He wouldn't be able to slip out, not when every movement made the iron on his neck rattle. How far could he get on his bloodied feet, before he had to stop? Not long enough to get away. Not the miles it took to find his way back to safety. But why couldn't he _try?_ What was he afraid of? Death? That was coming soon enough, if he stayed within this dark realm. Why couldn't he move? Tears of frustration pricked at Kili's eyes, and he hung his head, the chain clinking _._

Azog turned at the sound. He seemed almost surprised to see Kili still standing there, with his head bowed, the chain trailing from lax fingers. He'd forgotten about the dwarf, in his rage and grief, in the rush of adrenalin. He stood, watching those bony shoulders rise and fall in short gasps. They were almost like sobs; sharp, broken intakes of air. Azog couldn't understand. Kili was alone in the cave with him. There was nothing to stop him from running. Why didn't he try to make a run for it, when Azog's back was turned? He was broken, completely. He'd been beaten down, his last shred of hope wrenched out of his hands. He'd lost his will to go on. It was utterly pathetic to watch the shivering half-naked figure gasp for air, head bowed in exhausted acceptance. Azog rolled the shoulder of his amputated arm. It would be a mercy killing, at this point, to raise his mace and strike him across the head, to pierce his heart and leave him bleeding to death on the stone. But Azog had no wish to do it. Standing ankle-deep in the broken remnants of his company, the stink of death rising, Azog's blood-lust had left him.

At least, for now.

Casting his eyes back for one last look at Nink, Azog marched past Kili, beginning to root around the scattered pieces of his camp with an almost businesslike sense of urgency. He was dreadfully pragmatic, and saw only one way forward from this. Return to the Mountains, gather a new company, a new warg, new weapons and supplies. And then resume his pursuit. He thought at first that Thorin didn't care enough about his captured nephew to risk a life for him, but he saw now what the exiled dwarf King was. A coward. A cunning coward, but a coward nevertheless. He had sent Beorn to do his work, to scour the caves and turn them out, tearing them apart until Kili was found. Azog was snarling. A disgusting coward. He was tempted to behead Kili himself, and leave the body on Beorn's doorstep. That would show him. But no, he had a better plan. If Thorin wasn't going to come out and fight for his nephew, then Azog would go to him. And this time, he wouldn't give Thorin the option of an honourable trade. While he had been willing to let Kili free on the Carrock, no matter who won the fight, Azog now had no such mercy. He would run through their camp, slaughter them all. And he would hold Thorin down, make him watch as he tormented them all, and save Kili for last, to suffer him through the _very_ _worst_ torment and humiliation, at his hand, to remind Thorin that he could have spared his nephew from this pain, if he'd taken Azog's fair, honourable offer.

He turned the bodies over, trying to remember who was the shortest. Probably Ogash, who had a bit of a gut on him. Too many woodsmen, he used to brag as he patted his stomach. Azog found the orc beside the fire, head some several feet away. He peeled the leather vest from his carcass, and on second thought the rawhide trousers too, stomping carelessly over the bodies as he approached the shaking dwarf. He eyed the dwarf's broad feet; nothing they had would be big enough. Kili had his hands balled into fists, head still down. He was whispering to himself, in his mother tongue or the vernacular of the West, Azog didn't know. He was either ignoring the orc, or sank so deeply within himself that he'd completely blocked the outside world from his senses.

"Kili." Azog tried the name out on his tongue for the first time. The mop of brown hair shot up at the sound of his name, throat pressing against the collar as he swallowed heavily. It sent a shudder through his chest, to hear it being spoken with such a rough, cursed voice. Azog shoved the handful of clothes into his chest and turned away wordlessly, picking through the rest of the camp for things to take with him to the Mountains. Kili looked down at the clothes, his broken gasps of air still in his throat. For him. He held them out, staring in the light. A sleeveless vest that didn't look as though it had fastenings, and short trousers that were too wide for him, both cobbled together from poorly-treated animal hide. They made Kili's skin crawl. Azog couldn't _honestly_ expect him to wear something worn by an orc, could he? A growl sounded from across the cave. Kili turned to see Azog glaring at him. He didn't need to speak the orc's language to read the expression on his face. _Now._ Kili looked back down at the clothes, biting his lip.

_Wait._

A spark of hope dared to ignite in his chest. Azog was going through the trouble of getting him more clothes. Kili's fingers tightened around the animal hide. _He didn't want to kill him yet._ Kili couldn't wonder why. Was it because he had no more underlings? He looked down at the bodies, trying to interpret Azog's change of heart. Another growl came from the orc, and Kili jerked himself out of his stupor, fumbling with the clothes. The vest, he could maybe wear, but the trousers? He looked down at his own pants. They were in rags, completely saturated, and black with his blood. At least this would block out the cold wind that seemed to whip up at night. Resigned, Kili threaded his arms through the vest, wincing as the leather came into contact with his wounded back. It was a bit long, and comically wide. He pulled the trousers on over his own pants, holding them up with one hand as he picked through the ground with the other for a piece of string or cord, something he could thread around his middle to at least hold the ill-fitting clothes closer to his body. He found a piece of leather, which must have come from some sort of sheath or scabbard, long enough to tie a knot in the waistband of his trousers. That would at least stop them from falling down. Kili found a wide belt, unbuckling it from the dismembered carcass with disgust on his face. He wrapped the vest around himself, trying to calm down as he fastened the metal clasp. Deep breaths. Slow breaths. But his heart thudded and he trembled violently, on the verge of hyperventilating.

Azog was before him again, looking Kili up and down in the orc clothes. He held out a lump of grey meat in his hand. Kili's hand shook as he took it. He hadn't eaten for two days, and felt sick and light-headed. Obviously mindful of Kili's previous battle with their food, he stood very obviously before Kili, lifting the mace in his arm ever so slightly upwards. _No, please._ Kili moaned, but dug his fingers into the handful of meat, separating the stringy flesh and tearing it into pieces small enough to eat, placing them in his mouth. Satisfied, Azog turned away, resuming his methodical packing of the best supplies. Kili held a hand over his mouth as his stomach strained to digest the food. It wasn't easier - hunger had robbed him of his lingering strength, but he preferred the crippling pain in his gut to the knowledge of what _\- who -_ he had been eating. Kili wiped his hands on his new trousers, bending over as he tried to force back the wave of nausea that flooded through his chest. He still couldn't comprehend this. He'd gone from being on his knees, with a knife at his throat, to being fed and clothed. Azog obviously had some use in keeping him alive. But _why?_ Why, when Thorin obviously wasn't going to play Azog's game? When he wasn't going to come and face Azog in whatever grand meeting he had cooked up? His worth had already been tested, and shown to be useless. Kili's cramped stomach turned as Azog bend down beside the warg - not his own white beast, but the other dead creature - carving out a large haunch of the leg and wrapping it cloth.

Azog was terribly pragmatic.

Satisfied that he'd taken enough of use to get them both to Goblin-town, Azog slung the pack over his shoulder. Kili stood with his hands on his stomach, his thin bare arms trembling. His damp hair had fallen into his eyes, and he fixed his curtained gaze down on the ground. Azog paused in thought. It was wild out there after all, and he didn't have any fears that Kili would try to kill Azog in his sleep. Not after the wasted opportunity several minutes before. So he kicked at the ground, finding a scimitar underneath Morlob's body. Azog cleared his throat, and Kili looked up to see the handle of the blade offered to him. The dwarf stared dumbly at it for a long time. Azog made a sound of annoyance in his throat, pushing it closer to Kili, wordlessly telling him to take it.

Kili's shaking fingers closed around the blade, and he held it up to his eyes. _What was going on?_ Why was Azog giving him a _weapon?_ Kili's head spun. This wasn't making sense to him. He couldn't unravel Azog's plan. He didn't understand the journey Azog had in mind, that it was going to be hard going, traveling to Goblin-town and then retracing their steps, tracking Thorin and his Company down, and that even prisoners needed food and clothes and if it got hairy, a way to defend themselves. He stared down at the ugly blade, shaking his head.

"I don't use these." Kili tried to convey the meaning through tone, knowing Azog wouldn't understand a word he was saying. It was true - the scimitar was curved, and he knew he'd be more likely to cut off his own arm than relearn the shape of a new blade. The orc watched as Kili walked crossed the cave to the fire, bending down to pick up the abandoned bow. There were still a dozen or so arrows in the quiver. Nuglub didn't have time to attack before a blow to the head had killed him. "I use this." He held out the bow and quiver, willing Azog to understand. "I'll take this." He slung the weapon across his back, wincing as it thudded against the broken skin. That was going to hurt. Already though, it wasn't as bad. The slashes in his back were closing up. He couldn't put pressure on them yet, but they'd stopped throbbing in time with his beating heart. He walked back to the orc, hands at his side, without a hint of a fight. This was a startling turn of events. The spark which ignited in Kili's chest started to take hold. For some reason, Azog now needed him alive. Maybe he too knew the danger of being alone in the wilderland, even as an orc king. Maybe he simply thought he might get hungry down the track and decided to wait until his other food ran out before killing him.

But for now, Kili simply took it as a sign of grace. And as Azog grabbed the chain, pulling him out of the cave and into the light of the morning, Kili kept his head down, promising to be complicit and willing. To do whatever it was Azog wanted him to do. His pride and freedom were lost, but he had something better. His life. Kili had been within a moment of death, and the blinding terror that accompanied it had a dramatic effect on him. He wasn't ready to die. He didn't want to die. _He wasn't going to die._

Kili took a deep breath, led by Azog out of the dazzling morning, which made both of them grunt in pain, into the shadow of the trees. He wasn't going to die. He was going to stay alive. He was going to get out of this. He was going to see Fili again and shake him and demand to know what had happened, why he had been abandoned. Why they left him to die.

That would come later. He promised himself, his stomach clenching. For now, all he had to do was survive.


	10. In Tangles and Knots

The trees were a poor shelter from the full weight of the sun. Azog walked with hunched shoulders, feeling his white skin burn under the golden touch of high noon. These trees were thin saplings, their weak branches spreading out, stretching towards each other ten feet in the air but never touching, handfuls of tiny green leaves clinging to the fragile branches. The creature of darkness languished in the light, his footfalls slowing, growing heavier as the desperate search for shelter, to wait out the sun, began in earnest.

Kili kept silent as he plodded along behind. The sun beat down on the raw animal hides tied to his broken body, on his arms and in his hair. He sweated beneath the thick skins, the collar becoming hot and slippery beneath the moistening skin. But inside, he still felt cold. His bloodied feet trod on soft grass and daisies, but every step brought pain. The bow was too big for him - he felt it bang against his leg in time with his lilting footfalls, the soft slap one of only a handful of sounds. His breathing. Azog's growling sighs. The thud of his boots. The barest whisper of quivering leaves. The clink of the heavy chain that bound him to Azog. There were no birds, no scurrying insects or small animals. Nothing else to break the silence. The air seemed dead and lifeless in the bright sunlight, as creatures of both day and night had burrowed deep below, or fled through the air, at the sight of the white orc king as he crashed through their wild domain.

He paused beside an overhanging rock, arching his neck to survey the smooth grey face. It wasn't much, enough for the two of them, if they sat close together. Azog looked over at the dwarf, who had slowed beside him. Kili kept his head and hands down, face emotionless. But his eyes darted from side to side across the grass. His mind was alive. But he tried to wear a mask of indifference and exhaustion. The tiredness, at least, wasn't faked. And as Azog crouched down beneath the stone, Kili followed without needing to be pulled, crawling on his hands and knees and unbuckling the quiver that lay on his back to lean against the damp rock, sheltered from the sun. Kili sat with his legs stretched out before him, staring at his bare feet. The hours of walking had deepened the cuts and scrapes, the bruising darker than ever. His feet were almost black. He curled his toes, and closed his eyes, not wanting to look at his own mutilation. He heard the rustling of a hand though cloth, opening his eyes. Azog raised a water-skin to his mouth, drinking deeply, and Kili watched the clear liquid fall between his lips, rolling his tongue around in his own dry mouth. He longed for a drink. Azog must have seen him looking, because the flask was pushed into Kili's chest. Or perhaps he just realised that injured dwarves wouldn't last long in the sun without water. Kili sipped at the water cautiously, wrinkling his nose. It had that smelly staleness of the cave. He drank enough to wet his mouth and lips, and handed it back, staring out of the shadows into the warm sun, the green grass.

He loved this time of year most of all, when the summer turned to autumn, when only the brightest, hardiest flowers littered the browning grass, when the days weren't no longer at their longest, but the afternoons were the warmest, the most golden, they would be all year. Kili was a creature of greenery, of clambering up and down trees and lying in the grass, watching the sky roll above him. Of crouching beside gurgling streams with a piece of string in the hopeful chance of a fish. The few weeks where the seasons turned saw Kili outside, abandoning the forge, the lessons, the chores. As he turned forty, and fifty, and sixty, and even seventy, Kili continued to spend the precious days outside. His forearms browned and hair began to streak in the sun, and his uncle muttered he looked more like a Ranger with each passing summer. But Kili refused to abandon the sunlight and warmth for the shadowy traditions of his people.

This latesummer had slipped past unnoticed. Even though Kili spent his days - and nights too - enfolded in the air and light of nature, sleeping on the ground and hiking through forest, fording shallow rivers and almost drowning in deeper ones, Kili didn't notice the soft violets and windflowers and primroses slump into the ground, while daisies and dandelions thrust their proud faces towards the sky. He didn't notice the crickets and cicadas working themselves into a frenzy to avoid a season of bachelorhood and an early death. He didn't lie down and watch the shape of the clouds as they drifted through the air. Everything that had enraptured Kili in his childhood, captivating his sense of wonder, seemed colourless and grey in the light of his adventure.

And as Kili sat in the shadow, close enough to Azog to feel the orc's breathing against his arm, straining to hear signs of life in the dead forest, he had a growing, niggling worry, a fear that grew into doomed certainty with every passing moment, that this summer, the one that had passed him by with barely a second thought, would be his last. He couldn't shake it. He bowed his head as the panic began to swell in him, his throat closed and he screwed up his eyes and tried to wait out the fit of terror that wracked him, that he was _going to die_ in this chain. That his last days were slipping by and the best weeks of the year were fading into the past, and he had done _nothing._ He had nothing to his name, no heroic, noble deeds. He wasn't an honourable person. He was an embarrassment to his name and culture. He was rash and naive and stupid and was going to die without clearing his name.

That was what frightened him most of all - that he would forever be known as Kili the jokester, the idiot, the simpleton. The failure. He had seventy-seven _years_ to make a name for himself. Even Fili, who had still done nothing really, commanded respect. People looked up to him. He was at Thorin's right hand, proudly. He walked in step with his uncle. And Kili trailed on the left, tentative to keep up. Stumbling. Thorin had always said Kili was his own dwarf, and shouldn't look up to Fili. He realised now why his uncle said that - because Kili would have fallen short.

Well, it would stop. Kili clasped his hands and raised them to his lips. He swore an oath to himself, speaking internally, eyes trained on the grass. No more. He wasn't going to die in Azog's hands. He was going to survive - and he was going to be a _hero._ He was going to make Thorin proud to call Kili his sister-son. He was going to be valiant and honourable and courageous. He wasn't going to cry. He was going to take this fragile chance to  _do_ something. He was going to prove to everybody that he was _just as good_ as his brother.

He had to. Kili's hand fell lax. Because if he didn't clear his name, if he died as a coward and an idiot, then the anguish, the suffering, the betrayal - it would have all been for _nothing._

* * *

Gandalf, on the other hand, sat fully drenched in the sun, hat on the grass beside him, face turned up to the light, a glowing pipe in his hand. Beorn had to smile as he saw him in the grass, smoking and sunbathing, seemingly without a single care in the world. It was hard to believe that this ragged-looking old man, who shambled about with dwarves and leaned on such a gnarled old stick, was one of the Istari. But there was a gleam in Gandalfs eyes, that wasn't a reflection of the sun. That came from within, a brightness and wisdom gleaned from a life that stretched across the ages.

"I was hoping you were still around," Beorn called out as soon as he came within the wizard's hearing. Gandalf visibly smiled across the grass, taking a deep puff of air from his slender pipe. He nursed a rather nasty-looking bitemark on one shoulder, the blood running down his arm. "and hadn't cleared off to the forest."

"It would take much to move me from this lovely afternoon sun." Gandalf had even kicked off his shoes, enjoying the warmth on his bare toes. He waited for Beorn to come closer, letting out a long sigh as he caught the shape-shifter's face. Concern at his arm. "You do not bring good news."

"Just a flesh wound." He shrugged off Gandalf's worry as he approached the wizard. "Some honey on it tonight and it'll be right as rain." His expression took on a new seriousness as he stood before Gandalf. "I bring no news." Beorn said simply, sitting cross-legged in front of him, eyes cast down to the grass. "I ransacked every cave I know between here and the back door." Gandalf lowered his pipe. "Orcs yes. But only orcs."

"No Azog."

"No Azog." Beorn spoke quietly, voice almost lost in the humming of crickets and bees. "And no dwarf either." He realised, with no small degree of embarrassment, that he had completely forgotten the little dwarf's name. Gandalf nodded as he sat up, bare feet withdrawing beneath his clothes.

"It was a small hope." Gandalf muttered thoughtfully. "But a hope nonetheless. The Great Goblin's death will not go unavenged by his people. And Azog is searching the area for Thorin and his kin. I still find it hard to believe that he would be simply killed and eaten by a mindless rabble of orcs, who would not know who he was. Kili is recognisable." _Kili._ That was his name. Beorn held his tongue, nodding silently. A beardless dwarf with a bow _was_ exceptional, even he would admit that. "But if he's not in the woods now, then he's either already gone, or..." He trailed off, eyes downcast.

"Or he's worse than dead." Beorn supplied, watching as Gandalf reached for his shoes. The bright afternoon sun seemed to dull.

"Much worse." Gandalf muttered, remembering the wooden contraptions that had been paraded about in Goblin-town. Either way, he was lost to them. Gandalf knew it was a slim chance at best, that they would find anything - it was why he waited until parting with Thorin's Company before saying a word to Beorn. He wasn't going to tease anybody with false hope. The wizard pulled on his worn-down shoes, leaning forward on his knees with heavy eyes. He looked as though moving was the last thing on his mind.  "Thank you, Beorn. For everything." He received a silent nod in return. "If you ever need my aid..."

"I will be sure to ask." There was a smirk at the corner of his mouth. "And if I see or hear anything about either of them, you'll be the first to know." Beorn promised.

"And now..." Gandalf rose to his feet, reaching for his hat. He seemed to have aged. There was a new weight on his shoulders, one carved from black stone.

"Your journey continues south." Gandalf nodded a silent agreement, casting his eyes to the heavy shadows of Mirkwood. "While the others travel east."

"I have given them everything I can." Gandalf stuck his hat on over grey hair. "Supplies, advice, an excellent burglar, and more than a dozen warnings to stay on the path. They will be all right." But his hopeful sentiment sounded dim. "And I shall see them before the journey's end." He hefted his staff. "Thank you again, Beorn for your excellent hospitality. And apologies for _any_ imposition we may have caused."

"Not at all, not at all!" Beorn growled, sounding more like his gruff old self. "An enemy of the orcs is a friend of mine." And the smirk on his mouth widened half an inch. "Keep the horse 'til you reach the edge of the wood." He jerked his head towards the magnificent thoroughbred, munching patiently on the grass. "But don't bring her within the shadow of Dol Goldur Gandalf, I beg of you."

"I would not dream of it." Gandalf promised, forcing a pleasant expression on his face. Inwardly though, he sagged with disappointment.

He would be walking before long, then.

* * *

"Hey."

Kili's voice was soft, tentative in the sun after half an hour of silence. It stretched out so long, and he couldn't bear it anymore. He _had_ to speak. And if he was going to speak to the orc, well, he had to start somewhere. Azog, buried in his own thoughts, shook his head in surprise, turning to look at the dwarf. Kili sat with his legs crossed, toying with the leather strap of his new quiver. "Look - I..." Kili took a breath. This could go either way. He picked up a small stone, half the size of his fist. He held it out before Azog, in a flattened palm. "Rock." He set it down before him, biting his lip. Azog frowned at the tiny object. What on _earth_ was the stupid creature trying to do? "Rock." Kili repeated again, and pointed at Azog. The orc rolled his eyes with a sigh, turning away. "No." Kili shook his head, touching him - very, very carefully, on the shoulder. Azog raised an eyebrow at the touch. "I'm not teaching _you..._ I..." He bit his lip in thought. He pressed a hand over his lips, shaking his head. Then he pointed at Azog, making a talking motion with his fingers. Then finally, he gestured back down at the stone. And Azog's expression smoothed in understanding.

Then it curled again. And he grasped the stone, throwing it contemptuously out from under the overhanging rock and into the sunlight. Kili watched it crush the grass with a wince, and he shrank away from the orc King, drawing his knees up to his chest and returning to staring at the ground in silence.

* * *

He tried again, twice.

His second attempt saw him picking up a stick, asking what it was, holding it out to Azog in the meekest voice he could muster. Azog's response was to take it, jab him hard in the sternum, break it in half, and cast it into the sunlight. And Kili shrank further into frustrated silence. He was sure that it was a misunderstanding, that Azog simply didn't realise what it was that Kili wanted. But oh, he realised all right. And he couldn't care less if Kili wanted to learn a few words of his language to at least foster the beginnings of communication. He wasn't going to share his tongue with a _dwarf_ , and he certainly wasn't going to take the time out to teach him. So Azog remained in his deep, brooding silence, watching the sun shift across the sky in distaste. He missed his Nink. It took him _decades_ to find a beast so fast and powerful, and to find it lifeless beneath a littered heap of bodies, when it still had at least ten years left, was a knife in his blackened heart. It left him bitter and sour. He hurt far worse from the death of the one creature, than the rest of his company, the expendable, stupid orcs that he could gather anew in a heartbeat. Nink was something special, and Azog felt her loss, keenly.

Kili's third attempt went even worse.

"What about this?" The afternoon wore on, as Kili fumbled with the chain hanging from his neck. Azog looked over at the dwarf, who sat with the chain pulled out in front of him. He was already running out of things to ask. "What is this?" He pointed at Azog, and then the chain, making a talking motion with his hand.

"Za?" _This?_ There was a fire in his Azog's eyes, a curl on his lips that left Kili cold. Azog grabbed the chain, dark brown eyes widening as Kili realised his mistake. He tried to scrabble away from him, but Azog had him by the neck, with that thick chain. Kili let out a cry as the iron struck the broken, tender skin of his back. He sucked in a deep lungful of air and gritted his teeth, fingernails digging into his palms as he struggled to ride out the agony that coursed down his spine. Azog let him go, and Kili forced himself to sit up, struggling to breathe through his iron jaw. He kept his head erect, eyes clear. He wasn't going to give in to Azog, to writhe on the ground and sob in pain. Instead he drew blood with his nails, biting down on the inside of his cheek, tasting blood as the fire slowed to a throbbing, then to a dull ache. And as Azog returned to his brooding silence, leaning against the rock, Kili stared resolutely out towards the sunlight, shaking fingers masked by curled fists, trying to ignore the horrible wet feeling of blood sliding down his back. Blood, he smelled it and felt it and tasted it. And felt sick.

He resolved not to try talking to Azog again.

* * *

They sat around the fire in a ring.

Oin, Gloin, Dori, Ori, Nori, Bifur, Bombur, Bofur, Balin, Dwalin, Fili, Thorin, and Bilbo. They clung in their little familial groups, in their camp on the naked grass, beneath the stars. It was a night for brothers to hold on to each other. They fiddled with pipes and weapons and bits of clothes that could have done with a darning. Not many of them dared to speak. They all kept their eyes downcast, save for the occasional shuffling glance to the side. Even Thorin sat with his hands clasped in his lap, staring resolute at the fire. Only one set of hands moved with any real purpose, only one pair of eyes dared to looked up from the ground. And they were red, glittering with pain and frustration, the hands shaking, the mouth wrenched in a tight knot, a loud curse threatening to tumble from behind his lips.

Fili was trying to braid his hair.

Such a simple, domestic routine should not be the cause of so much pain. It should have been second nature, something done with deft fingers and a wide smile. But instead it was stumbling, pulling knots into long strands of gold, tears clinging to light brown eyelashes. The silver hairclasps were abandoned on the ground before him.

Days it had been, almost a week perhaps, since Kili last plaited his mane into the ritual braids, sitting behind his brother and weaving the hair back from his face. Fili held on to them, but after the last hellish, sleepless nights, they were falling out, tangled and ratty. It would not _do_ to have an heir of Durin with unkempt braids. So Fili pulled out his clasps with trembling fingers, running them through his hair, teasing out the tangles and knots. And as the last braid from his temple fell loose, Fili was sure he heard a sigh in his ear, a tiny whisper as though something escaped from within him, slipped away. Fili tried to weave the curls into the traditional golden ropes that hung on either side of his head, with personal embarrassment and humiliation. He couldn't do it. Not like Kili. His archer's hands were well-practised on Fili, and he could craft the braids in his sleep. Every morning, Fili would sit on the edge of his bed, Kili behind him, deft fingers spinning straw into gold, combing the tangles into soft curls and the curls into perfect braids. His own hair was unkempt and loose, and when Fili attempted to replicate the affection, his paltry attempts at braiding hanging crookedly in Kili's dark locks, they both laughed and Kili would pull them out, saying it didn't matter, he didn't have a beard to match yet and nobody looked at him anyway. But he would let Fili put the clasp in his hair, ignoring the tugging at his scalp as it was pulled too tight, or hung loose on his hair, or sometimes, inexplicably, both. And when people muttered that Fili knew how to take care of his appearance and Kili should take a leaf out of his brother's book and put effort into his hair, they would both share a secret smile. Kili always wove the best braids. They were straight and even, the perfect tension and width, without a single stray hair. But Fili was clumsy. His thick fingers struggled to part the locks cleanly, he couldn't get them level, they looked lopsided and didn't hang right. And so he pulled them out and tried again. And again. Bilbo sat in utter bewilderment, looking up every so often to see Fili fiddling with his hair, trying and failing to replicate the braids his brother so expertly wove into his golden mane.

This went on some time before Thorin touched his nephew on the shoulder. Fili jerked out of his nightmarish, shaking weaving, eyes fixed on Thorin. He was brittle and strained. Thorin settled behind him, tugging gently on his hair, coaxing Fili to straighten his back. He complied silently, curling his hands into fists as he felt Thorin's hands on his right temple.

"They won't be as good." Thorin's voice cracked the still darkness of night. It was an intrusive sound, Fili's face flickering at the voice. He gave no verbal recognition of his uncle's words. They weren't hopeless, though. Dis used to braid Thorin's hair, part of her role as sister and domestic caretaker of the exiled king. But when her husband came, Thorin had to weave his own braids in the morning light. Then his sister found herself alone again, and neither of them deigned to continue their lost ritual. Thorin sectioned off a lock of golden hair, combing it through his fingers before loosely twisting the tresses in his hands. Fili endured the braiding silently, trying to ignore the little pulling of tiny hairs on his temple. Kili knew how to do it without snagging on any loose hair, but Thorin kept muttering as he stopped to unpick a tangle. His hands had none of Kili's skill. It felt like an attack, having these foreign fingers weaving through his hair and pulling uncomfortably on his scalp. He held his tongue, but couldn't stem the burning in his eyes, a single tear glistening on his cheek as he finally blinked. Thorin fastened the first braid, letting it hang down. While better than Fili's abortive attempts, it still didn't sit right. It didn't curl around his ear to rest on his shoulders quite like Kili's did. His trembling fingers brushed the hair of his scalp, feeling the  _slightly_ crooked line of braiding, the few loose hairs, a tiny snag. It wasn't as good. It wasn't the same. His hand sank to the ground, Fili closing his eyes as Thorin moved to the other side of his head, repeating the meticulous process that he couldn't quite master.

Thorin's own heart broke as he felt the golden hair sift through his fingers. He felt - he _knew_ \- he was intruding on one of Fili's most personal rituals with his brother. He knew he was desecrating Kili's sacred ground, as he wove the braids into Fili's hair, feeling his nephew shake under his hands. He knew Fili didn't want his help, his touch, and it was politeness and respect that kept his tongue still. But he continued to weave the tresses into their normal shape with firm, unyielding hands, pressing his lips together to prevent any unwelcome sound from bubbling up in his throat. The pair were stiff, carved from stone. Fili on the ground, cross-legged, with Thorin kneeling behind him, the half-shaped braid in his hand trailing further and further down Fili's back. It was a paltry, unwanted attempt at consolation, painfully ineffective. Thorin could feel the bitter grief and resentment eminating from Fili, who forced a passive, unobtrusive expression on his face as another tear drifted down his cheek and into his beard. But he didn't stop. He couldn't, not now. He had to braid all four ropes into Fili's golden mane before he sat back down in his space on the grass. He couldn't admit defeat. He couldn't accept that Fili didn't want him. He had to show that he could be there, he would _always_ be there for his nephew, the lion-hearted light of his life. The last flickering candle in a growing darkness. And as the last of the four clasps was fixed in his hair, and Thorin let the braid fall against Fili's back, his bright-eyed nephew bit his lip very hard, as a muffled sob fought its way out of his mouth. Fili ducked his head at the sound, tugging at his newly woven braids as the tears returned, blurring his vision and pressing down in his chest. Thorin retreated without a further word or touch, edging back to his original seat by the fire, casting only the occasional sidelong glance at his nephew as he nursed a crushed, fragmented heart. He had lost. He had lost the fight for Fili, battling against Fili's own grief and pain and desolate mourning. He had lost.

He looked up at the stars, the stars he could not name, wanting to scream out at them, their cold, mocking brightness. Tiny pinpricks of light in a deep velvety blackness, beyond count. Was it Bilbo, or Gandalf who theorized that the stars themselves were the souls of dead elves, resting in the sky? Or was it somebody else entirely? He felt, cheated, robbed. Nobody spoke of his own people with such wonder. Not even the dwarves themselves had such delusions of grandeur and majesty. Only doubt, uncertainty of their own fate. Thorin lay on his back and closed his eyes, listening as Fili couldn't contain himself anymore, dissolving into the harsh, jagged breathing of someone fighting back loud tears. In his heart, he reached out to him, enfolded him in his arms and stroked his hair, told him it would be all right, in the end. No harm would ever come to his dear sister-son, not while he walked the earth. That he would see Kili again in the immortal Halls, it would be as if they were never apart. But this was all in his heart and mind. Thorin's body remained still in the grass, his arms at his sides, limp and unmoving as Fili cried, bitter, lonely tears that he couldn't swallow back.

He remained still. Because he had lost.


	11. Lionheart

They rose in the sunset. Kili walked cautiously, one pace behind the orc with his mouth purposefully shut, eyes fixed on the darkening grass. He was terrified of saying a word. His back still stung, badly, and although he tried to wipe his hands clean on his trousers, his palms were stained with dried blood. Azog thumped on ahead of him, heavy boots stomping on the grass, the chain hanging loosely from his hand. For hours they walked through the trees, Kili occasionally glancing up at the sky as the light faded and twilight deepened. The slanted beams of moonlight pooled on the ground, and Azog tried to avoid them, side-stepping the silvered light and tugging on Kili's chain, silently ordering him to hurry up. Kili didn't need telling twice. He'd gotten reckless before. He'd forgotten his place, he'd thought he could _talk_ to Azog. As though he were a creature of reason. But he didn't, he wasn't. He was an orc. And not just an orc, but their king. One who made a name, a reputation, in bloodshed and darkness and pain.

Why would Kili ever want to talk to him?

He berated himself, his stupidity, as he trod on the forest floor. Sticks and twigs made him wince but he held his tongue, determined to make the walk in silence. Relative silence. His stomach started growling again, the sound painfully obvious in the still night. Although Azog had a feast on warg meat in the afternoon, Kili couldn't touch the raw flesh and went hungry. Somewhere, far away, an owl hooted. It was the first bird Kili had heard for hours, and he closed his eyes, relishing the sound. He stopped still for a moment, listening keenly. He wanted to hear the sound again. But his neck jerked and Azog pulled him away with a growl, Kili scampering on wounded feet to catch up. He still kept a pace behind, eyes locked on the figure, who gleamed brighter as the darkness deepened, towering above him. Kili was just over  half of his height. Slow hours passed, Kili walking forward, stumbling in exhaustion, stomach groaning. It was a relief to step into a clearing, to have the moonlight drench his skin. It dazzled him, gave him a glimpse of brightness. But as he crossed the clearing, Kili noticed, for the first time, what loomed above them, beyond the tops of the trees, frowning down at him on the edge of the sky.

They stood in front of the Misty Mountains.

Kili froze, feeling sick. _What?_ He hadn't seen them, in the dark of the trees, with Azog side-stepping the light. He had no bearings, no sense of direction in this alien land, but his gut swore blind that they were heading towards Beorn's house. It was the only thing that made sense. That was where Thorin was. And that was where Azog wanted to be. _Why were they at the Mountains?_ His eyes darted to Azog _._ This didn't make _sense_. They were going backward. What could Azog want from this place? Why did he bring Kili? Why did Kili have to be alive in this place? He couldn't imagine anywhere worse, after the horrors of Goblin-town. A very cold shiver ran through Kili's chest, in remembrance of the dilapidated shanty town, the mockery of what used to be one of the great Halls of his ancestors. But Khazad-dûm lay in ruins, picked over by scurrying foul beasts, who slept in homes meant for the kings of old. Even the ruins would have crumbled almost to dust. Too long it had been, since dwarven hands had tended to the broken remnants of iron and stone. Now crude wooden sticks had been erected over the carved facades of dwarf Lords and Kings, while the foulest creatures snuffled about in the deepest darkest pits. Kili dreaded returning to the blackness and terror.

_This can't be happening._

Azog tugged at the chain, but Kili still refused to move. He stood transfixed, staring up at the Mountains, still a days' walk away, cold sweat running down his back. He couldn't go back there. He couldn't. They might not recognise him, but Kili was a dwarf and that would be enough for them to wreak revenge on the death of their king. They would drag out those huge wooden contraptions for him, the ones that caused deep, crippling pain, rather than the flesh wounds he suffered through. They would _kill_ him, in the name of their king.

"No." It was the first word out of Kili's mouth since his failed attempt to talk to Azog. He backed away from the orc and the Mountain, eyes wide as his pulse hammered against the iron collar. "No - _please."_ He gasped, his voice hoarse and rough, weak from not speaking. Azog wound the chain around his hand, tightening his grip, and pulling Kili towards him. Hard. Kili stumbled forward and fell to his knees, his hands clutching the ring of iron as he coughed. "N-No." He stammered, but rose to his feet, staggering behind Azog. His heart thudded in his ears and he couldn't breathe. _Not this._ Not the Misty Mountains. Was that Azog's new use for Kili? Now that he was worthless, now that it was clear that Thorin no longer wanted him, was he going to hand Kili over to the goblins that infested his ancestral home? Kili remembered the gaggle of creatures in the forest, how they lashed out and beat him when they found out he was a dwarf. How they howled in memory of their fallen king. Their hatred and bloodlust ran to their bones. To be in their home would be a fate worse than death.

They returned to the cover of the trees, but Kili could feel the mountains staring down at him. There was a chill whisper in the air, it brushed Kili's hair into his eyes and breathed into the curve of his ear. A cold finger ran down his spine. And he lurched on, his eyes stinging with tiredness and stomach cramped with hunger.

Just put one foot in front of the other.

* * *

One foot in front of the other.

One foot... in front...

Kili pitched forward in a stumble, letting out a choked cry as the chain pulled down hard on his neck. Azog had the patience to turn and watch as Kili heaved himself back to his feet, shoulders slumped as he limped slowly behind him. He was a limp, pale shadow in the grey light of dawn. The sky above was white, the grass a dull, heavy shade of lead. It was a world without colour, of black and white and grey. The grass, at least, was soft. But the damage had already been done - his feet were ruined, scraped and cut and bruised, and although he tried to make his way forward, he battled with every step, gritting his teeth through the pain. He stumbled more and more often, his eyes drifting closed as his head swam. He couldn't focus, he needed food and rest and _sleep_ , as his consciousness grew darker, more fragmented. This time it was only a dozen steps before Azog felt another sharp jerk on his hand. He looked back to see Kili sitting on the ground with his right foot in his hand, shaking his head as he bit down on his lip in obvious pain. The orc waited, waited for Kili to rise to his feet, but he stayed on the ground far longer than he should have, holding his injured foot. Throbbing with impatience, Azog gave the dwarf a firm tug on the neck, Kili's head darting up.

"I _can't."_ His eyes were very bright. "Please - can we stop - I can't - _look."_ He pointed to his feet, stretched out before him. Azog didn't know the words, but he understood the sentiment, a snarl on his lips. He didn't have the time or patience to deal with soft-footed dwarves who insisted on taking a break every few minutes. Every hour that passed, Thorin slipped further and further away from him. Mirkwood rose nearer, an impenetrable forest that even Azog didn't want to contend with. They _had_ to keep moving. He eyed Kili's torn feet, letting out a low, growl of annoyance. A long scratch in the arch of Kili's right food had left him with a hobble. Blood as dark as garnets clotted his big toe. Half the skin on his left heel had been scraped away. Azog cast his gaze outwards, to the miles of forest they had to cover before reaching the foot of the Mountains. Kili looked up at the orc, his eyes very wide and dark in his pale face. The blood on his cheek was black. Wordlessly, he pleaded with Azog, begging for a respite. Just a few hours. Azog swung the chain lightly, wrinkling his nose as he stared down at those wide, dark eyes. He looked up at the sky. Daylight was coming, and with it the blistering heat that he couldn't stand. They hadn't traveled far enough. At this rate it would be two days, not one, before they made it to Goblin-town. He didn't have enough food and water for the both of them to last that long. Kili was already obviously suffering after turning his nose up at the warg meat, looking ghoulish and drawn and utterly exhausted.

 _Should have eaten._ But he didn't say it aloud. Instead, Azog crouched down, and in a single fluid motion, swept the dwarf up in his arm and over his shoulder. He was surprised at how _light_ the dwarf was in his arm. Azog was easily three times his weight, he lifted Kili like a half-full sack of potatoes and slung him easily over his back. Kili gasped, but had the sense to keep his arms and legs still as Azog turned back towards the mountains, wanting to make the most of the last precious minutes of darkness. He stomped in the grey light, twigs and leaves crushed under his heavy boots, closed flowers bowed in sleep trampled into the earth as his blood boiled. He did _not_ expect this. To be walking through the forest, without a contingent or a mount, carrying the injured heir of Thorin Oakenshield, bordered on humiliation. He wasn't doing it for Kili's benefit, not in the slightest. Azog wasn't a creature of pity or mercy. In his eyes, the dwarf had thoroughly deserved every drop of blood spilled, and if he couldn't handle the punishment given to him, well that was his own weakness. But they _couldn't_ keep stumbling along at this slow pace. So Kili had his respite, spared from the exhaustion and pain of walking on his torn feet. He was bordering on delirious, all sense of time completely vanished. He couldn't recall how many days it had been since his stumble in the forest, but he knew he couldn't have slept more than a few hours in all that time, and it was playing absolute havoc with his head in the lingering darkness.

And in the grey light, slung over Azog's shoulder like the burden he was, neck lolling at his brisk, steady pace, Kili's eyes drifted closed. And although he fought against the creeping fog that smothered his mind, it was mere minutes before he sank absolutely lax into the orc's grasp, heavy breathing slowly rising in the air as Kili succumbed to sleep.

* * *

Fili opened his eyes to a morning sky.

It was almost disconcerting, at first. He had forgotten, for a panicked moment, that they had left Beorn's Hall, the safety and comfort of his enchanted domain, back to the wilderland. But then he remembered. His thudding heart slowed and he rolled over onto his side, pulling the blanket up to his nose. Dew had settled over the campsite, the smell of wet earth pressing into Fili's face. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. It was comforting, somehow. It reminded him of the summer nights, when he used to sneak out into the darkness and roam the outside world, buoyed by the cool air and delicious silence after long, hot days in the forge, the training yard, the library. He sank into warm memory.

He and Kili had the best adventures at night. He remembered the time they managed to smuggle a barrel of honey mead out and held a party down at lake Malaad on the summer solstice, inviting all the young dwarves (and several pretty ladies from the neighbouring town of men). They danced and sang and made so much noise that they were of course caught sometime after midnight, Thorin himself coming down in furs thrown over his pajamas, thunderous voice piercing the still darkness. The party was Fili's idea, but Kili stood up and claimed all responsibility, and had to spend the next month mucking out the stables and doing the worst jobs in the mines and forge.

Another time, they actually made it all the way to a tavern of men. Kili was happy to just sit at the bar and drink himself silly, but the silver in Fili's hair attracted the attention of a very pretty young lass, who turned out to be a blacksmith's daughter. Fili didn't remember much of the night, but he woke up face-down in a patch of rich grass, a floral handkerchief wound in his fingers and a serious headache. He lay there for some minutes, groaning in the pale morning sunlight, before he was rolled onto his back, and Fili stared up at the impish face of his brother, who emptied half a bucket of water on his face. He bellowed at Kili, and attempted a staggering chase before collapsing in the grass, clutching his head.

They were not _so_ far in the past. Fili inhaled another lungful of rich, earthy air. The night with the blacksmith's daughter was perhaps fifteen years ago, and he'd seen her several times since, watching as she grew thicker, the lines growing heavier around her face and mouth as children multiplied, and yet Fili remained the same. But he kept the handkerchief. It was at home, in the little box he kept under his bed, the one  _Amad_ promised to bring to Erebor with her. Fili wasn't rebellious by any means, his fun was only ever harmless, but Kili always took the blame for it. It didn't matter if _he_ got in trouble, his brother would argue, ankle-deep in pony muck, or on his hands and knees on the floor of the forge. He was just Kili. He said it with a breezy, lilting tone, but Fili couldn't ever ignore the way his soft brown eyes looked down as he spoke. _Just Kili._

Fili opened his eyes. Thorin lay beside him, his nose pointed towards the sky. His hair was a black spider's web across the grass. He remembered the look on his uncle's face over the years, whenever he berated Kili. How it began with anger when Kili first stayed out after dark to trap rabbits, sank into disappointment with the party at Lake Malaad, and then finally annoyed acceptance when he came stumbling in at dawn, drunk, causing enough of a distraction for Fili to slip in and crawl into bed, unnoticed. That was just Kili, he would eventually sigh in exasperation. _Just Kili_ again. Fili had resolved, on the night he came of age, that he would confess that he was responsible for at least two-thirds of the things Kili had been punished for. But when he stood at the front of the grand dining Hall, with Thorin's arm around his shoulder, clinging to him tightly as he loudly proclaimed his intention to reclaim Erebor with his newly of-age heir at his side, Fili was overcome with shock and pride, so deep that he couldn't speak. It ballooned in his throat and he couldn't move his lips. So he kept quiet, accepted the honour, the gifts, staying up with the adult dwarves for the first time, drinking and sharing stories until the sky turned to white. And while Kili slept restlessly, alone in their bedroom, Fili said nothing about just how much he was to blame for his brother's failure.

It was his deepest shame. Fili carried the pain and humiliation within him, and it didn't lessen over the last two years. It grew. And as they set out on their quest, it swelled within him, consuming his heart. At Rivendell, Fili couldn't take it anymore, he told Kili that he was going to confess everything. Kili cried. Tears were in his eyes as he pleaded with Fili to keep quiet. Uncle Thorin thought Fili was _so good._ That he was perfect. He was so proud of him. It didn't matter what he thought of Kili. Kili was just Kili, he wasn't measured up to anything. He didn't have the pressures and responsiblities of being the first-born, he didn't _mind_ taking the heat. He took the punishments for Fili for a reason, and to tell the truth now would be a betrayal. He clung at Fili's sleeves and begged him to promise to keep quiet. That they were just stupid kids and it didn't matter what happened then, they would _both_ prove themselves to be heroes on this journey, and Thorin wouldn't ever have his perfect shining vision of Fili tarnished. And Fili crumbled, looking into his brother's wide brown eyes brimming with tears, as he threatened to destroy the hope and pride that kept them both afloat. He promised to take the secret to the grave.

But they never said which grave.  And as he watched the exiled king lay in the grass with his face turned upwards, Fili swallowed, tongue rasping his dry mouth as he realised he couldn't hold it in any longer.

"Uncle Thorin." He didn't call him _uncle_ much anymore. Thorin told him not too, out of safety. That if the orcs had _any_ idea that Fili was his kin, he would be a target. Azog's blood oath on the line of Durin included him, and his brother too. Better for the orc king to think Thorin was the last heir of his ancestors. Fili watched Thorin's eyes open, with the alert sharpness of somebody long awake. He turned his head towards Fili, brow creasing in the slightest beginnings of a frown. Fili took in a deep breath. "Can we... Can we go somewhere? And talk? Alone?" He couldn't look him in the eye. Thorin watched his nephew cling to the blanket, his bright blue eyes sadly dim, mouth pulled downwards in the distinctive sag of someone who teetered on the edge of a devastating realisation.

"Of course." There was only one thing this could be about. _Kili._ The name hung in the air between them. Thorin pushed the blankets aside and sat up. The rest of the camp still slept, aside from Gloin on the final watch, but Fili didn't want to risk anybody else hearing this. They didn't matter. This was a secret for Thorin's ears only. "We'll go by the river." The babbling of the water would mask the sound of their talking. Fili sat up slowly, the edge of the blanket still wound in his fingers as he struggled to work up the nerve to follow his uncle.

 _I'm sorry Kili._ He rose to his feet slowly, as though enfeebled. Perhaps he was. The guilt rushed in his ears. He should have done this in Rivendell. He should have done this when he came of age. He should have done this when Thorin stood before them at Lake Malaad, face contorted in rage, shaking finger pointed towards Kili, promising that he would make his nephew punish for this reckless, idiotic insult towards their line. What good would it be now, to clear Kili's name when his heart had stopped beating? All he would do is bring shame down on his own head.

 _Then so be it._ Fili took in a breath, as something hardened within himself. Time to stop entertaining an illusion.

* * *

Kili had another dream. This time, he dreamed that he stood at the edge of a vast lake. The water was as thick black and black as tar, the sky heavy and grey with cloud. He stood there, unmoving and silent. Completely alone. Then he heard a shout, looked in the water to see a familiar mop of golden hair struggling in the black water. So Kili dove in, even though he wasn't much of a swimmer, fighting to get to him. But something from within the water grabbed at the chain on his neck, and pulled Kili down, under the water into the blackness.

He scared himself awake. Kili jerked upwards, breath harsh and heart pounding as he pulled himself into a sitting position. He lay on a bed of dirt and leaves. He reached out, touching wood. A single shaft of gloomy light shed some colour into the cave. But it wasn't a cave at all, Kili realised as he looked around, breathing in deeply. This didn't smell like a cave. They were inside the hollow of a tree. At his side, Azog slept, leaning against a gnarled tree root, eyelids flickering, lost in some dream. Azog had wound the chain tightly around his hand before sleeping - _but it had slipped._ Kili's heart was in his mouth as he looked down, seeing it looped just once around Azog's fingers, slack. _No._ He looked up, checking to see if Azog was really asleep. The orc breathed deeply, an odd, low wheeze coming from his throat, almost a snore. He was out to the world. Kili's hands shook as he ran his fingers down the chain.

Did he dare?

His heart threatened to burst out of his throat. His slim fingers shook violently, and he almost fumbled as he started to unwind the end of the chain from Azog's hand. It let out a single _clink,_ and the dwarf froze, listening keenly for the sound of Azog's breathing. But it was steady as ever, and he resumed the meticulous act of inching the chain out of Azog's sleepy grasp. And finally, _finally,_ it was bunched in his hand. Kili clutched the chain to his chest, breathing heavily as the ramifications of what he had just done burned through him. He was _free._ He looked at the shaft of light. He could slip out, could vanish into the sunlight and make a run for it. He could recover the ground he had lost and make his way back to Beorn's Hall. If he knew the vague direction of the Mountains and the Carrock then hopefully he could get his bearings, figure out which way to head and use his headstart.

Kili looked down at his feet, heart sinking, down out of his throat and into his stomach. It plunged through his chest like a stone through water. He touched the cut on the underside of his foot, just lightly, wincing at the sensation. They were properly black and purple now, discoloured with blood and bruising. How far could he make it before he stumbled and fell, unable to keep up? How much ground could he realistically cover before Azog woke up and came after him, crushing everything in his wake with those long loping strides wrapped in heavy leather? How long would he have before he was caught?

And what if he was caught? Azog would see him as a threat now, not just an annoyance and a burden. He'd obviously thought Kili would have slept longer, would have thought the chain in his hand was a deterrent enough. But he had exposed a weakness. He was vulnerable, for the first time to Kili, and he had an opportunity. Azog had anticipated Kili contemplating such an attack. He lay purposefully on top of Kili's bow, the handle of his mace buried underneath him. Kili wouldn't be able to get near any weapons, not without waking him.

Kili looked down at the chain in his hands. _No weapons._ He pulled the chain taught in his hands as a new sensation flooded through him. This wasn't panic or terror. Nor was it uncertainty. The tentative, but real possibility of ending Azog's _life_ struck him, like a blow. Kili was left breathless, staring at the sleeping figure that still towered over him. Was he strong enough to do it? Could he loop it around the orc's neck, and pull it tight, cut off his air and strangle him? Did he have the nerve to try and _kill_ him?

It was the only way to properly escape, he reasoned with himself. He couldn't leave Azog asleep and run. He was too fast, and Kili too slow, weakened from hunger and thirst. He had to kill him. He had to do it. Azog slept lightly, face twitching at the sound Kili's chain made as he started to move. The dwarf froze, breathing very, very softly as he waited for Azog's face to relax. He wound one end of the chain around his hand. He would sneak up behind him, would pull it tight. He'd get Azog in shock, and if he was behind him, then Kili would remain out of his grasp. He would flail and struggle, but Kili was half-certain that he could hold on for the few minutes it would take to end Azog's life. It was his only chance. He had to do it _now,_ before they reached the Misty Mountains, before he was carried too far away from Thorin and Fili. Because although he tried to think that they would come and rescue him, _any day now_ , his hope grew weaker and weaker, the barest, slimmest thread. It wasn't enough just to survive; Kili had to break _free_ of Azog's grasp, else he would die. Too many days had slipped past. Kili knew, in his heart, that if he were going to be rescued, if Thorin and Fili were going to come for him, _it would have happened by now._ Mahal, they could have _walked_ from Beorn's house to the Carrock and back in this time. Perhaps they searched in the wrong direction. Perhaps they had travelled east. But wherever they were, they weren't here. Even if they came to save him, even if they were just over the hill, they still weren't _here._ His hopes of rescue were dying embers in the snow, threatening to blacken, to shrivel into dust. He couldn't depend on them. It was a gut-wrenching, devastating thought. _He couldn't depend on them._ Not now. They were lost, they were gone and he was alone, and he held in his hands his last, final chance of salvation. His only remaining hope.

Kili held his breath, feeling his pulse beat against he iron collar. He could do this. He wet his lips and rolled his shoulders, working up the nerve. He could do this. He _had to do this_. He crept towards Azog in silence, the chain ready. He was so tall - even as he half-lay in sleep, Kili had to stand, wincing at the pain in his feet, the chain hovering in the air, suspended by his hands in the gloom.

_Do it._

It was as though a fire had been lit in his chest. It was a shock, that stung him and shook his limbs. Just do it. The sudden pulse of courage was enough. Kili swept aside his misgivings, his fear and dread that it wouldn't work, and he would suffer worse than ever, for his attempt on Azog's life. The images in his mind, that he would be left for dead here, arms pulled from his body. He would be hanged by the neck from a branch and left to choke, his body growing stiff and cold. The mace that pierced Azog's arm would run him through and leave him with is heart outside of his body, beating on the ground. Kili pushed it all away as he steeled himself, heart thudding violently as he stood beside Azog with the chain in his hands, ready to strike. And with a short gasp of air, Kili let the chain down, resting against Azog's skin. He stirred at the motion.

And without a moment to spare, the dwarf burst into life, pulling on the chain with every fibre of his being.


	12. Severed

Azog jerked out of his sleep as the chain was pulled tight around his neck.

For a blinding moment, the orc was seized in terror. He couldn't _breat_ _he._ His good arm was frozen at his side, as his eyes widened, mouth making wordless, gaping shapes in the dim light of the hollow tree. _What was happening._ It was confusion and panic, and only when he heard a broken gasp, almost a sob, in his ear, did Azog grasp behind him, his shaking hand coming into contact with a leg wrapped in coarse animal hide. The gasping voice gave a cry, and his flagging hold around Azog tightened. A huge white hand grasped at the chain, but his fingers were too thick to hold on to it, to get his fingers underneath it and pull it away from his throat. He twisted and struggled, Kili's feet dragging as he was forced upwards. He hung on with all of his weight, his will, forcing his exhausted arms to maintain their suffocating hold. Azog reached with his good arm, touching Kili's side. He felt the dwarf cringe back from his touch. He'd been burned there, Azog remembered, with one of their knives, red-hot from the embers of the fire. So he clenched his hand into a fist, crushing it into Kili's side with all of his might. Kili's scream left Azog's ears ringing. Agony flared up his side, it left him breathless, unable to move. The chain slipped from Azog's neck, the orc falling forward onto his hand and knees, choking and gasping for air. Kili clutched his side, blood running down his chin as he tried to bite back the pain. White spots danced on the edge of his vision, and he couldn't focus on the orc. Azog turned, still gasping for air, settling his gaze on Kili. There was murder in his eyes; the bloodlust consumed him, his rage cold, overflowing. He was going to _kill_ him. He was going to tear the skin from his bones and splatter the ground with his blood. He would tear him apart, limb from limb, leave his entrails amongst the leaves and dirt. Kili crawled on his hands and knees towards the light, staggering to his bloodied feet as his face touched the sunshine, the chain trailing from his shaking fingers as he lurched forward on the grass of the outside world.

Azog's roar snapped at his heels. Kili bit back the molten pain that coursed down his side, limping in a half-jog as he wove through the trees. He had to keep moving. He had to force down the urge to collapse into the earth with screams and sobs, putting as much distance as he could between himself, and the orc that roared for his blood. He could hear Azog behind him, an animal boom of primal rage, and although he _threw_ himself headlong into the forest, it wasn't long at all before Azog caught Kili's leg, sending him tumbling to the forest floor. Kili dragged himself by his arms, kicking out as Azog dragged him closer, taking his ankles, knees, waist, pinning him into the litter of grass and leaves. In moments he had Kili pinned to the ground with a knee in the small of his back. He grabbed a handful of hair, forcing Kili's head back as far as the iron collar allowed, leaning in to whisper in his ear. They were short, ugly words that had no meaning to Kili. But the intonation of Azog's voice, the knee digging into his injured back, the murder in his eyes, they were threat enough. He was going to die. Azog forced Kili on his back, so he could see the dwarf better. Their eyes met. The adrenalin of what he had done was starting to ebb away, leaving Kili cold with terror. He _moaned_ for air, fingers grasping handfuls of grass, searching desperately for anything he could use as a weapon. He would have given anything for a stick or stone, something he could use to at least _try_ and defend himself against the monster who leered down on him. Azog's face was twisted in an ugly snarl. He had a horrible, dead look in his eyes as he stared down at the dwarf. Their twin breathing filled the otherwise silent wood, both gasping for air. Kili was going to _suffer._ Oh, Azog was sure of it. He was going to _beg_ for death, before long. Nobody could escape punishment, after such a sneaky, violent attempt on his life. He was going to start right now. He'd break the fingers, for a start, and cut a few off. Then the ankles, so he couldn't run away. Then other bits Kili wouldn't need. The ears. His tongue, that would stop the talking. He wouldn't be giving Kili back to Thorin Oakenshield. He would be giving back a broken, bloodied husk. He would show Kili the true meaning of pain. What he experienced now barely scratched the surface of what Azog could do. He breathed in deeply. The scent of fear hung thick before him. Kili lay on his back, unmoving, eyes still locked with Azog, blades of grass and leaf matter bursting between his fingers.

Blind fury consumed the orc, as he beat the quivering body beneath him into the ground. His knee in Kili's stomach, Azog struck the dwarf with his existing hand, Kili winded at the blows that rained down, blackening his ribs. He lashed out, trying to fight off the hand that beat him. Azog grasped the forearm of his left hand, Kili's eyes widening as the orc held the limb upward, his face contorted, eyes burning and narrow. Kili tried to pull free, thinking Azog was attempting to pin him. His grip tightened, Kili wincing in pain, trying to shake free. Azog's fingers dug into Kili's skin, red crescents forming as he clutched the fragile arm. Kili but his lip but didn't cry out, trying to prise open Azog's iron grip with his free hand. Azog saw the dwarf swallowing down a cry, refusing to make a noise. Trying to be strong, trying to fight back. A fresh stab of rage coursed through him, and with a snarl twisting his face, Azog squeezed. _Hard._

Kili's scream sent the few remaining nesting birds chattering into the air. Azog felt the bone break in his clenched fist, the crack beneath his skin sending a physical shudder of pleasure down the orc's spine. It was made all the sweeter by Kili's screaming in paralytic agony. He closed his eyes and listened to the sound. Kili's vision was lost in a wave of white-hot pain. This didn't ebb and flow, he couldn't bite his lip down and ride it out. This was an agonizing fire, it burned through his arm and down into his heart, consuming him. He couldn't breathe, his voice was lost in his throat, he choked on a silent cry as the air left his lungs. And with a smile, Azog tightened his grasp. Kili howled, sucking air into his lungs with a fresh ear-shattering cry, writhing in agony as the pain doubled under Azog's tight hold, pressure on the broken arm blinding him. Azog maintained his grasp, enjoying the sound of Kili's voice ringing in the air, his helpless cries of anguish so out of place in the soft light of the early afternoon. Kili was striking out, his free hand beating against Azog's chest in weak, ineffectual blows, as limp and lifeless as straw, toes curling as he fought against the agony, his bruised chest convulsing. His nails scratched against Azog's pale skin, drawing blood as he tried to counteract the pain, thrashing beneath the orc as wildly as he could. His bright eyes had misted over with pain, vision blurry and unfocused. Azog bore the weak attack without flinching, and with his fingers locked tight around Kili's broken arm, he raised the limb further in the air, keeping Kili pinned to the ground with his knee.

It wasn't often that Azog undertook such work with his own hands. Executions, especially on the battlefield, were beyond count. His name was well-earned after years of violent bloodshed, and he lost track of the lives he had ended with the sword and the mace. But acts of interrogation, of torture, they were beneath him. They were jobs relegated to lackeys, while he sat back and watched. Kings, even of orcs, didn't often get their hands dirty inside their chambers. But these weren't his chambers. There were no wheedling underlings to throw Kili to. Just the orc king and the dwarf prince, together on the grass in the latesummer afternoon. And Azog was _overjoyed._ He _wanted_ this task to fall to him. He wanted Kili to learn what it was like to truly, deeply suffer, to have his bones broken, to pass out from agony and beg for death. This wasn't a gentle beating. This was pain, real pain, and Azog would have nobody else be Kili's teacher.

Kili saw _stars._ They pricked before his blackening vision, as he took in another ragged lungful of air, only to have it burst out in another scream. Azog closed his eyes, relishing the sound. Kili couldn't do anything to counteract the molten agony that blossomed in his arm, coursing through his chest and down to his fingertips. He arched his neck, cheeks glistening in the afternoon sunlight as another broken cry ripped from his throat, choked with a gasp as the air in his lungs died, eyes dulled. Nothing could have _ever_ prepared him for this pain. It throbbed in time with his heart, doubling with every ragged beat, as Azog pushed the broken bone further. There was no question as to why he did this. Kili _deserved_ it, in his eyes. Thoroughly. He pulled upwards, the socket straining as he hung Kili up by his broken arm, holding him down.

And with the smirk growing on his face, Azog began to twist the arm.

The dam broke. A final, broken rasp of a cry tumbled from Kili's lips, an exhausted, jagged scream as an explosion of agony rocked his soul. And he was falling, as the ground crumbled beneath him, the rock was dust, he was slipping into darkness, a rushing noise in his ears rising to a roar as his vision gave out to a black nothing. Kili sank into the earth, hanging by his broken, twisted arm, his neck lolling and eyes closed as a loose pulse fluttered against the iron.

Azog guessed rightly what had happened. He let the broken limb fall from his hand, and Kili fell against the grass, mouth half-open, his face stained with dried tear-tracks and blackened, congealed blood, eyes closed. Azog released his knee, crouching over the lifeless figure with that smirk on his face. But it faded in realisation, twisting into an ugly snarl as he realised something very uncomfortable about the latest round of torture and punishment he'd inflicted on the dwarf. He screamed, of course. And he cried, yes. He didn't bear the pain with anything remotely resembling composure or courage. But-

But he never begged. Azog rose to his feet, looking down at the drawn, shadowed face that he had physically punished into unconsciousness. He no longer felt satisfied with what he had done. Instead, he felt cheated and angry. He growled, and kicked at the lifeless form, Kili's limp body rolling on the mess of grass and leaves. He knew a few words of Westron. He knew _please_ and _no_ and _stop_ and _mercy._ Those words were familiar to him. They were always on the lips of his dying victims.

But not this time. White-hot rage boiled within Azog, an uncomfortable, creeping sensation of failure snaking up his spine. _Kili didn't beg this time._

* * *

"So." Fili's strained face flinched at the sound of his uncle's voice. Thorin leaned back on his hands, trying to assume an air of ease, of composure. As though that would help. "What was it, Fili?" Fili wasn't looking at him. His blue eyes, so _dark_ , were focused on the river, watching the water course over the rocks, the sound babbling gently below them. Thorin lowered his gaze to Fili's hands, frowning. Fili was toying with the cuff of his sleeve, a loose thread. He picked at it and teased it, slowly pulling it out. Fili wasn't one to wring his hands. He was nervous. Throin shuffled a little closer to him, close enough for their knees to touch. Fili kept his resolute gaze downwards. His fingers were trembling. He wound the loose thread around and around his index, watching the skin turn purple. And still he wouldn't meet his uncle's eye. His heart thudded loudly, loud enough, he was sure, for Thorin to hear. He couldn't open his mouth, couldn't trust his voice. Couldn't bring himself to utter the truth.

Thorin waited in the silence, heaving a long sigh every few moments. He was patient. Thorin already felt as though Fili slipping away from him. That warmth, that closeness and comfort, it had died between them over the last few days. His embraces with Fili were awkward and strained. He tensed and stiffened under his uncle's touch, struggled to meet his eyes, responded only in mumbled half-sentences. He wasn't Fili anymore, not to Thorin. Something inside had been snuffed out. And it was an arrow through his crushed heart. He'd already lost Kili _,_ and as the days wore on, it became painfully obvious to Thorin that he was losing Fili too. This private audience, it was the last slim, fraying thread that dangled above Thorin. And he reached out for it in desperation. He knew that Fili would either return to the campfire as a nephew or a stranger to him, there was no in-between. And he would battle fiercely to reclaim him.

"Fili." He leaned in, his voice barely rising above the soft gushing of the brook. He touched Fili on the face, a finger under his chin, pleading with his nephew to raise his gaze. Fili complied, but it was a creaking, mechanical motion, heavy with reluctance. He faced Thorin but still couldn't stare straight at him. His eyes focused on Thorin's lips, watching them move as he spoke. "Fili, you brought me here for a reason." It was like cornering a frightened doe. Fili's blue eyes were horrible to look at, dull and lowered. But Thorin wouldn't shift his gaze, watching for the barest flicker of recognition. "You were going to tell me something." Fili's lips moved, pursing for a moment. Then they parted, Fili taking in a long breath. He still looked at Thorin's mouth, not his eyes, trying to stay the rising panic and tightness in his chest.

"I..." His voice was more of a broken sigh. Thorin lowered his hand to Fili's shoulder, waiting for his nephew to speak. Fili was reluctant, cautious. Afraid. He could see the fear in his dark blue eyes, as he teetered on the edge of utter devastation. "I have... I have to confess something." He whispered. Thorin had to lean in to hear him, as Fili spoke on the edge of his breath. He tightened the thread around his finger, closing his eyes. He opened them once more, and this time his gaze was back down at his hands. Thorin watched the purple finger in silence. "We lied."

"We?" Thorin moved still closer, their sides pressed together. The hand on Fili's shoulder began to snake around his back, and Fili let him, tense, rigid. "You and your brother." He couldn't speak the name, not if he could help it. He kept his eyes fown on Fili's hand, but felt the head nod beside him. He tightened his hold. Perhaps if Thorin squeezed hard enough, his fragile veneer would break, a glass mask that hid nothing, and he would find Fili underneath. "What did you lie about?" It seemed easier to get Fili to talk, when he wasn't looking into his eyes.

"About - when-" Fili's voice cracked, and he swallowed, taking in a breath. "About when," he repeated, with more control, "when we were children." He closed his eyes, taking the plunge. "And would get in trouble." There was a rushing in his ears. The water rose over him. "It wasn't always Kili, Thorin." He couldn't breathe. "Some of the time...  _most_ of the time..." The roar grew louder. "It was me." The grip on his shoulder tightened, quite painfully, then slackened. At his side, Thorin was silent, as though he wanted Fili to keep talking. "I would... I would plan things or do things, and Kili would just go along with me..." _Why was it so hard to speak?_ "And then if - when - we were caught, he would take the blame." He didn't feel as though some weight had lifted from him. His shoulders felt bowed over, with a terrible burden. There was no relief in his confession. Only sick fear and anxiety. He tried to shuffle away from Thorin, but his uncle held him close, refusing to let go. "He wasn't an idiot, o-or stupid, or rash or any of those things." Fili's eyes stung. "I was." He blinked rapidly, listening to Thorin breathe silently at his side, waiting for a response. To be sworn at and scolded, to be called a fool, a child. The things Thorin would call Kili. He expected it. He  _wanted_ it. So when Thorin finally spoke, it was a blow to Fili, one that struck him in the heart, and he tore away from his uncle, staring at him with his eyes wide, looking very, very dark in a white face.

"I know."

Thorin was momentarily winded at the brisk movement at his side. It hurt his injured ribs, he swallowed down the stab of pain, getting up on his knees as he watched Fili backing away on him, sitting on the grass. Thorin crouched, watching carefully as Fili's eyes grew large and wild.

"You _know?_ " His voice rose above the gurgling water, mouth plainly shaking.

"Fili, let me explain." Thorin spoke very quickly, as the thread was jerked out of his reach. "It wasn't a sudden revelation. I think I always knew." Fili's chest was heaving. _Why_ was this affecting him so much? Thorin kept his hands spread and open, a gesture of peace. "Some of the trouble you got up to, I know he wasn't the mastermind behind. But every time, you would keep quiet and he would step forward - it didn't take long for me to realise he was covering for you."

"And you just - you just _let_ him?" Fili clutched handfuls of soft grass. "You called him an _embarrassment_!" Thorin felt cold. This was new. He had never, _ever_ seen Fili angry before. Not once. Fili always kept himself calm  and respectful around his uncle. He maintained the perfect picture of decorum and composure. But the cracks had formed, ever since Kili had gone missing, and he slipped up, upending tables and sobbing. This was different still. This wasn't grief. This was aimed at _him._ "You - You made him think he was _worthless!_ "

"Now Fili, I doubt he actually thought that-"

"He did!" The tears in Fili's eyes spilled over as a sob broke from his lips. Thorin crouched wide-eyed in the grass, slowly shaking his head. The thread was still around Fili's finger. It tingled and grew numb, but nothing could be farther from his mind. "He thought he was _nothing_ , he said he was just Kili and he didn't matter!"

"Fili please-"

"Why. _Why did you do it._ " His eyes were feral. This rage, it was utterly alien to him. This wasn't Fili. This was a monster in his skin. Thorin's throat closed, as he realised what the mask hid.

"I..." Words failed Thorin. He shook his head and moved his lips, but no sound came out. What could he say? He could lay his soul bare, confess that he wanted so badly to believe that Fili was perfect, that he bought into the lie that the brothers built up over the years, at the expense of Kili's self-worth. That it grew so _easy_ to blame Kili, who accepted the punishment with humble silence, that it became second nature. That he was only going along with what Fili and Kili were doing. That if Fili had such a big problem with it, he had fifty years to confess the truth and it wasn't Thorin's fault that he'd waited until now. Weak, ineffectual words with no meaning. Drops of water on Fili's stone heart. So he bit it all back. And Thorin sat back down on the grass, shaking his head. Saying nothing. Fili stared at him, mouth open, waiting for a response as the tears dripped into his beard.

" _Say something."_ Fili's teeth were gritted, he smouldered with an inner fire. The grief and anguish exploded in a white-hot rage, one Fili couldn't control. His confession, his secret shame and humiliation he nursed for years, was no secret at all. Thorin _knew_ , he knew exactly what was going on, and he said nothing, he continued to tell Kili he was an embarrassment to his line, continued to punish him, to make him feel as though he was nothing. _Just Kili._ He was furious with Thorin. But he was angrier with himself. Angrier for going along with the lie. For hurting Kili while he was treated as though he were perfect. For pretending, for years, that he was the princely heir of Erebor, while Kili was nothing more than the naive, stupid child. And worst of all; for  _believing_ it. Thorin stared at him, wordlessly. There was nothing he could do. He had experience with this anger before. Had learned that words were meaningless, gestures brushed aside. Those dark blue eyes met his, they bore down within him, gleaming with that bitter, inward rage.

Durin, Fili looked so much like _him._

Thorin had tried to ignore it, for a long time. He used to run his fingers through those golden curls as Fili slept in his crib, genuinely hoping that his straw-coloured hair would darken, like a proper heir of Durin, rather than the blonde, so reminiscent of the Eastern dwarves from which Dis had taken a husband. But blonde it remained, trailing down his back, and more of it grew along his hardening jawline. And Thorin couldn't look at his nephew without being reminded of everything that had happened. What had been almost destroyed. He wasrelieved, when Fili started to trim his beard, a sign of solidarity with his uncle, braiding his hair differently. It helped. But now, he had returned. The banished prince of the Ironfist dwarves, declared  _Isimun Ghunum_ and struck from the hearts and minds of his people, he returned in the eyes of his son, the stiff iron jaw, the curl of his lip. And Thorin felt afraid. It stirred in his chest, memory of that dark rage. What it had done to his sister.

"I'm sorry." Thorin could say no more. It was a terrible, pathetic attempt at absolving himself. He knew how it looked to Fili. As though he didn't care. But Fili was too far gone, he had given in to his guilt and grief, it came out from him in bitter, misdirected anger. And Thorin could do nothing to fight it. He couldn't shout back and raise his fists. Fili would only strike back, would say something that would truly damage their fragmenting relationship beyond repair. All he could do is offer a paltry apology, kneeling in the grass with his hands stretched out before him. He couldn't even repeat it. It would only sound disingenuous, false and hollow, if he said it again. So he knelt wordlessly, fixing his gaze on his nephew.

Fili stood up in silence. And he turned away from Thorin, with his head held high, eyes now dry. The mask fitted back over his face, but it wavered. He jerked his hands as he rose to his feet, and the thread around his finger finally broke, falling to the ground in two severed pieces. He stuffed his shaking hands into his pockets, willing his lip to cease its infernal trembling. Thorin stared at the space in the grass where his nephew had been, listening to the thudding of his boots carry out of earshot. His shoulders sagged, head falling forward. He allowed himself a few seconds of silent peace, breathing slowly in and out, listening to the soft bubble of the nearby river, before rising from the grass, tracing Fili's footsteps. Thorin's broken heart thudded weakly in his chest, battling a horrific, sick wave of agony. Fili's eyes stared at him in his mind, the grief and anguish and rage. The anger he had never seen before. Fili came to confess his deepest shame, only to learn that Thorin had been harbouring the same lie. And rather than seek comfort from his uncle, rather than find solidarity, he pushed him aside,  _blamed_ him. This ran deeper than the botched confession. Thorin was no fool. He knew what danced on Fili's mind, what remained locked behind his shaking lips, what he would never, ever dare to say, even in the hottest fit of anger. He knew Fili blamed _him_ for Kili's death. 

Thorin knew, as he walked back to the campfire, seeing Fili pack up his things with shaking hands, bridge of his nose still wrinkled, eyes burning as he breathed in short gasps, that Fili's half-hearted tolerance of his uncle's overcompensating show of affection had dissolved completely. He wouldn't sit stiffly in one of Thorin's awkward embraces. Wouldn't submit to having his hair braided by his uncle. Wouldn't lie beside him in the night and endure Thorin's arm across his chest. He would turn away from him completely, refusing to be touched.  

Nephew or stranger. No in-between.


	13. Matchstick Bridge

The night was still, apart from the sound of violent retching.  
  
The chain slipped from Azog's fingers, banging against Kili's chest as he sank to his knees, pitching forward as the horrible lurching in his stomach leaped into his throat, mouth filling with the bitter, rancid taste of bile. The orc stepped back, letting out a frustrated growl as he watched Kili vomit in the pale moonlight for the fourth time since they'd resumed their journey in the late afternoon. Kili's stomach clenched painfully around nothing as he gagged, a mouthful of sticky, lumpy bile and raw meat spattered on the grass. Sweat trickled down his forehead as he coughed, screwing his eyes up at the awful smell rising from the ground. He propped himself up on his unbroken arm, the other curled protectively against his chest.  
  
The burning agony had faded to a dull ember in his broken limb, thudding in time with his heart, so long as he kept it still. But it hadn't been kept still over the last day and a half. It was jostled and battered and  pushed around. Like him. After breaking his arm, he gave Kili only a few minutes of sweet unconsciousness before shaking him awake. Kili awoke with a cry of confused pain, clinging to his arm as for a moment he couldn't remember what had happened. But then it rushed back to him. Trying to kill Azog, in his sleep. Being chased into the forest floor and held down while Azog delivered his just punishment. And he looked up at the pale orc, fear sickening his heart, constricting his chest and making it hard to breathe. He had doomed himself. It was a death knell, he knew. There would be no pity from the orc king, not towards the dwarf who tried to strangle him in his sleep. Kili's last, glimmering spark of courage, of hope, it died when he looked into Azog's face, gritting his teeth through the pain of his broken arm. Thorin and Fili, they left his mind completely, left him alone in darkness and despair. And with a tug on his chain, Azog hauled Kili to his feet, his stormy face turned westward, towards the looming mountains.  
  
Azog hadn't shown any fresh mercy towards his prisoner, hadn't tried to nurse his limb. But he didn't punish Kili further, either. He'd passed judgement, saw Kili's broken arm as a fit deterrent, reasoning with himself that if he did anything more to hurt the dwarf, he quite possibly wouldn't be able to survive the journey. Azog was no fool. He saw Kili was thin and frail for a dwarf, and a week of imprisonment had tarnished his soul and burned him out. Kili had tried to bind his arm in some sort of splint, but every attempt left him screaming in pain as he placed pressure on the broken bone. Azog made him walk, despite his feet; Kili had lost his carrying privileges, as far as Azog was concerned. He had to carry on, one arm cradled in the other.  
  
Then he started to get sick.  
  
They walked through the night and into the morning, Azog finally stopping to under a thick pine, sheltered from the high noon sun. Kili slept on his side for a long time, longer than he had in a week. As he was shaken awake in the sunset, though, he still felt drained and exhausted, his skin hot to the touch. He ate Azog's food with no small degree of distaste, the uncooked meat heaving and churning in his stomach. Within an hour it was out on the grass, a cold sweat breaking out on Kili's forehead. He grew very pale as the night wore on, heavy shadows ringed under his eyes despite a long sleep. He reasoned it was the food, and tried to drink a little water to keep his strength up. But that ended up in the bushes too, Kili's queasy stomach throwing everything back into his throat. He was ebbing away. Azog groaned and sighed as Kili would kneel in the grass and retch, shuddering violently, again and again. He stumbled along in a nightmare, completely sapped of his energy.  
  
Kili couldn't rise to his feet after the fourth time. He couldn't sit up. He couldn't move. His eyes were half-lidded, breath a shallow gasp. He could feel Azog's exasperated stare, heard the low growl in the orc's throat. He took in a longer breath, tried to collect his remaining strength and rise from the puddle of sick, trudging on forward in the silvered light. But his legs failed him. He simply didn't have the strength to rise to his feet. Azog paced back and forth in front of him, the growling increasing slowly in volume. Kili groaned. He couldn't move. He didn't understand _why_ he felt this way, what had happened to him. He wasn't just injured - he was sick. He was rotting, from the inside out. It must have been something he ate, some of that awful meat. Kili didn't understand that it wasn't right for one of the wounds from that awful whip to continue throbbing after so long, didn't see the nasty yellow colour creeping along the exposed flesh in the small of his back. He didn't know the meaning of the word infection, or exactly why it was so important to keep wounds clean. It was one of the many things that nobody ever told him, that slipped by the wayside.  
  
Azog prodded at Kili with his foot. Receiving nothing in response, he jabbed him in the side roughly with his boot, the dwarf curling away from the blow. He swallowed hard, trying to clear the taste of bile from his tongue. He felt dizzy, he couldn't lift his head. Azog prodded at him again, muttering something in Black Speech. Kili ignored him, shaking his head as he gasped for air. He couldn't move.  
  
"Please." Kili moaned into the grass, voice hoarse and cracked from days of disuse. "Please don't make me... I can't..." Azog's boot left his side at Kili's voice. "Please..." Kili slumped against the earth as his arm gave out, a flash of pain snaking up the broken limb as he knocked his elbow. He breathed in, the smell of dirt and vomit burning his nostrils. Sick and exhausted and in horrible pain, Kili clutched a handful of grass, eyes stinging. Azog's boot pressed tentatively at Kili's empty stomach. He got only a soft moan in response, Kili lying on his side, face pressed into the grass. With a sigh, Azog crouched down on the grass beside the trembling figure, reaching out to touch Kili on the shoulder. He was burning up. The dwarf lifted his face at the contact, his thin face glistening in the moonlight from sweat and tears.  
  
"Help me..." His voice was the barest whisper. Azog watched him in silence. "Please help me Azog I can't..." Kili's good hand clutched at his stomach. "Please... Please understand me. Help. _Help_ me." He was whispering through soft, broken sobs, vision blurred with tears and a creeping darkness. "Please..." He shook his head, his useless pitiful pleading for an ounce of compassion falling on deaf, heartless ears. Humiliation left Kili's pale face reddening in the moonlight. This was the creature who killed his great-grandfather, his grandfather, and uncle Frerin too. Who swore blood on him and his kin. And Kili lay at his feet, begging for _help._ Fili would have closed his mouth, would have stood up and soldiered on. Thorin would have given his last breath in ensuring that the orc was killed. But Kili, huddled over on the ground, he pleaded for mercy. He was a disgrace to the name of Durin and he knew it.  
  
Azog remained still, mind ticking over. He didn't know what _help_ meant. But he knew _please_ and that was enough to gauge that Kili was begging to be cared for. Kili's dark eyes were fixed on him, trembling mouth forming wordless shapes as his voice died in his throat. Kili groaned, curling over as another wave of nausea attacked his stomach. But he had nothing left inside him, nothing to heave onto the grass, and it passed in a few minutes, Azog still crouched on the ground beside Kili, watching him. His hair was damp from the sweat, plastered across his face. But the gleam of his eyes shone through the curtain of dark tangles, towards Azog. Still pleading. Wordlessly, the orc slid his arm under Kili's back, helping him to sit up. Kili pushed the hair out of his face, wiping at his mouth as Azog opened the pack, sifting around. But while there was still a little food and drink, a crude salve, there was nothing that could alleviate a stomach-sickness. He eyed Kili, sitting with his head bowed, breathing shallow and ragged as he held his broken arm, realising with a grunt there was only one thing he could do.  
  
Azog took the uninjured limb, threading it through the strap of the pack. The other he did carefully, Kili biting back a cry. He didn't understand what Azog was doing. Why was he wearing the bag? Kili swallowed as the weight settled on his back. Azog took his arm, pulling him to his feet. No. They weren't going to simply continue walking. They couldn't. He couldn't. Kili forced down a sob of exhausted frustration. He expected Azog to take the chain, to pull him away and force him to resume the march. But Azog, he knelt down on the grass in front of Kili, looking over his shoulder at the dwarf and giving him a quick jerk of the head. Kili's throat closed, he shook his head slowly, refusing to believe it. Azog jerked his head again, a snarl wrinkling his nose as he knelt in the grass. Kili approached the orc slowly, winding his good arm across Azog's collarbone. It was so warm against his neck. Frighteningly warm, for the cool night. He slipped the mace under Kili's leg, hooking the dwarf close as he grasped the other leg. Kili's forehead leaned downwards, resting the sweaty skin against the back of Azog's neck. The orc rose to his feet, readjusting the burden against his back. He could feel Kili's breath on his skin, tangled brown hair falling over his shoulders. Kili clung to him like a child, his good arm wrapped around his collarbone and squeezing his shoulder. His head swam and stomach lurched in the moonlight.  
  
And with his face turned to the west, Azog resumed his march upon the mountain.

* * *

"Your Greatness."  
  
There was no hall to greet Azog the Defiler. No great chamber to receive the most brutal of orc kings. They stood, suspended on their wooden platform hovering over the darkness. The throne before them sat empty. Two goblins stood on either side, necks inclined in a bow of deep respect, one that was replicated across throughout the cavern. Only Kili and Azog stood erect, watching. Kili wavered on his feet, unable to shake the memories of his previous encounter deep within this mountain. He kept his gaze lowered, without appearing suspiciously avoidant. He dreaded being recognised, but it seemed inevitable. How many dwarves could there possibly be, travelling between the Misty Mountains and Mirkwood? Who, except that of the company of Thorin Oakenshield, could get this sort of attention from Azog himself? There was nobody else Kili could be.  
  
But that was who they were, he remembered the sarcastic bow of the Goblin King, the mocking laughter. Nobody. He closed his eyes, curling his toes into the wood as one of the orcs beside the throne started to speak. Long, drawling words in the Black Speech. He knew the wheedling tone, the forced grace and appreciation. He'd heard it before, by Thorin. Not _for_ him. _By_ him. Thankfully the lords of Men blindly embraced such flattery, when even Kili, clinging to the edge of his uncle's cloak, could hear the thinly veiled contempt.  
  
"Our facilities are open to you, O Azog the Defiler." Even Azog himself had to refrain from rolling his eyes at the exaggerated tone. "I am Baduz. Anything you require is open to you and your..." Pale yellow eyes fell on to Kili as lips curled in a snarl. A snarl of familiarity. He knew that beardless face. He was one of the goblins who dressed down the dwarf clan, narrowly escaping with life and limb after Gandalf's theatrics. Oh yes, he knew that face. "Guest."  
  
"Prisoner." Azog corrected the goblin, giving Kili a short jerk on the chain, downwards. _Bow you idiot._ Kili stood, dumb and deaf to the foreign exchange. Azog growled, delivering a rather swift kick to the back of Kili's legs. He buckled forward onto his knees with a short cry, the mocking laughter from the goblins bouncing from black stone, rising into the impenetrable darkness. Kili bent his head downwards, painfully aware of the many eyes that fell on him. The wood felt as frail as matchsticks beneath his feet, on the verge of breaking, leaving him to fall into the cavernous black below. Perhaps it would be better if it did. Kili kept his eyes closed, head bowed as the talking rose around him. He tried to be small, ignored. But he knew it was impossible. He knew they were all interested in him. They knew who he was, and they weren't going to simply let Kili go without their share of retribution, surely.  
  
Azog had the same nasty, sneaking suspicion. He couldn't trust these goblins, not while he had something so precious to them. It was respect of Azog that kept Kili alive so far. He had to tread carefully, had to make sure Kili remained in his sight at all times, lest they try to carry him off into their dark pits of torture and execution. It was the precarious time between kings, where the goblins jostled and shunted each other about for power, scrabbling over popular opinion and control of their ragged armed forces. Azog had been, had done, the same thing. Only before dozens of orc-heads stood pierced upon sharp pikes, was his own bid for power complete. His own line needed forging, and that could only be done by destroying countless others. His name was earned in blood, his respect through violence, rather than lineage. And he knew the four goblins before him had the same ambitions.  
  
"But surely you require food and rest." The awful schmoozing grew in tone. "Our finest rooms are prepared for your Malevolence," that wasn't saying much, "and anything else you require shall be readied for you."  
  
"I need an army." Azog didn't pull punches. He wasn't going to dance around with an upstart  like this. He saw Baduz pause, jerk upwards with widening eyes. He obviously wasn't expecting _that._ "With your finest wargs. And enough supplies to last for the better part of a year." He hoped it wouldn't take that long, he really did. He was just hedging his bets. He smiled inwardly, at the look on the stupid goblin's face as he struggled to digest this information.  
  
"We shall negotiate such conditions after dinner." The fool tried to be delicate. Azog let out an audible growl. He did not negotiate with the likes of this rabble. "Meanwhile, let us take charge of your prisoner. We have an excellent healer-"  
  
"No." Azog cut him off, tightening his hand on the chain. Kili looked up, feeling the orc king's grasp on him tense. "The dwarf stays with me."  
  
"With all due respect, O Azog the Defiler," and Kili's eyes met that of Baduz for a moment. "I don't believe you quite understand the situation of your prisoner." Was that jealousy in his tone? Kili looked back down, wishing more than anything that he could understand just a single word of their awful native tongue. "It's clear to me, to all of us, that he is quite close to death. Surely, if you want him to survive-"  
  
"That is exactly what I wish for, Baduz." Oh, it was hard to keep his language clean and respectful. He wanted to throttle this greedy fool. There was something very deliberate, in the way he had been shown to this large open area, rather than the private quarters of the former kings. Now he knew why. He wanted this to be public. "Which is why he shall remain with me."  
  
"I assure your Malevolence that we shall not harm him in any way." His voice oozed honey. "He is yours, and we shall treat him as such." But Azog still eyed him with deep mistrust. "As I said before, we have an excellent healer, from the forges of Isengard. He will care for your dwarf with the utmost skill. Within a day, it shall be as if he was never wounded." Azog couldn't hold the snort of derision at that. He highly doubted any healer was as good as that, even amongst the cursed elves. "I give you my word as loyal servant to our dear departed King, I shall personally account for his safety." His speech finished, Baduz stood before Azog, having asserted himself as the most eminent of the four that thronged the empty goblin throne. Azog looked down at the kneeling figure, remembering the painfully long trek through the woods, the vomiting and shaking. The beating and burning, the sickness, the broken arm. Even he was ready to admit that he had pushed things too far. Enough damage was done, and he knew, looking down at Kili, that if he didn't receive any care, proper care, he would grow thinner and sicker and paler, until his weakening heart finally stopped beating. Azog's blood was boiling, but he kept his face impassive.  
  
"And I shall personally hold you responsible for it." There was a considerable threat in those words. The pull of the neck made Kili start. He stumbled to his feet, watching with slowly widening eyes as Azog held his chain out to Baduz, eyes molten fire. No. Kili watched the goblin step forward, taking the chain in his grew fist. Those pale yellow eyes stared down at him, a smile Kili didn't like flickering on his lips.  
  
"Excellent." He shifted his gaze back to Azog, reassuming the mask of false respect. Azog gave him a short, single nod. "Grimuz will direct you to your room. I shall personally see that this dwarf gets the best care we have to offer." Within reason, of course. Grimuz stepped forward, flanked by his own lackeys, and Baduz retreated backwards, grasping Kili's chain in his clawed talons. "Get moving, scum." He snarled in Westron, making sure to speak low in Kili's ear. Kili swallowed, voice stuck in his throat. He cast one look back at Azog, guided away from him, shining in the firelight. There was fear, genuine _fear_ at being separated from the pale orc. What was wrong with him? Kili held the bad arm in the good, biting his lip as he was jostled away from the throne, along a rickety bridge towards the glimmering hub of Goblin-town. At least with Azog, Kili knew where he stood for the most part. But these goblins, he didn't know their names. He didn't know what they wanted. All he knew was that they ached for his blood. He remembered the kicks and punches of that first rabble of goblins, the ones that caught him asleep, a lifetime ago. How they screamed and howled when they realised his true identity. This was the same violence and anger, multiplied beyond count. Kili couldn't stop shaking, couldn't force down a whimper as the wooden bridge pitched and swayed beneath him. He didn't know he was being taken to a healer. Kili envisoned some sort of prison, a holding cell in the darkness, to wait cold and alone while Azog dined in orcish opulence. He cast one final look backwards, but he couldn't see Azog amongst the crowd of writhing bodies and lanterns. Baduz thumped him on the arm, the broken arm, earning a scream from the dwarf. "I said _move_." He shoved his shoulder, Kili staggering as he tried to ride out the crackling flames of pain that licked at his arm. The goblin laughed beside him, his voice cold. Kili would find no kindness beneath this mountain. He screwed up his eyes and tried to stem the bubbling wave of panic that reared in his throat, as he was pushed along the tiny boardwalk, clinging to the sheer cliff face.  
  
"Hold still."  
  
Nazarg lifted the poultice from the grey limb stretched out before him, giving an exploratory prod. The little goblin on the edge of the stool gave a whimper at that, lamp-like eyes settling reproachfully on the orc healer. Nazarg ignored the stare, holding the boil closer to the his glass lantern, giving it a quick sniff. Not yet. Another day, and it would be ready to lance. He stood up, crossing the small cave to his lopsided little shelf. He didn't have much - the last few days were hellish, treating amputated limbs, stab wounds, slashed flesh. But he found a bit of fresh cloth big enough to bind the goblin's little arm. Those big eyes watched him carefully. "Have you been applying the Witch's Hazel?" He received a silent nod. "Good." He better, that was the last of Nazarg's supply. He wouldn't get more, unless they happened upon an unfortunate prisoner with a stash of medicines. "Off with you then. Come back tomorrow." The goblin jumped to the ground and ran off, screeching.  
  
With a shake of his head, Nazarg crouched down before the little brazier in the corner, holding his hands up to the cheery warmth. He closed his eyes, warming his fingers. His head ached with tiredness. He'd barely slept in the past week. Astonishing, how thirteen dwarves (and one wizard) could cause so much damage. Although the worst of it was over, he no longer received flickering corpses, more dead than alive, he still had the aftermath. Bandages needed changing. Stumps of limbs checked, and sometimes re-sealed with red-hot iron. His wargs worked around the clock, lapping at broken skin. And they still had to be fed. And although he had a handful of half-witted goblins who carried out his orders, he couldn't trust them to follow precise instructions, so the heavy work fell largely to him. His own quarters were overflowing - he had to commandeer a nearby hall, connected with a bell on a long piece of string for emergencies. The last few hours, at least, had been quiet. But he would have to make a routine check soon.  
  
"Nazarg!" With a short sigh, the orc healer opened his eyes. He turned to regard the rough voice that sounded from the mouth of his cave. Baduz, one of the dead king's close underlings, jostling about in the current vacuum of power. No doubt he simply came to throw his weight around, to poke at Nazarg's things and see if there were any good painkillers worth taking. Grimuz had tried before; Nazarg's opiates and potions were famous for inducing a hallucinogenic sleep, and he had to keep them well hidden. Even Nazarg was tempted, from time to time, to take a drug-induced respite. But Baduz was not here to paw through the healer's things. There were four orcs underneath his lopsided shanty-town doorway. Four and a dwarf. Nazarg froze. The little creature stood between two of Baduz's lackeys, the chain wound in an goblin hand. He wavered on his feet, looking down at the floor, holding his left arm very gingerly with his right. "We have a new charge for you." He clapped the dwarf on the shoulder, pushing him forward. Nazarg watched him take a single stumbling step, hair over his face. _Why was there a dwarf in his cave?_ "Surely you have heard the return of Azog the Defiler."  
  
"The streets were full of it." Baduz beckoned for the healer to come closer and Nazarg complied. "He came alone, I was told. His company was destroyed." Nobody said who - or what - had done it. But he heard rumours.  
  
"Not alone." Baduz took the chain, pressing it into Nazarg's hand. Kili's eyes flickered at this latest exchange, the foreign words doing nothing to stem his fear. "He had this with him." He cast the dwarf a snarl. Nazarg looked at him, holding his arm. He shook violently, seemingly on the verge of a total collapse. "Fix him up. They ride tomorrow." His personal feelings aside, Baduz was a goblin of his word. And he swore that Azog's imprisoned dwarf would be cared for. He had little interest in this broken-down creature. There was no fight left in him, he would not make a good spectacle, with the fun already wrung out. Baduz had another condition, one that only worked if he seemed to have Azog's trust and respect. Respect earned by following his word.  
  
"Tomorrow?"  The orc healer looked him up and down, sizing the dwarf up. Malnourished, obviously. Probably hadn't had a drop of water in days, either. Something was obviously very wrong with his arm, there was a nasty cut on his face, his feet were ruined, he looked sick, and the blood on his clothes were clearly not that of an orc. "Not tomorrow."  
  
"Tomorrow Nazarg." His job done, Baduz turned away from the cave. He hated the idea of leaving Azog along with that stupid idiot Grimuz, and ached to return. Before collecting a certain piece of incriminating evidence that would quite cleanly twist Azog's arm, of course. "Or you can tell Azog himself." There was a growl in his voice at that.  
  
"But - no - wait!" The chain slipped from Nazarg's fingers, he ran to catch up with the commander. Kili stood alone in the cave, heart pounding. But he didn't dare to move. "Who is he?" He gestured back to his cave. "Is he one of the thirteen?" He didn't dare utter Thorin Oakenshield's name aloud. It was enough to send the streets into a frenzy. The blood was still warm, their burning rage fresh.  
  
"Tomorrow Nazarg!" He only got a repetitive shout. A growl of exhausted frustration sounding from his throat, Nazarg turned back to his cave. So long for sleep, he sighed as he returned to his dim little cave. The dwarf hadn't moved. Nazarg stood in the lopsided doorway for a long moment, shaking his head.  
  
"You understand me?" He spoke in Westron, watching as the dwarf turned to look at him, nodding in silence. Kili's sick stomach loosened. This wasn't the cold, bitter anger the goblin who previously held him by the neck. This goblin was different. In fact, he didn't look like a proper, grey goblin of the Misty Mountains at all. He looked to be something different entirely. "Good." Nazarg crossed the room slowly, deep in thought. The orc healer raised his eyes to the row of precious salves and potions. He had barely anything left, and he would far sooner use it on one of his own race, rather than a dwarf prisoner. Even under the command of Azog. "Take a seat on the stool in the corner." He ran a long finger over the tiny collection, turning to see the dwarf staring up at him with glassy eyes. Kili was finally starting to cotton on to this. This was the dim quarters of a healer, not the dark prison he imagined. Kili let out a long breath, but refused to let his guard down, refused to allow himself to feel relief. He could never feet at ease, within these dark caves. The orc healer frowned at him. He needed a name. Nazarg hated dealing with blank faces. Even though it ended with death - especially in the last few days - he made it a point to always ask a name of his patients. "What do they call you?"  
  
"Kili." Such a soft voice. It surprised Nazarg. He expected something a little stronger, coming from a dwarf. Normally, they were such hardy creatures. He looked over at Kili, watching him lower his dark gaze.  
  
"So Kili, what's with the arm? Sprained? Dislocated?"  
  
"Broken." Empty-handed, not wanting to spare his precious salves, Nazarg crouched down in front of him. He pressed his hand against the dwarf's forehead, wincing at the touch. He was burning hot. But first things first, Nazarg knew the arm would be giving him hell, and it needed some sort of fixing.  
  
"Let me see." He took the arm carefully by the wrist, running his finger along the inside of the limb. He felt the little creature tense, biting back an audible cry of pain. "Move your fingers." He watched the slim digits curl and flex. That was something, at least. "How long ago was this?" He pressed down on the base of his pale wrist.  
  
"T-Two days." Kili's voice was a high stutter, punctuated by a gasp.  
  
"How did it happen?" Nazarg's fingers pressed down several inches from his wrist. He received a moan for that. His hand traveled northwards, feeling for the break in the bone. Kili remained silent, not looking at him. "Hey." He put a finger under the sharp little chin, covered with only a whisper of hair. A pair of very dark eyes were staring at him. His throat bobbed against the collar. "Kili, how did it happen?"  
  
"I tried to kill him." He whimpered as Nazarg tested the bone, inching closer to the break. The orc paused, raising an eyebrow. "Azog. I-I tried to kill him." His voice was so weak. He was tentative, unsure of his own words. How long had it been since he held a conversation with somebody? How long had he been imprisoned? Nazarg had often dealt with prisoners before, especially in his old home of Isengard. Had watched the suffering give way to madness, as loneliness and pain smothered the life from their souls, leaving them hollow in the darkness. Nazarg looked back into Kili's eyes. If he was one of the dwarves who raided Goblin-town, he'd had a bad time indeed, for this damage to be done in little under a week. It was the broken gaze of someone whose hope had died. The despair would drive him to madness or suicide, in time, if he were allowed to live. And Nazarg suspected the latter, watching as the dark eyes lowered back down to his arm.  
  
"And he saw fit to break your arm as a deterrent." He pressed two fingers down on the mid-point, and the cry couldn't be restrained. Nazarg felt the bone beneath the skin, biting his lip. "What did he do, twist it?"  
  
"Y-Yes." He panted, in obvious pain. Nazarg gave a slow nod, giving his elbow just the slightest touch. "P-Please stop that." He burst out. Nazarg looked the dwarf in the face. His eyes were wet. "Please." Forced respect crept into that thin little voice, and something within Nazarg clenched. He wasn't completely heartless, not like most of his people. He had quite a reasonable degree of compassion, especially for an orc. As a healer, he supposed that he had to.  
  
"I've got an idea of what's happened." Nazarg rose to his feet. "You're very lucky to have the use of your hand. The bone - it cracked along here." He indicated on his own arm. "Under pressure. He squeezed down on it until it broke, am I right?" The dwarf nodded. "Thought so. Then when he twisted it, the bone was dislodged." Just barely. But it was enough. "Did it make you pass out? The twisting I mean." Another nod. Nazarg turned to a warped chest leaning against the wall. The hinge creaked. It was very old, covered in the geometric designs of dwarvish tradition. "It will be some months before you have complete use of your arm." Both of them were silent for several moments. Neither knew if Kili had that long left to live. Nazarg pushed aside the dirty rags of old cloth and blankets, running his fingers over the smooth false bottom. "A cast will help immensely, if Azog can spare the cost of the iron." He pressed down into the tiny secret compartment, working by touch and feel in the dim light. He ran his fingers over the various jars, knowing them by shape. "Have you been throwing up?"  
  
"Yes." Nazarg strained to hear his voice. He made a face. So the mushrooms would be a waste of time, then. He lifted one of the tiniest jars, giving it a shake. His poppy tears were reserved for the very worst cases, the ones where he had to amputate limbs and cut people open. It wasn't often he was forced to use it on setting a broken limb. But there was more than that. The dwarf looked very ill, and Nazarg had a nasty suspicion that there was more damage, yet to be discovered. So he pulled out the jar.  
  
"Do you smoke?" He got a nod in reply. Nazarg took the jar to the table, getting his knife. "I'm going to give you some poppy tears. It's best if you smoke it, especially if you can't stomach anything at the moment. Have you had any before?" He looked over, watching Kili shake his head. "What about hashish?"  
  
"Once." He admitted, looking down at his hands. It was Fili who managed to procure it, when they were in their thirties. They sneaked down to the lake and smoked it in the moonlight, spending the rest of the night watching the silver lake ebb and flow, unable to hold in their laughter. They came home at dawn reeking of the stuff, neither of them able to entirely escape blame, although Kil claimed responsibility. As he always did."It was... It was different." Nazarg smiled to himself. That it certainly was. He had to be careful then, only give him a small amount or else he would have a very drugged-out patient on his hands. Kili watched as Nazarg crouched down in front of him, holding out a very slender pipe of a sand-coloured wood.  
  
"Be careful with this." Nazarg warned "It's from the East." Kili nodded, accepting it with his good hand. In any other situation, he would have turned away. But the sickness and pain left him desperate for an escape. Something. Anything. "Hold it in your lungs for as long as possible, and breathe out slowly."  
  
"I know how to smoke." There was a twist in Kili's lips as he spoke, despite himself. Even if it was only mild tobacco. The orc only sighed.  
  
"Not this stuff you don't." Nazarg muttered darkly as he struck a small flame with his tinder and flint. "Don't say I didn't warn you." Kili held the pipe to his lips, closing his eyes as he breathed in deeply. "You won't feel anything for a couple of minutes, easy," Kili was already taking another drag. "You won't feel anything right away, but you'll get it like a kick in the head before long." He watched as Kili took the pipe between his lips a third time. "All right, that's enough." Nazarg snatched it away, shaking his head as he snuffed out the smoking embers of sticky resin with a wet finger. Kili remained silent on the stool, watching as the orc returned to his table, cleaning out the exotic pipe with his tongue between his teeth. There wasn't enough worth saving - he only wasted a tiny amount on the injured dwarf, judging from his small size and relatively clean history that it would only take a tiny amount to knock him out. But it went into the fire all the same. It wasn't worth keeping around. The fewer who knew he carried poppy tears, the better. As Nazarg replaced the cleaned pipe into its space on the shelf, he heard a shuffling thump. The orc turned to see Kili lying on his back, face turned up to the ceiling.  
  
"Told you." He sighed, replacing the blankets and rags, lowering the chest. Kili lay with his eyes open, watching the flickering shapes of firelight in the darkness. Sometimes they lost their heads and went very silly with laughter, cackling until the tears ran down their cheeks. But Kili was obviously one of the quiet ones, experiencing his hallucinations in silence, letting himself float away. He started whispering to himself in a language Nazarg didn't know, looking upwards at something invisible. Kili was disconnected, in a haze. But there were a pair of dark blue eyes looking down on him. Trailing golden braids. He longed to touch them. _Please Fili where are you going don't leave me._ Nazarg sat on his chest with arms crossed, watching as Kili reached upwards, trying to grab something that hovered only inches from his fingertips. Something only he could see. Or perhaps it was somebody. Somebody he was trying to talk to, in the language incomprehensible to Nazarg. He waited several more minutes, until Kili sank completely into his haze, before crouching down before the dwarf, black fingers working on the wide belt clasped around Kili's waist. He shook his head at the sight which befell him, the slow-healing burns that covered Kii's skin. Careful of the broken arm, Nazarg turned the dwarf onto his side, checking the back. He couldn't suppress the groan that rose up in his throat as he examined Kili's torn skin. It had been _shredded,_ with what must have been a very nasty rawhide whip. He touched the deepest-looking mark, the one in the small of his back, wincing. It was obviously infected, and had been for some days. The source of his sickness identified, Nazarg let Kili roll onto his back, his pupils large holes in his eyes as he looked unseeingly up at the ceiling.  
  
"What did you do." Nazarg murmured, looking deep in thought. There was little doubt in his mind that this dwarf was one of the thirteen which had partially destroyed Goblin-town, killing their leader. But what that had to do with Azog, Nazarg didn't know. He knew, like most orcs, of the blood feud between the pale orc and the line of Durin. Kili must have had something to do with it, somehow. But this was no dwarvish warrior, no great royal figure. This was a young scrap of a dwarrow, beardless and unbraided. He listened for some time to the loose murmuring in some dwarvish language, watching as Kili tried once more to reach out into the dim, flickering firelight.  
  
Hang it. Pity got the better of Nazarg as he returned to his row of jars. Pity, and a pragmatic acceptance. Better to waste his dwindling supplies on a foreign prisoner and appease Azog, rather than save them and risk having the dwarf slip away.  
  
After all, he could heal nobody if they killed him for disobedience.


	14. Into Darkness

He couldn't stand being watched.

They tried to be nondescript, tried to keep their heads bowed in respect, but Azog could still see the goblins, on his periphery. The gleam of their narrowed eyes, the twitching of fingers. They were waiting for something. Their self-appointed leader possibly. At least, one of the two that had jostled for Azog's attention before the empty throne. Probably the one that took Kili away. A feast of roasted hog all to himself, a night wrapped in thick furs before a roaring fire, and Azog felt better than he had in weeks. It was an obvious ploy, to leave him feeling slow and fat and stupid from food and wine and sleep, but Azog felt sharp and fresh. His fingers dug into the side of cold ham, seizing a strip of the meat. He wondered what kind of night Kili had. Did they treat him to cooked meat and a bed of warm furs, or did he feast on gruel, sleeping on the naked ground? Azog couldn't find anybody to ask him. They avoided him, left him in the care of stupid underlings who catered to every whim of his, yet gave him only blank stares when he asked about Kili. He wanted to storm the halls and shout until they came forward with the dwarf, but Azog kept quiet, knowing a ruckus would only damage his cause. So he pretended to be drunk, slurring to himself as he downed wine, eating sloppily. He gave off the air that he was dull and foolish from their food and drink. Only then, would their leaders come forward and admit to what they had done.

His jaw tightened on the haunch of meat between his teeth, fingers falling lax. He was still in two minds about letting Kili be led away. Was he a fool to let the dwarf go? Should he have kept him close, accompanied him to the healer perhaps? Or demand that this great doctor be brought to the hall? He didn't like being separated from Kili. It didn't sit well with him, having the dwarf out of his sight. Azog had his own plans, for what he would do with him in time, and he would not have them ruined by bloodthirsty goblins out for their own revenge. He swallowed, reaching for the goblet of wine, thick and rich and sweet as blood. In fact he suspected it _was_ blood, at least in part. Azog arched his neck, letting it flow sweet and heavy down his throat. Just a trickle, but he made loud, slurping sounds, reaching for the pitcher and pouring himself a fresh cup, making sure to slosh the red liquid over the table, before rising the goblet back to his lips.

But did he have much of a choice? Kili couldn't stay with him. Not without raising eyebrows. There was a place for prisoners within these halls. It was not at the side of the visiting king. It was locked away, beneath impenetrable stone, under the flickering light of dying lanterns. To have Kili sitting beside him at this stone table, even standing in the corner of the room, would arouse suspicion. They would assume Azog was showing favour, or worse, mercy. It would be an insult to the hospitality shown to him. Azog knew the customs. He knew it was odd enough that he appeared alone at the back door with a single dwarf, the rest of his company slaughtered. Why did he rescue the prisoner and not his own retinue? Why did he show such preference? He knew the questions hovered unanswered, knew the truth would doom Kili. The less they knew, the better. If they got a whiff of Kili's royal blood, even Azog would not be able to save him from the mob. They would wreak their bloody justice in defiance of Azog. A king for a king.

Or king's heir.

"I do hope our humble feast is pleasing to your Greatness." Azog glared at the goblin over the edge of his goblet. It was pure gold, stamped with the interlocking diamonds of dwarves. Such a pretty trinket, plundered from the depths of these halls. Azog himself hated using such things in his own home. He had it melted down, used plates and cups of bronze and tin, turning the gold and silver into decorative objects of wealth and luxury. Crudely hewn, yes, but precious nonetheless. Gold, Azog felt, was wasted as a simple goblet.

"Very much so." He set down the vessel, watching the almost imperceptible nod of Baduz's head. The rest began to file out of the hall. Azog's jaw was set, watching as he was soon left alone with the two goblins locked in battle over the throne, uniting for this shadowy confrontation. "What is it you want." He leaned forward and hissed, as soon as the three were left alone. All pretence dropped, Azog narrowed his eyes, watching the pair of goblins. They were taken aback, they didn't expect this. They thought they would be toying with a drunk. But Azog was as sharp as steel. "I've named by demands. Meet them."

"And I said they would only be met with certain conditions." Baduz gave his companion a sidelong look, his cool visage faltering. The table itself was set for one, facing crossways in the room with a single chair behind it. Grimuz began to push the plates away, making space in the middle of the stone table for their negotiations. Azog watched silently as the two goblins stood facing him. He remained seated, still the taller, leaning forward a little with a very ugly snarl fixed on his face. Baduz reached at his side, extracting from under his arm a thick book of soft brown leather. "This was left behind from the raid upon our home." It was roughly twice size of Azog's hand, held closed with a knotted cord. The leather covering was entirely plain, rare for a book. "One of the many things the dwarves abandoned." They'd taken their weapons only, forgetting their packs and bedding and precious possessions in favour of their lives. Azog watched as Baduz slipped the cord free. "We didn't think much of it at first, just a book. However, it was Grimuz here who got curious."

"Out with it." Azog growled, his patience wearing thin. He was growing with an uncomfortable certainty that something very unpleasant was about to be shown to him. "Hurry up."

"As you wish." His yellow eyes glittering, Baduz slid the book across the table for Azog to open. The orc king grabbed it with no pretence, tearing into the first page. He paused, smooth forehead knitting in a frown.

"Drawings." He looked down. Is this all Baduz wanted him to see? Was this supposed to be some sort of blackmail? They would have to do better than _that,_ to make Azog give in to any sort of concession. "What of it?"

"Keep looking." Grimuz interjected, lip twitching. Azog raised his gaze to the goblin, watching his expression. He looked almost gleeful. His eyes lowered down to the thick yellow pages. He started leafing through them. Dwarves. He paused at the first drawing. It was a sketch of a greybeard, eyes bent down on a sock. Azog turned. Another, of one toasting a piece of sausage-meat. He flicked through several more, before coming across a sketch that widened his eyes.

Kili.

He was cleaning his pipe, eyes down at his work. But the unbraided mop of tangled hair, the whisper of dark stubble, the hands, it was obviously him. Azog resumed his stoic, slightly annoyed expression, turning the page as though he had seen nothing unusual. But the other two goblins saw him pause. And they shared a malicious glance, knowing they had him. The next was of a blonde dwarf, polishing his sword. He passed through several more, inwardly noting one of Thorin Oakenshield, before coming across another Kili. He was testing his arrowheads, hair pushed back out of his face as he held the flakes of metal into the light. Another of a very fat dwarf with a bowl of soup. Kili _again_ , this time toying with his knife. One half-finished, of a disembodied pair of hands, toying with a meticulously drawn mechanical bird. They were all in varying stages of completion, some rough sketches, others finished compositions, with shading and modelling. All of the drawings involved the dwarves at some sort of work. The culprit clearly had a fondness for drawing his subjects deep in their own thoughts and acts, not looking at him. At the fourth drawing of Kili, Azog curled his toes within his heavy boots, realising where this was going. Kili, Kili, Kili. He began to dominate the book. Every third drawing was of him, then every second. Azog froze, quite obviously, as he turned the page, revealing an almost complete drawing of Kili and the light-haired dwarf. The blonde sat cross-legged and barefoot, his tunic unbound down his chest, detailing a tiny circular pendant on a leather cord. Kili was on his knees behind him, similarly dressed, his hands in the blonde dwarf's hair. He was braiding it. Azog stared down at the drawing, quite aware of a tightening in his chest.  _Who was the blonde?_

"As you can tell," Baduz's voice broke through Azog's thoughts. He looked up at the goblin pair, eyes smouldering. "One of the dwarf-scum is quite the artist." Azog stared at them, silent. "Clearly, he had a favourite subject." That was putting it lightly. The artist was _obsessed._ "One who happens to be resting in the care of our healer."

"So you have proof." Azog spoke slowly and evenly, leaning back in his chair. "As though your people aren't stupid enough to realise. Or do they assume it's normal for a dwarf to wander about their lands?"

"Come on Azog, we both know they can't tell dwarves apart. And if it's your word against ours, they'll listen to you first." It was true, his name held more sway than these two upstarts, the unknowns. It was either an appeal to his vanity, or practical realism. Or both. There was a very ugly expression on Azog's face. "But if we held this alongside your prisoner, they will see who you're really holding. You won't be able to save him."

"So you want to throw _my_ prisoner to the wargs." His blood was boiling. Azog should have seen something like this coming, from a mile off. But he didn't think they would have any sort of concrete proof. What sort of idiot carried around such a large book of sketches? _And who was the blonde having his hair braided by Kili?_

"Not him." Grimuz began speaking. "That scrap? There's no fun in killing somebody who is already dead inside, Azog. You got there first." He didn't take the compliment. It wasn't there to be taken. "But he's not the only one, is he? Twelve more wander in the wild. And you're only interested in one of them." Two minutes ago, Azog would have agreed. But his gaze flicked down to the page, hand clenching. The blonde wore what looked like the exact same necklace as Kili, the one Azog had tucked away in his belt. They had the same nose. They were obviously very close. His stomach felt tight and uncomfortable, filling with the growing realisation that he'd been fooled.

"We will give you your army." Azog looked up to Baduz. "And your wargs, and your supplies too. Everything you wanted, and more."

"And in return?" Azog challenged. The two shared another sidelong look, between them. "Hurry up and name your price."

"The other eleven." Baduz stated. "We want _them._ Your claim is to Thorin Oakenshield alone. You take your prize, and give the rest over to us."

"I'm not a delivery service." The pale orc snarled, rising to his feet. "I want _all_ of them. I want their blood to spatter the ground and run the rivers red. Nothing less." He received twin level stares in response. "If there is one thing Thorin Oakenshield cares for, aside from his dragon-gold, it is the company of dwarf-scum he keeps. I have seen it. They will all die before him, they will all _suffer_ before him."

"You're being greedy." Grimuz snarled. "You are not the only one to seek vengeance Azog. Thousands of goblins cry beneath the stone for dwarf-blood. The death of their king goes unpunished, and they will not stand for it. Only once justice is served, can our people rise forth and reclaim their strength." He took the book, flicking to the next page. Kili lay sleeping, his face turned towards the viewer. His face was so plainly detailed, eyes closed and lips partly open. Azog's cheek twitched. "There's no mistake to be made here Azog. The dwarf-scum you keep is the same in this picture. Even a blind night-worm can see it. We get the other eleven, or we leave him to be torn apart by the masses, and you walk away with nothing."

"Don't try to negotiate with _me_ , you fools." Azog's mace thumped down on the table. "You cannot begin to _imagine_ the darkness and power you are toying with." He towered over them on his feet, the weapon inches from their hands on the tabletop. They shared a momentary glance between themselves, Azog filling with smug self-satisfaction. He knew that look. Unease. Faltering confusion. They didn't know what they were getting themselves into. "You have already secured your life against his, Baduz." The goblin in question swallowed. "Kill him, and I take my collateral."

"There will be no bloodshed in these caves." Grimuz spoke up now, stepping in for Baduz, who had lost his voice in a temporary fit of terror. Pathetic, weak creature. He spat at his comrade, in his mind. "You have no reason to wish for the death of all thirteen, Azog. Arrogant bloodlust is consuming you. We _need_ blood payment for the crime committed against our ruler. Walk away from this, and you will have to travel either to Gundabad or Isengard before finding a horde fierce and numerous enough to defeat Thorin Oakensield. You don't have the time, and we both know it." His pale eyes were golden in the light of the dim lantern. "Once the dwarf-scum reaches Erebor, they will either die by Smaug's fire, or the defenses of the Mountain will shield them from any possible attack. We're offering a deal. One that benefits both of us. We receive the criminals who murdered our king, you Thorin Oakenshield. What say you?" They settled back, watching. Azog sank into his chair. He didn't look at either of them. His eyes were fixed on the sketchbook, the picture of Kili sleeping. Such care had been put into drawing the nose, the mouth and the closed eyes, the rumpled hair. It had been drawn with _love._

"Bring him to me." Azog raised his stare, regarding the goblin pair. "Bring him to me, and you shall receive your response."

"Of course." They both bowed, sharing another secret glance as they backed out of the room, not daring to turn themselves away from the great orc who ate at their table. Azog waited until he was alone, before pulling the book back to him. He flicked backwards, until he came across the sketch of the blonde dwarf with his sword. He turned two more pages to the picture of Thorin, and then back to the blonde, comparing the likeness. It wasn't as obvious as Kili; the hair made it harder to tell. But the nose, the shape of his eyes, they were shared between the dwarf-king and the nameless blonde. The way they looked down at their hands. His heart thudded with anger. Because this dwarf was obviously _older._ His beard was thick, it was _there,_ his hair was longer. His jaw was harder.

The paper crumpled in Azog's fist as a growl rumbled in his throat.

* * *

"Are we all ready?"

 _No._ He could feel a silent chorus rising from behind him. The mouth of the secret track yawned before them, a dark cave. To half of them, this was the furthest east they had ever traveled. For all but two of them, this was the closest to the dark forest they had ever dared to step. Balin clenched the shoulder of his younger brother, just for a slight moment. Both had dark, bitter memories resting under the eaves of his wood.

Thorin turned to look at the twelve figures clustered before him. They all stared, waiting for Thorin to give the last command to plunge into the shadowy gloom. He hesitated, and they all let him. Only one turned away, staring at the road they had traveled, the Misty Mountains, the Wilderland, the plains and valleys they had crossed. Thorin waited in silence for his nephew, but Fili was looking backwards, resolute. If he kept his face hidden, he thought, perhaps no one would see his wet eyes. Thorin's eyes met Dwalin's, giving the dwarf a slight jerk of the head in Fili's direction.

"Come along laddie." Dwalin took the blonde by the elbow, pulling him gently away. "Time to move on." The others began to walk, breathing in their last lungful of fresh air feeling the last rays of golden sunshine on their face, before sinking into the black shadows of the cursed wood. Fili held his ground for some moments, shaking his head. "Fili, come now." Dwalin's arm snaked around Fili's waist, turning into an embrace.

"Dwalin-"

"I know son, I know." His throat clenched at what had mistakenly slipped out of his throat, and he cast a glance towards his king, terrified Thorin had heard him. But he was already within the wood, as were the rest. They walked very slowly, waiting. Fili put a hand on Dwalin's chest, and for a moment he thought the younger dwarf was about to push him away. But Fili's gloved fingers wound in a thick handful of fur, as he buried his nose in Dwalin's broad shoulder, eyes burning. With a soft sigh, Dwalin wound his other arm about Fili's shoulders. "I know." He repeated, as though his words could do any good.

"We left him." Fili's voice sounded uncharacteristically high in the morning sunlight, muffled by Dwalin's furs. " _Why did we leave him?"_

"Don't start on this now, laddie." There was a hard edge to Dwalin's voice, but his embrace was soft and comforting. "Let's just head on." He felt painfully ineffectual. _Years_ it had been, since Fili actively sought comfort in Dwalin's arms. He was a poor second to Thorin, the children only coming to them when their uncle was away, when they hid from him, when they were too ashamed or angry to talk to him. As the years wore on, and Thorin and Fili grew closer, more like brothers-in-arms than uncle and nephew, Dwalin began to see less of Fili and more of Kili, who would always find an excuse to see him in the forge or the training yard. He feigned interest in improving his skills, but the facade quickly dropped after he almost broke Dwalin's fingers when his hand slipped on a hammer. Then, they just talked, Dwalin laying down his tools and pouring a flagon of mead as Kili confessed his latest mistake to him. Countless long afternoons had been spent with Kili shadowing him as he went about his work, catching snatches of conversation between the clang of iron, sitting down frequently and holding Kili's hand when his voice grew too fast and high. Years stretched into decades, and still Kili came to him for their regular talks. The topics changed slowly to drink, battle, maidens, but Kili still had an occasional knock at his pride, a thoughtless comment from Thorin that left him near tears, an undeserved scolding that saw the young dwarf red-faced and smouldering.

But before this week, _Fili_ hadn't needed him for years.

"Come now." Dwalin tried again, pulling at Fili's arm, guiding him away from the sunlight. This time, Fili complied, crossing the threshold into the darkness. They became separated in the wood, Fili's breath dying in his throat at the immediate change. It was darker than resting beneath the thickest forest. The air was warm, stuffy, and heavy. He blundered about a little in the gloom, crashing into Bifur as his eyes took some time to adjust to the darkness. They muttered amongst themselves, flapping their hands before their eyes, struggling to see.

"Perhaps we should light some torches." Oin suggested, reaching for his tinderbox. Bofur shook his head.

"In this thick forest? We'll smoke ourselves out."

"It's not a cave," Dori interjected. "The air is much fresher."

"How would you know? You've never set foot a mine, you-"

"We'll be fine!" Thorin bellowed out over the dwarves, sensing a fight. Already the forest had started to take some sort of hold on them. "We must wait for our eyes to adjust to the darkness. But for now, we'll have the young ones in front to lead the way. Fili and Kil-" Thorin's voice choked in his throat, sick horror rising.

_No._

It was such an old habit. He was so used to calling their names out together - it was second nature, the _and Kili_ always followed so normally. That's who they were, Fili-and-Kili. It was what he always called out. Thorin pressed his lips together, screwing up his eyes for a heartbeat as grief rolled over him a long, painful wave. The others all fell very quiet, eyes downcast as they realised what Thorin had done. Fili couldn't look at him. And he couldn't look at Fili. Thorin couldn't look at anybody. He took a slow, deep breath, waiting for the heartsick agony to subside, for the tightness in his throat to fade. "Ori." He finally spoke, and his voice cracked. "F-Fili and Ori, lead the way." They all began to walk, a dark, sombre mood settling over the company. Thorin stood stock-still for some moments, the heartsick tightness increasing in pressure as a flash of gold rang out in the corner of his eye. But Fili passed him stony-faced. Their shoulders grazed, but his nephew made no other contact as he marched through the tight cluster of dwarves and hobbit, taking his designated place at the front, falling in step alongside someone who may as well have been a stranger. Thorin remained very still until the last dwarf walked past him, Dwalin giving him a reassuring clap on the back as he did so, leaving Thorin, as he knew his king wished, to suffer in lonely silence.

Thorin closed his eyes, breathing very hard through gritted teeth as his hands clenched into fists, the pain in his chest rising into a full-blown panic attack, as it hit him, it really _hit him,_ for the first time, that there would be no more Fili-and-Kili. It was only Fili now. Just Fili. A single whimper escaped his clenched jaw, and he bowed his head, drowning as the wave of agonizing grief rose over him.

"Thorin." It was a soft, tentative voice that broke through the rushing in his ears. Thorin's eyes snapped open, looking down to see ten hairy toes peeping at the edge of his vision. He looked up to see Bilbo, clinging to his new-found walking stick. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, Bilbo." Thorin forced a smile, the muscles on his face stretching painfully. Embarrassment coloured his face. Showing grief to an outsider, a non-dwarf, it was a mark of weakness. An insult to the memory of the mourned one. Elegy was reserved only for their own people. "I'm fine. Come along, let's go." Bilbo flashed him his own smile, not false and stretched like Thorin's, but genuinely comforting. It was like a hand, reaching forward to pull him out of the waves. And Thorin followed the hobbit, walking briskly to catch up to his own people, leaving the dark waters behind as he forced down the pain in his chest, his stuck throat, and assuming his normal, stoic expression of mild interest and indifference on his bearded face.

But he glanced behind him as he walked, unable to shake a niggling unease. It was almost as though something was following him. Only his imagination, he knew. There was no sign of life in this forest, at least, nothing that could harm them. No birds, only the occasional black squirrel, some nasty-looking bugs crawling about in the roots. Nothing that could harm them. But Thorin still felt as though they were being followed. Watched.

It wasn't a sensation he could shake off, not easily.


	15. Beneath the Stone

Kili dreamed he was flying.

He dreamed he had eagle's wings, huge and white, that beat seamlessly in the air. It was the most exhilarating, delicious feeling. The colours were richer, deeper, brighter than he could have ever envisaged. He dreamed of flying over the Misty Mountains, over Mirkwood and beyond, the journey of months turning into a few short minutes as he flew through the morning light. He dreamed of flying over Lake-town, the ruins of Dale, places he had seen only on maps, heard in whispered stories and snatches of tired lullabies. He dreamed of the Lonely Mountain, how it rose above him, and he flew higher and higher and higher, beyond the clouds, in search for the peak. He dreamed of rising above a carpet of soft white clouds, breaking his head through to the upper air as though through water, only to find a dragon curled around the mountain peak. In his dream, he screamed and tried to dark away as the dragon's mouth opened, the sky erupting in a terrible roar. Fire exploded around him, Kili covering his face with his arms as his wings beat fiercely against the flames. They were burning, and Kili started to fall, his feathers turning to ash and disappearing in the wind. And he cried out, struggling hold his fall with burned, broken winds. But down he fell, faster and faster, the clouds disappearing and ground rushing up to meet him, and nothing to wait for him, nothing to catch him at the bottom.

He opened his eyes a heartbeat before striking the ground.

Kili lay panting on his back, heart racing as he struggled to disentangle himself from the dream, the impassable joy of flying, the sound and smell of burning, the falling through the air. He stared up at the black rock, lying on what felt like the ground. He must have been close to the firelight; it was very bright, and Kili groaned, closing his eyes almost immediately. Someone was sponging at one of the slow-healing burns on his chest, a heavy fur of what smelled like warg draped over his stomach and legs. He remembered little - sitting on the stool in the little cave, being handed a pipe of strange golden wood, then a bright muddle, a golden warmth blossoming in his chest as he floated away. Feeling happier than he had in a very long time. He moved his left arm, a heavy metallic clink of iron against stone ringing in his ears. Kili found he couldn't sit up, so he held his left arm up to his eyes, cracking them open. It blocked out most of his vision. His arm had been bound in some sort of brace, of black iron. It reached almost to his elbow, fixed at the wrist with a fingerless glove of brown leather. The entire thing was bolted into place, the pressure tight but not uncomfortable. It was heavy - he had to let the arm fall with a groan, eyelids drifting downwards. His head was thick, muddled and fuzzy, both from sleep and the poppy tears the orc healer had given him. It was cold, despite the close proximity to the brazier. Kili groaned once more, reaching down to tug the warg fur closer over himself. His hands clenched around the skin, and he pulled. The sponging at his chest stopped rather suddenly, a growl sounding close in his ear. With a frown, Kili opened his eyes, breath hitching as a scream bubbled up in his throat.

It wasn't a sponge or cloth. It was a  _tongue._

The warg's ember-red eyes narrowed, huge paws on either side of Kili's chest as the beast stared down at him. Kili finally found his voice, crying out and trying to back away. But the warg had him pinned. Panic rose, it exploded within him, and he wildly lashed out, trying to weasel out of the creature's heavy embrace, blind with terror. _Not a warg_.

"Kili no!" There was another set of arms, pressing down on his shoulders. Kili screamed and struggled against him. "Dammit _krum_ Maaz! _Krum!"_ At Nazarg's command, the warg stepped back with a low growl. Huge, grey with age and drooping downwards from fostering countless litters of pups, she rested before the fire, laying down on her front paws. "Kili please calm down, you'll hurt yourself!" Nazarg bent low, trying to shout through Kili's desperate struggling. Kili cuffed him in the shoulder with his heavy iron cast. But the blow was more painful for the dwarf than the orc, and Kili's arm fell limp with a cry. Nazarg took the change, pinning his arms down with one hand, the other pressing carefully on his chest as Kili bucked and writhed beneath him, hyperventilating. "Kili _stop this!"_ Not knowing what else to do, he hit him, making sure to avoid the injured side of his face.

Kili gasped in shock, but fell lax, staring wide-eyed up at the orc who pinned him to the floor. "Calm down." Nazarg repeated, stunned. He'd never expect such a desperate, violent reaction from him. "You're not in any danger. Maaz is one of my wargs." Kili was trembling, biting his lip as the exertion antagonised his tender skin. "She's very gentle. Wargs lick their wounds to help them heal - we use it too." It wasn't much good when wounds were already inflamed and oozing, but it was an excellent preventative cure. Especially when the last of his precious ointment was used on the small of Kili's back. "I'm out of salves Kili, I have nothing else and you've got a lot of wounds that need care." Kili was shaking his head, chest heaving from short, desperate gasps. "I know you don't like wargs, I can see the scar. But Maaz isn't going to hurt you. If you want to get better, you're going to need her." Kili still shook his head, but his breathing was deepening, slowly evening out. A cold sweat had broken out of his skin; he was coming down from his high, the lingering effects of the drug fading. And waking up with a warg in his face had completely broken Kili's fragile composure, leaving him shattered, nerves wracked. "I promise you, she's not going to bite." Slowly, Nazarg sat up, releasing his hold on the shaking dwarf. "Here," He helped Kili sit up, an arm under his shoulders. "You don't have to lie down if you don't want to." He checked Kili's back quickly, scanning the skin to see if anything had broken open in Kili's tussle. He ran a finger over freshly leaking blood, clicking his tongue. Two of them had burst open, staining the woven blanket beneath Kili black. "Maaz." He called to the grey warg. " _Skaat."_ Come. She was smarter than most wargs - it came with her age - and knew almost a hundred words of Black Speech. Kili's breath hitched, but he remained still as the warg crouched down, lapping at his chest. "Just sit still and let her stay close." Kili screwed up his eyes, but nodded silently. "Good." Nazarg rose to his feet, approaching the brazier. "Your stomach should be strong enough to eat soon. Are you still feeling like you're going to throw up?"

"Yes." Kili spoke stiffly, unable to slow his racing heart. The grey fur tickled his nose and he turned aside, good hand clenching into a fist. The other sat in his lap, and Kili curled the fingers, feeling the leather clamp tightly on his hand. "This... thing. On my arm." Nazarg looked over to him. "How long until I can take it off?"

"Is it too tight?" Nazarg threw a handful of coal into the tiny fireplace. "Can you move your fingers?"

"It's not _tight_ , just..." Kili looked down at it. "It's heavy. And hot. And it itches."

"If you want your arm to heal properly Kili, you need to wear it." There was a tiny pot suspended over the fire - Nazarg was boiling water. "You won't have it knocked out of place with it on, and the bone will reform much quicker."

"So how long then? You said months before." Kili swallowed, looking down at it. It felt like some form of torture device, strapped to his arm. It was the obvious crude black iron of orcs. Kili didn't like looking at it, but he couldn't close his eyes and pretend it wasn't there. It was too hot, too tight and heavy. He couldn't ignore it.

"Two, maybe three months, yes." Nazarg put a pinch of dried leaves into the water. There was an audible clunk as the iron fell to the stone. "Be careful with it, you're not indestructible."

"I'm not going to live for three months." Kili's voice wobbled. Nazarg looked over at him, turning away from the fire. The dwarf looked very small and lonely on the floor. He didn't respond as Maaz sniffed, walking around him to lick at the reopening wounds on his back. "You wasted your time."

"You think you're going to die?" Nazarg crouched down on the balls of his feet, looking quite oddly at Kili. "Why do you think that?"

"Because - Azog, he's only using me to - to get at Thorin." Was Kili making a mistake in opening up to this orc healer? Possibly. But Kili was desperate - it was the first person to look at him, to talk to him and treat him with kindness, in what felt like a lifetime. The concept of a _friend_ amongst the orcs, or something close to it, was an embarrassingly warm thought to him. "I'm just a hostage." Nazarg was right. This dwarf _was_ a member of the company. "But - But he ransomed me off, he waited on the Carrock, all _night_ , and he never came. Thorin never came." It was a knife in his heart. "Fili never came." He whispered, shaking his head. Nazarg straightened a little at this new name. "It must be a mistake - I know it's a mistake because they would never _leave_ me, th-they wouldn't leave me to die like this." A choked gasp, almost a sob, came out from Kili's mouth. _"_ They wouldn't ever leave me." He repeated, hoping that the more he said those words, the truer they would become. Nazarg was watching him closely. Interesting indeed, that Azog would bother to keep a hostage after a failed ransom. _Very interesting._ There must have been something else going on, something Kili didn't know about, or something he wouldn't say.

"Nazarg!" The voice at the mouth of the cave broke the pair from their quiet conversation. Nazarg forced back a sigh, turning and rising to his feet to greet the intruders. "Azog wants the prisoner. Now."

"He's not ready now." They spoke in Westron, Kili listening to the conversation silently. "His arm is fixed but his back is-"

"Azog wants the prisoner now." Baduz repeated, eyes narrowing as he strode into the cave, Grimuz hot on his heels. But he knew his word was worthless to this healer from Isengard. He had no power over the orc from another realm, and even the mention of Azog did nothing to turn the exasperation on Nazarg's face into fear or respect.

"You asked for me to patch him up well enough to ride." Nazarg spoke shortly, crossing the cave to get into his chest. Kili looked up at the goblin pair, not liking the way they stared down at him. Something terrible was going to happen, the conviction swelled, cramping his stomach. "And he's not. So you will have to wait."

"Enough lip Nazarg. He's coming with us." Kili cried out, Nazarg turning on his heel as he was pulled to his feet by the heavy chain at his neck. Maaz growled, nipping at Grimuz's heels as her latest charge was pulled away.

"Baduz, what are you _doing?"_ He grabbed the goblin by the elbow, but Baduz simply swatted him off. "I said _no."_

"It's not your word I listen to." Baduz sneered. Kili wavered on his feet, held between the pair by the elbows. Grimuz's hand was too tight on Kili's broken arm; Nazarg could see the dwarf's face contorting in pain. "Nice job on the arm. Waste of time, but nice job." Kili's heart sank at the words, head bowed. He was withdrawing, retreating inwards, becoming silent and limp. It was the only way he could deal with any of this.

"At least let me get a shirt." Nazarg rifled through the chest quickly, but the pair already started walking out into the shanty-town street. "Oh come on!" Nazarg followed, a sleeveless undershirt trailing from his hand. "Baduz just stop for _two seconds_ and let me-"

"Your job is done Nazarg." Baduz stopped quite short in his walk, turning back to glare at the healer. "Return to your duties." His eyes gleamed yellow, challenging him. Nazarg swallowed, finding his grip on the shirt was trembling. They began to walk once more, Kili's head downwards, bare feet stumbling as they forced him into a pace that he could never keep up with.

With a curse, he threw the clothing over the side of the narrow boardwalk. The once-white shirt fluttered, suspended in mid-air for a moment before begin a graceful descent into the darkness below.

* * *

"Your Malevolence."

Azog looked up from the tabletop as the two goblins entered the room, Kili limping along between them. He set down the plate of cold ham, watching very carefully as the three approached the table. The young dwarf eyed the meat hungrily, biting down on his lip. So that answered the question on food. He was shirtless again, the marks on his skin clean but seemingly untreated. Although his arm, at least, was bound in thick iron. He looked gaunt, face pale and eyes dark and hollow. Azog leaned back in the chair, assuming a snarl on his face.

"I thought your healer was an expert." Azog's voice cut through the heavy silence of the small hall, Baduz and his comrade flinching at the sound. "He looks _terrible_." He eyed Kili up and down, making an obvious sound of dissonance in his throat. "Or is this what passes for aid in Goblin-town?" Grimuz shot the other goblin a filthy look, fingers curling even tighter in Kili's arm. The dwarf couldn't fight back a gasp at the deep throbbing in his elbow. Azog's head jerked at the sound, blood rising at the look of pain on Kili's face. How _dare_ they. His good hand curled into a fist on the table, but he kept his face impassive, nails digging tighter into his palm as he watched Kili grit his teeth, trying to bear the grasp in silence. "Let him go." They both reluctantly released their tight hold, Kili pitching forward, grabbing the edge of the table to stop himself from falling. He straightened himself with a deep breath, broken arm hanging at his side. Azog watched as his head rose to meet him in the eye. His gaze was clouded with pain. Azog remembered the sketchbook, a fresh wave of anger surging through him. He was going to get to the bottom of this. _Now._

"Kili." Azog rose to his feet, towering over the dwarf prince. He looked up at Azog in silence, waiting for the question in a language he could not answer. "You two." He pointed at the goblins. "Come here." They approached the table, one on either side of Kili, giving each other a silent, sidelong glance. "Translate for me."

"With pleasure, your Greatness." Grimuz inclined his head in a stiff bow.

"Tell Kili about this." Azog pushed the book across the table. Kili's eyes widened at the sketchbook, recognising the plain brown leather immediately. Ori's drawings. Nearly every night, the dwarf would lean against a rock or tree, pencil in hand, always sketching and drawing. He refused to show anybody, even Dori and Nori, what he drew, and when anybody tried to look, he would press he book against his chest, embarrassed. One night, Kili remembered, his brother (and his stomach went tight at the thought of him) playfully wrestled the book out of Ori's hands, demanding to see it. Whatever the sketch was, it clouded Fili's face. He went awfully quiet, and gave it back to Ori with downcast eyes, returning to his place at Kili's side. Ori went bright red, Kili remembered, he put the book aside and spent the rest of the evening with his eyes down at his hands, unable to look at anybody. The little exchange went unnoticed by everybody else, but it was still several days before Ori regained his normal demeanour. Kili asked quite a few times what was so bad, what his brother saw, but Fili only told him to shut up, or turned away silently, and Ori couldn't even look in his direction.

"The book." Baduz snarled in Westron, "was found in the remains of _your_ company." Kili looked over at the goblin. "Anything you want to tell us about it?" He jerked his head down, motioning for Kili to turn the pages. Fingers trembling, Kili opened the sketchbook to the first page. It was Dori, darning a sock. Ori's sock, if Kili remembered correctly. It was _good._ Very good. Kili had never had the chance to actually see Ori's work before, and he was impressed. No wonder he spent so much time bent over the pages; he worked hard on his art. "Keep going." Kili turned the page. Bofur with a sausage over the fire. Kili's fingers lingered on the page, staring at the dwarf's smile. It felt like an age ago, when he sat with them, talking, drinking, laughing. When the only dangers that existed lay beyond the bright warmth of their campfire, when the darkness was nothing more than a distant threat. Kili turned the page, noticing Azog grow impatient. Oin fiddling with a loose screw on his ear-trumpet. Nori trying to get some burrs out of his beard. And -

Kili's eyes widened as he stared at his own image. He stared at his hands, his hair and eyes. He didn't think much of mirrors; he didn't like looking at himself. It was strange, yet familiar, seeing his own face on the page. He turned over the page after a few moments, heart pushing in his throat at the sight of Fili. He bit down on his lip, finding it hard to breathe as tears welled in his eyes. It was a horrible shock to him, it struck his heart and left him numb, to see his brother. He tried to keep his composure, but Azog watched the mask crack. Hand shaking uncontrollably now, Kili turned the page. Dwalin sharpening his knives. Thorin (and Kili's heart contracted at the sight) and Balin looking over a map. Another picture of Kili, working on his arrowheads. Were his fingers really that dirty? He looked down at his blackened hands. Bombur, _another_ one of him, one of Bifur with his precious wind-up bird. Kili looked up at Azog, shaking his head, looking confused. He didn't know what he was supposed to be looking for. Did Azog know how much it would hurt, to see his friends and kin represented on the paper? Had he decided that it was now time to beat him up emotionally, to remind him of the world which he had lost?  
Azog merely gave a single nod, pointing at the book. _Keep going._

Kili turned the page, blinking as he realised it was another drawing of him. Was that the third, or fourth so far? Surely the others didn't have that many. Kili flicked through the pages, his turning growing faster as his cheeks slowly reddened. There were _so many_ of him. It was eerie, to see his own image again and again, in different angles, shades, positions. He could never remember Ori looking at him this much. How did he manage to capture so many sketches of him? Kili swallowed, turning the pages as quickly as he could, unable to continue looking at himself. _"_ I don't know what I'm supposed to be seeing." Kili murmured, shaking his head. They became almost a blur. Azog's hand struck out, quick as a snake, Kili starting as the orc slammed his hand down on the page. He gasped as Azog lifted his hand away, pushing the book half an inch closer to Kili.

"Who is he." Azog snarled in Black Speech, Kili's stomach growing sick as he stared down at the image. It was Fili and Kili. Together. A snapshot of the daily tradition, Of Kili braiding his brother's hair. When they would sit together in the cool morning air, Kili sifting his fingers through the blonde tangles, combing the hair into soft curls. He loved nothing more than to toy with Fili's golden mane. He used to be jealous as a child, used to ache for such striking hair. He'd never seen another blonde, didn't understand what Fili's hair was associated with. He just thought it was beautiful. He loved spending his time weaving the hair into such perfect, meticulous braids because he thought it deserved nothing less. His own hair, he didn't give a fig for. It was just a normal brown thatch, and Fili wasn't any good at braiding anyway. On the road, Kili would still take time out every single morning to braid Fili's hair into long ropes of gold. Even as the others stood around and muttered, Kili would hold his ground and refuse to leave until the last silver clasp was fixed in Fili's mane. It was an injustice, Kili thought, for Fili's name, and for that beautiful hair, to walk through the wilderness in a mess.

Who would braid it now? Kili's fingers brushed the Fili's hair through the paper, the sting in his eyes doubling. What would Fili do, without him? Would he try to braid it himself? He was terrible at it, he didn't know how to section the hair evenly and his tension was off. It would look awful, he knew, having been Fili's practice dummy for years. Perhaps Thorin or even Dwalin would step in and take Kili's place behind him. The thought made Kili's chest burn with jealousy. It wasn't right, it wasn't fair. Fili was _his_ , their morning braiding a sacred, private ritual that allowed no intruders. After a week of torture, of hunger and sleeplessness and pain, Kili didn't feel as heartsick as he did at this moment, looking down at the almost-perfectly drawn picture of him and his brother, locked in their oldest, closest tradition, deaf and blind to the outside world. He couldn't stop the tears from rolling down his cheeks, breath a choked sob as he clutched at the image of Fili. He didn't care about what Azog wanted. He didn't think about any other ulterior motive. He couldn't think. This was _Fili_ , the other half of Kili's heart and soul. His right hand, his guiding light. It wasn't the thought of his own imprisonment and impending death that made him cry. It was the sick realisation that _Fili would go on without him._ That someone else would braid his hair, would help him up if he fell over, would stay awake with him on his watch, would stay at his side when he got sick and accompany him on hunting trips. The thought that Fili would sleep alone at night, would whisper his stories to a dark, empty room. The thought that nobody else would be there to break Fili's fall. Kili's death would leave him with the unbearable burden, of utter loneliness.

"Hey. I _said,_ who is he?" The uncomfortable shove on Kili's shoulder made him jerk upwards with a gasp. He looked up at Baduz with wet eyes, lip trembling. "Him. The blonde." The goblin prodded at the paper with a dirty finger. "Who is he? Y'know him?"

"Y-Yes." Kili wiped at his eyes, growing painfully aware of Azog's intense gaze on him. He looked up, staring into the pale orc's face. There was a very, very cold look there. From the moment Kili's eyes first landed on the page, when they welled up and his mouth trembled, a hot rage caught fire within him. Because he _knew_. He knew nobody else, other than a brother, could provoke such an emotional response to a simple picture. "It's - " He broke off, voice dying in his throat as his eyes widened in horror. _No. Oh Mahal no._

"Is he kin?" Azog's voice was low, burning with a white-hot fire. Kili stared at him, mouth falling open as sick terror left his voice stuck. Baduz relayed the question to Kili, the dwarf's vision blurring as he shook his head. " _Who is he?"_ Azog repeated, his voice rising, rising above them all, into the darkness of the cave ceiling. Kili was struck silent, tears pouring down his cheeks as he realised what he had done to Fili. How his reaction to the picture had killed him.

"No... No. Please." Kili moaned, filled with a raw, primal terror. He'd already admitted his connection to Thorin, betraying the exiled king - but to throw Fili to the wolves, to out him as Thorin's second nephew, to _doom_ him, it left sobs tearing through his throat.  _Not Fili._

" _Who is he?"_ Azog shouted, bringing the mace down on the table. Chips of stone flew into the air, Kili sobbing, shaking his head as he sank to his knees. " _Kili!"_ He shouted the dwarf's name, as Kili collapsed face down into the book, clinging to the paper as his shoulders shook in a total breakdown. The thought of Fili, being forcefully reminded of him, it tore through his heart, crushing it flat. And then to betray him, to have such an obvious reaction to the drawing, to seal Fili's fate, it burned his soul alive. " _KILI!"_ Azog lost control, reaching forward and seizing a handful of dark hair. The two goblins watched in shocked silence as Azog dragged him onto the table, Kili scrabbling madly through his tears, trying to back away as Azog threw his mace once onto stone. " _WHO IS HE?"_ His voice was a roar. It was foreign, but Kili didn't need a translation. He knew exactly what Azog was saying. Plates of food crashed into the floor, blood-red wine spilling across the stone tabletop. Azog seized Kili's chain, dragging the dwarf to his knees, their noses very close. Kili grasped the thick white wrist, breath choked in his throat at the iron collar. He shook his head, unable to emotionally comprehend what he had done. How he had sealed Fili's fate.

"M-My brother." It was a high, broken whisper that tore from Kili's throat. His neck slumped forward, tears tricking down Azog's wrist as Kili sobbed in a complete breakdown. He heard Baduz repeat the term in Black Speech, Azog jerking hard on the chain, forcing Kili's neck up, to look at him. He was cold with fury, veins stopped with ice _. This wasn't Thorin's heir._ He slammed Kili backwards into the table, the dwarf's choked scream bouncing off the cave walls. It was the second-son. The younger. _Nothing._ Azog's own chest heaved as he looked up at the two goblins, who stood, watching the scene unfold before them in close silence.

"Ask him. Older or younger." But he already knew the answer to that. It was obvious, so obvious, that the blonde was older. His face and beard, the way he held himself, it was all so obvious. Kili shook his head as the question was put forward to him in Westron, terror and pain smothering his voice. " _Kili."_ Azog's fingers curled around his neck, tightening around the bruised skin. Kili's good hand tore red lines along Azog's forearm, kicking out and writhing beneath the orc's hand. He'd given Azog another target, another nephew to break. He hadn't yet even thought about what it meant for _him._

"You're choking him." Baduz finally spoke up, looking a little sick. So much for their whispered rumors of favourtism; Azog obviously hated this dwarf. The way he tossed him about like a broken doll, it was easy to see how he'd broken him down so quickly. The pair still didn't realise exactly who he was. Grimuz had grown bored of the sketchbook before he reached the final few drawings. Azog's molten gaze flicked up, lip curling as he glared at the goblin. But his grip slackened, Kili coughing loudly as he gasped for air.

"O-O-Older." He finally choked out, arching his back against the stone, preparing himself for another blow. Azog glared down at him in total silence for some time, pinning him by the neck, watching as Kili clawed ineffectually at his wrist. When he spoke, it was low and even, the flat tone striking more fear into Kili's heart that his loudest roar.

"So you are _not_ the heir of Thorin Oakenshield." Kili was pale at Thorin's name, although he knew none of the other words. Baduz let out an audible gasp, staring down at the dark-haired dwarf with a new realisation. That explained a _lot._ He never thought that either of the younger dwarves in the sketchbook had any familial connection to Thorin. "You are _nothing."_ Azog's voice rose with the last word, anger clenching around his heart. The entire week was nothing but a wasteful exercise in futility. He didn't have Thorin's heir. He had another younger brother, like the one he slew at Azanulbizar. Who meant _nothing_ while the elder was still alive.

"He says you're not Thorin's heir." Kili's eyes closed as Grimuz relayed the statement, shaking his head. "He says you're nothing." _No._ Kili mouthed the word, vision blurred. No he _wasn't_ nothing. He wasn't worthless. Kili tried to blink the tears away, feeling his crushed heart contract at the sight of the face that loomed down on him with a very, very ugly snarl.

"I'm not nothing - please." Kili whispered. "Please don't hurt Fili - _please_ Azog! _Please don't hurt Fili!"_ The last sentence was dragged out of him in a howl, Kili breaking off in a sob as Azog released his hold, straightening. Kili rose to his knees, sobbing madly. "Please don't hurt Fili _I beg_ _of you!"_

"Fili." Azog repeated the name on his lips. He didn't need a translation. He knew Kili was begging for his brother's life. "Fili and Kili." So _convenient_ , how brothers shared their names in dwarven culture. It made them _so_ much easier to identify. Hearing their names together made Kili's eyes burn with a new fire, he lunged forward, clutching Azog's wrist as he hopelessly begged.

"Whatever you want to do to him, do it to me _please._ _Please_ don't hurt him, leave him alone." He bowed his head, sobs tearing through his throat. "Don't hurt Fili." He pleaded one last time. "You have me - isn't that enough?"

"You don't realise, do you?" The voice behind him made Kili turn back. Baduz was looking at him with a very unsettling smirk. "He's not interested in _you_ anymore. He wants the heir. You mean nothing to him." Kili jerked his back, looking up at Azog as his mouth fell open in horror. _No. No no no._ He couldn't stop the terrible wheeling of the earth beneath his knees.

"No - I do - _please."_ Kili's grip tightened. Azog snarled, jerking his wrist away. Kili fell forward onto his hands and knees, panting. Azog was speaking to him. He closed his eyes at the words, twisting the fingers of his good hand through his hair. _No._

"He says it's no surprise now that Thorin left you." The iron of Kili's cast was cold against his cheek as he buried his head in his hands. "He says putting you up for ransom was a waste of time. _"_ _No it wasn't it wasn't please Azog you can't do this I still mean everything to Thorin._

"No..." Kili whispered. "No -I _do."_ He tried to control his ragged breathing, but panic and terror had seized his heart. His situation in the last few minutes had become very, very dire. "There must be something - I  _promise_ you Thorin wouldn't leave me he _wouldn't-_ " Kili's head jerked up, and he scrabbled on the table for the sketchbook, tearing through the pages with violently shaking hands. _There has to be something in here Ori drew everything Ori you must have drawn a moment when we were close you did Fili and I what about me and Thorin please._ The shuffling of paper and Kili's gasping breath filled the otherwise silent room. Finally -  _finally_ \- Kili's hands were still as he found something that could speak for him. " _Look."_ He turned the book towards Azog, holding it up to the orc's eyes. _"Look at us."_ He begged through his panting, the book wavering in front of Azog, held by such trembling hands. The orc snatched it away, giving Kili a sneer as he studied the drawing.

Thorin and Kili. Together. They were beneath a large tree, very close to the fire. Thorin leaned against the trunk, in his tunic and breeches, legs spread out before him. Kili was in his arms, his head resting against Thorin's chest. He looked asleep, or very close to it. The heavy fur cloak was draped over Kili, Thorin holding the garment close with an arm around his nephew's waist. His other hand was curled in the tangled locks of brown hair, his chin resting on Kili's head. His eyes were fixed towards the fire. It was one of the finished drawings, wrought with close detail, in the fingers, the way hair fell, the designs on clothing, something that couldn't be recalled from memory. The artist had obviously spent a very long time sitting and drawing the scene before him.

Azog lowered the book, staring at the dwarf with narrowed eyes. Kili pleaded with him silently, hands clasped together as he kneeled on the stone table, begging wordlessly for his life. For Fili's. The book fell closed to the table before him, Kili shaking his head, refusing to break his gaze. _Please._

"I mean just as much to Thorin as Fili does. He always thinks of us together - he never separates us." Kili's heart sank at the silence. "Please, one of you tell him!" With a sigh, Baduz relayed the message to Azog, the orc's expression remaining stony and frozen. "Anything you do to Fili will hurt Thorin just as much as it would if you did it to me." He heard the phrase repeated in Black Speech, heart twisting as Azog opened his mouth, giving a short, clipped reply. Behind him, Grimuz chortled. "What? What did he say?"

"He said, 'what about you both?'" Kili's throat closed at the words, speech failing him as he stared at Azog. The orc returned the gaze with a cold, level hardness. Kili's bright eyes glistened with tears, fresh tracks shining on his face as he blinked. _No._ _Not both of us._   _Please._

"No - I mean for you to spare Fili - take me _please_ \- spare him!" Kili's voice rose to a high panic as a smirk played on the corner of Azog's lip. He spoke again, the tone sending a shiver down Kili's spine.

"He's not going to do that." Grimuz sounded out behind the dwarf. "But he'll let you see them, one last time." Did that mean he accepted their offer? He tried to read Azog's face, but the orc wouldn't shift his gaze from Kili.

"No... _No!"_ Kili's voice rose as he realised what Azog meant. " _Not Fili!"_ He begged, hands still clasped. But Azog turned away from him, walking around the long stone table. Kili tumbled clumsily onto the floor beside the two goblins, desperate. " _Please!"_

 _"_ Ten." Azog stated his compromise. "I want Thorin and the two nephews. You get the other ten." Kili screamed on his knees, pleading at the top of his lungs, but his cries went unheeded by the orc king. "I get command of the forces. Forty or fifty shall be plenty." Kili tried to clutch at him, giving wordless, animal sounds. Azog kicked him away. Grimuz and Baduz nodded. That was a fair call, considering this latest revelation.

"It would be an honour to serve your Greatness." That familiar, oily tone crept back into Baduz's voice as he sank into a very low bow. Kili cradled his head in his shaking hands, losing himself completely. _Not Fili no they cannot do this to him._ "We shall have everything prepared by the morning."

"Good. Now where is your Warg-pit? I want to select one for myself." He cast a look down at Kili. "And your forge." There was much to prepare. "Take me to your forge first. I need something made."

"As your Malevolence wishes." Grimuz gave his partner a side-long look. Azog's lip curled as he kicked at Kili's side.

"Take him back to your healer and get him fixed _properly._ And get him some boots." Azog stared down at the young creature. He felt betrayed, infuriated at having been fooled - by himself, for thinking that this pathetic wretch could _ever_ be the true heir. But he saw the picture, saw the obvious affection, one deeper than he ever could have realised. How he still cared for Kili like a child. Perhaps he thought the dwarf slow. His fierce protectiveness of Kili would be his undoing. Heir or not, watching his nephew die would destroy Thorin's soul in his final hours, making him _beg_ for death. "Bring him to the forge in two hours." Azog clenched his good hand into a fist. He wasn't sure if it was worse or better for him now. There were _two_ nephews, two heirs to slaughter, two iron hammers with which to crush Thorin Oakenshield's heart. But he had the wrong one. He had the useless, weaker younger brother. He should have seen it sooner, should have realised that he'd seen those wide brown eyes filling with tears before, heard those sobs begging for mercy, decades earlier. At Azanulbizar.

"Up with you." Kili cried out in protest as he was grabbed by the chain and pulled to his feet. Baduz marched quickly out of the room, Kili staggering along behind him. He turned back, casting one desperate look at the pale orc. _Please_ tumbled out of his lips in one final broken cry, wet brown eyes wide as he silently begged. But Azog paid no heed to the dwarf. His mind ticked over slowly, picking apart his plan, putting the pieces back together. But this one had a new piece. One that shone with gold. He had a new victim to pursue, another heir of Durin to add to his growing collection of lives ended by his hand.

And despite his cold rage, his bitter fury at having made such a gross presumption, Azog couldn't hide the smile that stretched across his lips at the thought.


	16. Burned Alive

"Nazarg!"

The orc jerked upwards at the voice, letting out a low growl as he pulled the simmering pot from the fire, letting it sit on the floor as he crossed the cave. _What can that fool possibly want now, I swear I'll_ -

"Kili." Nazarg murmured as Baduz stepped into his cave, dragging the young dwarf behind him. Kili pulled back on the chain, staggering, head bent and shoulders slumped. He walked like a broken puppet, pulled along with tangled strings. The chain slipped from the goblin's hands, Kili sinking to his knees in the middle of the room, head lowering to the cold comfort of his trembling hands. He looked utterly destroyed. "Baduz, what-"

"Finish fixing him up." He snarled, turning away without sparing the orc healer a second glance. "I'll be back in an hour."

" _No -_ Baduz what _happened?"_ Nazarg shouted into an empty room, balling his hands in hot frustration. Kili was shaking his head, dry wracking sobs seeping from behind a thick curtain of tangled hair. Nazarg stood before the dwarf, looking down at him in utter confusion. "Kili?" He spoke gently, not knowing if the dwarf had heard him. "Kili - what happened?" He crouched on the stone in front of Kili, a frown etched onto his face. Kili cried bitterly, in panic and frustration and crushing guilt and fear. "Kili." He grasped the dwarf's bare shoulder, but Kili paid no heed to him, unable to stem the terror that rose in his throat and exploded in sobbing gasps. _Azog knew about Fili._ Nobody was safe. Kili thought he had been protecting his brother by keeping quiet. But in the end, Kili would be his undoing. Kili and that _stupid_ sketchbook. He wanted to hurt Ori. For the first time in his life, his thoughts toward the dwarf he'd grown up with were bent in anger and hatred. How could Ori have been so idiotic? How could nobody warn him that having such images could be used against them?

No, he couldn't blame Ori. It wasn't his fault, none of it was. Kili had nobody to blame for any of this, but himself. If he died, if Fili and Thorin and all the rest died, the guilt would fall squarely on Kili's shoulders. He was the one that broke apart from the group. He was the one that allowed himself to be caught, who cracked under torture and let slip that Thorin Oakenshield was his uncle. Who told Azog where the Company rested. Who identified Fili as his older brother. _Everything was Kili's fault._ And he sobbed hopelessly for his failures, the mistakes he could never fix. Sick with guilt, he turned away from the orc, sinking further within himself, curling over as terrified, self-loathing tears trickled down his cheeks.

"Kili," Nazarg tried one last time. Not seeing any other way, he grabbed on to his wrists, pulling his arms away from his face. Kili kept his head bowed, screwing up his eyes so he didn't have to look at Nazarg. "Kili _what happened_ in there?" Kili moaned, keeping his eyes closed. The orc rested on his knees, biting his lip. "Come on, get up over here." He decided it better to let him be for the moment. Kili allowed himself to be pulled up to his feet, led by his good arm to the low stool by the fire. Nazarg set the pot back on the brazier, steam furling slowly from the blackened iron into the dull red air. The grey warg still rested beside the fire, her silvered fur gleaming with a sheen of gold from the flickering flames. She lifted her head as Kili was set down beside him, sitting up on her hindquarters. Kili dug the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to control his broken, wracked breathing. He knew he had to calm down, knew the panic would swallow him whole if he allowed himself to continue crying. That he would dry himself out, wither into a husk. And he _couldn't_ afford to limp through his place a broken shadow. But he saw Fili's face, in his mind, burying his hands deeper into his eye sockets as a fresh sob welled up in his throat.

"Stay still." There was a hand on his back. "I need to get you all wrapped up." Kili endured the touch in silence, dipping his head as he felt the cloth wind about his chest, beginning at his abdomen. He lowered his hands from his eyes as the burning in his throat slowly passed, the last tears clinging to dark eyelashes. Maaz licked his cheek, Kili darting away at the spongy tongue pressing against his face. "She's smelled the salt on your face. Let her lick it up, it's good for her." Kili shot the orc a dark look, but kept still, curling his hands into shaking fists as the warg lapped at his drying tear tracks. "What happened?" Nazarg tried asking once more after a short period of silence. Kili sniffed, the smell of warg fur tickling his nose. "What did they want from you?"

"They found a book of drawings we left behind after the Great Goblin's death." Kili spoke in a flat, lifeless monotone. "We were all in them and - and there was a sketch, of me and my brother." Nazarg's hands stilled on Kili's back. "And Azog - he asked me who it was, he knew we were kin - and I had to tell him I - I couldn't keep quiet." He let out a long breath as his voice began to falter and tremble. "He's going to die. Fili is going to die." Kili murmured as tears pushed back at his eyes. "Azog is going to kill him."

"Why does he care so much about you?" The orc healer felt Kili's heart thud beneath his hands, as he realised he had no idea who the young dwarf really was. "Do you know where Thorin Oakenshield is? Is that it?"

"No, that's not it." Kili shook his head. Maaz gave his face one final lick before settling back down in front of the fire. "He's my uncle." The roll of cloth fumbled in Nazarg's hand, almost falling to the ground, eyes widening in understanding.

"So your brother..." He watched the mop of brown hair nod. "Are you the older?" Kili shook his head. "Ah." No wonder Kili was so upset. He didn't know how to broach the subject, how much Kili would be willing to say. So he tried a different tack after a short, strained silence. "Are you and your uncle close?"

"Yes." Kili raised his arms a little to let Nazarg wind the bandages about his chest. "My father died before I was born, so Thorin looked after us." He stared into the firelight of the burning brazier, sinking into memory. "He's more father than uncle to me."

"Azog must love that." Nazarg muttered as he wrapped the cloth over Kili's shoulder. "His head will be crawling with sick plans to make Thorin suffer." There was something dully matter-of-fact in the way that the orc healer spoke. He didn't sound pleased or disgusted, musing over what he thought Azog would do. It was a heavy acceptance, one that didn't suggest an opinion that swung either way. Kili was listening to him speak in silence, with his hands clasped together underneath his chin.

"There was another picture." Kili spoke up, eyes shining in the red light of the fire. "Of the time I almost drowned. My pony bolted and slipped into the river and I jumped in after it to save my baggage. Everything was swept away but we got Daisy out. But I got carried off in the current and passed out in the water. Fili told me I stopped breathing, Thorin was beside himself trying to wake me up." Nazarg's hands fell still as he listened to the story. Kili had quite forgotten his tiny audience - he had fallen into a warm remembrance of that night, the quiet stillness of it after the cold blinding terror, reaching his hands out of the water and closing only around air, being beaten by the roaring water into the riverbed, pinned by a raging current as the last gasps of air bubbled from his lungs. "I remember waking up and it was dark, all I was wearing were Fili's spare pants and Thorn had me wrapped up in his fur coat, holding me. He wouldn't let me go. His hands were shaking, his face was dead white. I remember laying down with my head on him and I could feel his heartbeat in my head. It was pounding madly, like someone was beating at the walls, trying to break free. I'd never seen him so afraid. We didn't say a word to each other, we just sat there for hours." Nazarg fastened the thick bandages wound around Kili's chest. "Ori had drawn it. He drew us together. Azog thought I meant nothing to Thorin - I had to show him the picture, show him how he was wrong." The orc healer stepped away from him, stirring at the bubbling pot. "I gave him fuel, didn't I?"

"No, you were smart." Nazarg brought the wooden spoon to his lips, giving it a taste. Could be worse. "Better to have a purpose, even as a hostage or bargaining chip, than to be completely useless in the company of orcs and goblins." He looked down at the pot. "We're always hungry." Kili shivered, something collapsed in his face and he wound his arms around his stomach, his growling stomach which had not touched wholesome food in a week.

"I know." And there was a pain, a heavy pain in those words, one that made Nazarg look up from his work at the fire, and over to the young dwarf. "I... I had to eat..." He couldn't continue, he broke off and tried to push the awful metallic taste from his mouth, heavy and thick with memory. _"Things."_ He didn't specify. He didn't need to. They both knew exactly what he was talking about. Nazarg could imagine the sort of taboo it would have to be amongst the dwarves. It would be like him eating an elf - an act of shame and humiliation, a betrayal of the customs of his people that ran through to the bones. And they would know. Of course they would know. They would theorise that Kili would have eaten _something_ during his imprisonment, and there was nothing to grind into bread within the cavernous mountains the goblins called home. They wouldn't ever speak of it. But they would know. And the sick shame of what he had done would stuck to Kili's soul, a mark that stained him.

"Well I promise you - _this_ is only mountain-goat." Nazarg pressed the misshapen clay bowl into Kili's hands. The last thing he wanted to do, after being reminded of his greatest sin was eat. But the bones in his neck cast too deep a shadow in the firelight, his face too pale and eyes too black, cheeks too hollow for Nazarg to let him go yet another day without food. "Eat it. All of it." Kili raised the bowl of thin stew to his lips as steam furled against his face. It was bland and tasteless, made with the bad parts of goat, the fat and sinew, floating with bones. But it was still meat, it was hot, warming Kili's throat like liquid fire. The smell and taste of a familiar animal brought a new life within Kili. He awoke, his stomach came alive, tearing apart the scraps of food within him and calling out for more. He chewed through the sinewy lumps, swallowed the greasy fat and even sucked the marrow from the soft bones, licking his dripping fingers as the empty bowl rested on his knees.

"Here." Nazarg emptied his own bowl into Kili's crudely-shaped vessel, refilling his own from the dregs at the bottom of the blackened pot. At least he was eating. He thought Kili would pick at it until it went cold and force it down with a shudder. There was something brighter in his eyes as he dipped his head back into the bowl, his fingers seemed to grasp the clay with a new energy. The orc leaned against the wall as he ate slowly, thinking. This was a marked improvement on what he had seen the day before, the bloodied, sick dwarf who could barely stand, raw infected wounds leaking and eyes dull and clouded with illness. But Nazarg was no fool. He knew the line between sickness and health was the width of a hair, especially when injuries were concerned. Shallow or deep, exposed flesh in the dirt hardly ever ended well. He knew the care that would have to be provided to Kili, to keep him alive. It was no matter of simply bandaging him up and sending him away. What Nazarg did ran far beyond that - the wounded goblins within the nearby hall were a testament to his skill. Although most were on the mend, needing Nazarg only for routine checks while they slept and ate in a bandaged group, a few still caused the orc healer some trouble. One had a bloodied stump of a leg that gave off an awful smell. Another hovered between life and death with a collapsed lung that Nazarg struggled to fix. Two had very nasty head wounds, and Nazarg considered with complete seriousness delivering a hammer to the back of the neck. Such was his work. He consoled himself with the memory of the many goblins, dozens more, that lingered with healing axe-wounds and broken limbs, who had shirked the bandages entirely and returned to their caves. It was a net positive, in the end. He only ever promised a chance.

But as he watched Kili eat, he knew his complaint would fall on deaf ears. Azog wouldn't give a fig about having Kili's bandages boiled in water and changed, having salves rubbed into them daily or at the very least having a warg licking at them. That much was obvious, after leaving Kili's cuts and burns open for so long, forcing him to walk on torn feet. He would expect that Nazarg had already done enough, that Kili would move on from this and last - long enough at least, for his purposes. And perhaps he would. There was a small chance that the orc healer had done enough to secure Kili against further sickness. But there was a greater chance that Kili would wake up with a cut or burn aching particularly badly, without knowing why, and slowly grow sicker and weaker until he could walk no more, left to die at the side of the path, or taken care of quietly, like a lame warg.

Nazarg sighed, the noise passing by Kili unnoticed. Focused on his food, he was blind to the pair of eyes watching him. Perhaps the orc was just too compassionate for his own good. Perhaps he was growing soft beneath the Misty Mountains. But it was difficult _not_ to feel some degree of pity towards the doomed creature, sitting on his stool before the fire.

Even if he was a dwarf.

* * *

"I'm tellin' you - Bombur, Bombur back me up here. You remember -"

"That can't be right. Let me take a look at it, you must have added it up wrong-"

"So I said to 'im-"

"I'm not saying that he was _wrong_ exactly, I just thought that if he wanted me to-"

"Remember, it was in the winter? We had to take the cart down and-"

"Look, that's why it's not working out, you missed this bit here-"

"He came into our house - the cheek! After those insults, he had the gall-"

"I was only trying to help out but he completely bit my head off - crazy, the lot of 'em. Highly strung, don't do things by halves-"

_Shut up shut up shut up SHUT UP!_

Fili covered his ears with his hands, breathing heavily. The words were like nails, crashing through his skull, beating into his head, each one a fiery pinprick of agony. The escalating conversation broke into occasional shouts, as people called out at each other across the path. They were forgetting themselves. It was only a short break, a stop for lunch, to sit in little clusters and engage in idle banter. Fili sat alone, his voice silent and disused. He hadn't uttered a word to anybody. Not to Thorin, he avoided him. He gave Dwalin only silent nods or short grunts in response. And as they walked at the head of the pack, Fili and Ori passed the time wordlessly, still too anxious and awkward to look at one another, the embarrassment between them, from Fili seeing Ori's drawing of Kili all those weeks ago, heightened by the dwarf's untimely end. It would be a long time before Ori would pluck up the courage to even look in his direction, and Fili was content to wait.

So he leaned against the tree with his head in his hands as he tried to block out the noise of idle chatter, gurgling around him. He hated it. He couldn't stand it. _How could they?_ How could they sit there, as though nothing had ever happened, break into something resembling normalcy, and laughing, _laughing_ , as though there was no cause for sorrow? The hot sick anger rose within Fili, it turned him against them all. He despised them. He lowered his hands and clenched them into fists, the fingers over his ears doing nothing to muffle the high piercing voices that drove nails into his head and needles into his heart. It bubbled and burned over, his throat tangy and bitter from bile as he listened to the idle talk. He bit down on his lip, breathing in and out through his nose, bullishly, as his he struggled to keep his trembling fists at his side. He hated them. He hated them for doing what he could not, for banishing the thought of Kili from their minds, for forging onwards, for raising their voices in laughter and letting soft easy talk flow between them. For acting as though they had lost nothing.

It was a bitter, unfair hate, and Fili knew the folly in letting it burn within him. But he did, he stewed in his smouldering anger, letting the white-hot flames lick against his heart, his blackening, shrivelling heart, letting the flesh burn away. Let it burn away. If Kili was his heart, like Thorin had said, if Kili's last lingering existence in this earth was his heart, then surely, it was already dead. Surely it had died when he did, it was left to rot in fragments, scattered in pieces, consumed. Fili didn't realise that he had misinterpreted his uncle's analogy. He didn't realise that he had to keep his own heart whole and pure and good for Kili's sake, to comfort himself with his memory. It was supposed to give him warmth and light, like the latesummer afternoons Kili had loved so much. But instead, Fili let it curdle into a sour anger, let it burn away within him. And he burned alone. He ignored Thorin's gaze, turned away when Dwalin tried to talk to him or offered an arm, responding in monosyllabic grunts. And they could do nothing, they could only let him be. They could only wait as the anger that sparked that morning, when Fili confessed his deepest secret to find a conspiracy he'd been shut out of, burned through Fili. They could only wait for his anger to burn out, for Fili to shrivel up and collapse in on himself, or to explode in a white-hot rage. To stand, waiting to pick up the scorched pieces and put them back together. Neither of them wanted to do this. Neither of them could sleep, knowing Fili tossed and turned in a silent, building rage. They whispered to each other and gave Fili side-long looks, waiting for an explosion. Fili was stretched to the point of snapping, as he leaned against the tree, thirteen muddled voices curling and clambering around him. Unable to move, to speak, he remained motionless against the tree, head bent downwards as he listened in silence.

 _Kili_. He would give his own life in a heartbeat, to have him at his side, just for five minutes. To see him, just once. Fili couldn't think of him, couldn't picture his face, without having his eyes sting and blur. He bit down harder on his lip, tasting blood as he tightly shut his eyes. _No please._ He needed a respite. He couldn't keep doing this. Fili couldn't go an hour without having his brother's face rush back into his mind. It lingered there, haunting him. Whispering in his ear. _Why did you leave me._ He shook his head but the words kept at him. _Why did you leave me?_ It left him exhausted, the anger and grief. He stumbled on in a dream, food tasteless and sleep light and faltering, turned away from the Company. And without knowing what else to do, they let him. He was separate, apart in his lonely grief.

The beating of nails in his head increased. Fili opened dark blue eyes, watching as Nori roared his head back in laughter. It was a hammer, directly against his temple. He felt the blood pouring into his mouth and bit down harder, the stab of pain in his lip a momentary distraction from the white-hot rage that threatened to burst out of Fili in a scream. It coated his lips red; he raised a shaking hand to his mouth, looking at his bloodstained fingers, watching as a trickle of crimson slid down the underside of his index, pooling on the edge of his finger and falling to the forest floor in a single drop. He wasn't any calmer. If anything, the sight of his own blood made him feel worse. It was a painful memory to him and he wiped his fingers on his trousers, dragging a furred cuff across his bleeding mouth.

The red smear remained on his sleeve for some time, quite plainly in the gloom. Dwalin and Thorin both saw it, both exchanged a look, and Ori's were fixed on the stain for much of their silent walk. But Fili kept his head forward, ignoring their glances, the taste of iron in his mouth as he trudged forward in the forest. Turning his heart away from them.

And he burned in silence.

* * *

"Here - put 'em on."

Kili accepted the boots silently, thrusting his feet inside the stiff leather. He fumbled with the laces, still not used to the heavy cast on his arm that locked his wrist still, fingers stiff. They were sturdy, with good thick soles, and they managed to fit his feet quite well. He knew there was nothing worse than ill-fitting boots. They rose almost to his knees, tall enough for Kili to tuck the trousers into. He stood up and stamped around a little on the cave floor, Nazarg fighting back a smile as he watched him with crossed arms. It was like watching a child breaking in a new pair of shoes. Baduz grunted in low assent. Kili looked down at his feet, and up at the goblin who gave him the boots.

"They fit well." Kili spoke quietly, unsure of how to act towards the creature. "Thank you." With a roll of his eyes, Baduz grabbed Kili's chain. Nazarg straightened, arms unfolding.

"Where are you going now?"

"Forge." The goblin muttered. "Azog wants 'im there." Kili stared at him.  _What does he want with me there?_ Nazarg's brow was furrowed, the orc obviously considering the same thing.

"Then what?" Baduz gave a shrug, turning to leave the cave. He had his own theories, of course. He'd had a good enough look at Kili in the tiny banqueting hall, had seen that Azog was yet to mark Kili as his. Always a dangerous idea, amongst the company of orcs and goblins that were not under your dominion. He'd lost a prisoner that way before once, a scout of Glanduin he'd caught in the night. The scout escaped, and by the time Baduz found him, he'd already been killed by a clutch of orcs lingering beneath Moria. Sloppy of him, and he didn't do it again. Perhaps Azog was hesitant to mark him. Perhaps he simply didn't have the tools or the time. Either way, Baduz saw it as a gross oversight, a mistake he himself wouldn't make twice.

"Wait." Nazarg made a low sound, in the base of his throat. "Wait, I'm going." He fell into step beside Baduz, not knowing if or when he would have the opportunity to speak to Azog. He received a look of surprise. "What? I'm within my rights."

"Yes, I suppose you are." Baduz muttered darkly. Kili watched them both with wide, dark eyes. They walked on that awful, precarious boardwalk, the sloping wood angling down into the darkness. Kili kept his head down, listening to the pair talk. At least it was Westron, and he could understand them. "If it's about him, Azog isn't going to be interested in hearing about it."

"I'll make him interested." Nazarg spoke firmly. "Unless Azog wants him to fall over and die on the journey, he will listen to me." Nazarg saw the goblin turn to stare at him out of the corner of his eye. "I'm not speaking lightly Baduz."

"No, you never do." He spoke slowly, pondering every word. Nazarg exasperated him on the better days, but frequently the orc healer from Isengard left Baduz spitting with rage. He knew he was above the jurisdiction of Baduz, that he was here as a favour, a mercenary to Goblin-town, and Nazarg never let him forget it. He dropped the conversation, letting the walk continue in silence. And Mahal, it was a walk. Kili quickly  became very, very glad to have the protection of Baduz and Nazarg at his elbows as he was led downwards, deeper into the heart of the mountain, where the forges burned red-hot and iron was shaped into cruel shapes of pain and torture. They were given a wide berth, goblins darting out of the way to let the three pass. Baduz carried himself with a certain arrogant righteousness - they were right to step out of his path and they weren't to forget it. Head and shoulders taller than most of them, his skin a much darker shade of slate, Nazarg commanded a natural air of separation. He never pretended for a moment that he was one of the small brownish-grey creatures of Goblin-town, and they stepped back from him. But they looked at Kili. They darted around and crowed and squealed. It was exciting to have a dwarf amongst their city. Baduz carried his scimitar unsheathed, held out before him as the blade caught the light of countless fires and candles and lanterns. It wasn't a threat against Kili; it was a threat against anybody who dared to touch him.

The heat blasted in Kili's face instantly. There was something achingly familiar in the intense warmth, the clinking of hammer and tongs, the low hiss of red-hot iron thrust into pools of dark water. He closed his eyes, and for a moment, just a single, lingering moment, Kili was back in Ered Luin. He assigned the sounds to his own people, Fili and Thorin and Dwalin. But there was a tug on his neck, and it melted away, Kili opened his eyes to see himself within the bowels of Goblin-town, filled with fire and steam. It wasn't closed off, as the forges of his home were. This was high-ceilinged, open. Goblins worked in a huge writhing mass, pushing carts of coal, hunks of raw iron, thin muscles straining under heavy pans of water. Kili kept his eyes down, allowing himself to be led to the back of the maze-like cluster. Azog waited, leaning against the cave wall looking bored. His expression visibly changed as he saw Baduz approach the forge, with Kili in tow. He straightened up, a smile curling one side of his face.

"Excellent." Azog reached out, taking the chain in his hand. Kili kept silent through the exchange, eyes on the hearth. Something already rested within the red-hot coals. Azog spoke, black foreign words. An alien hand reached out, taking Kili by the neck. The dwarf yelped, pulled aside to the light of a hanging lantern. He caught sight a pair of glimmering eyes in a very twisted face, holding his shoulder still with one hand, the other taking a handful of hair, pulling Kili's head back as far as he could. The edge of iron dug painfully into his skin, Kili's eyes widening as he saw another approach him, two slim hooked tools in his hands. For a moment, blind panic seized Kili's heart, as he wondered what those sharp little hooks were going to do to him. But they weren't aimed at his neck or face. Instead they dug into the iron at Kili's neck, the tightness in his chest loosening as he realised with a sigh of relief what they were. Lockpicks. They were taking the collar off. _Thank Mahal._ Kili's shoulders sagged as the goblin worked, hands lax. It didn't take long; the iron fell to the floor with a heavy clunk in a few short minutes, Kili's hands immediately rising to his neck as the goblin released his hold on the dwarf's shoulder and hair. He rolled his shoulders, bending his neck forward and backwards, enjoying the deliciously free feeling of having an unbound neck. He didn't realise, until it was gone, just how stiff and painful the iron had been around his throat. How hard it had been for him to breathe. He breathed in now, deeply, swallowing without a choking press that closed his airway. It was so _light_ , without it. Kili felt almost dizzy, not used to the weightlessness on his shoulders.

"Over here." Azog muttered, dragging Kili very close to the hearth. Kili stared into the red-hot coals, an uncomfortable trepidation beginning to rise in his stomach. What did he want _now?_ Kili should have realised, that if Azog was willing to remove the iron collar from him, to let him wander about unbound, that he would have something else done to him, something to clearly state Azog's claim on him. "Baduz, you there, hold him." Nazarg stood behind Kili, watching the reflection of the hearth in Kili's dark eyes. He looked up at Azog eyes wide, filling with fear. "Both of you, _now."_ Kili took a step backwards, but Nazarg and Baduz were already there. "Give me his right arm." Kili's breath died as he watched Azog expertly slide his hand into a glove with the help of his teeth. _No what is he doing no no no_. Nazarg's grip on him was tight but not cruel. Just doing his job. With one hand on his shoulder, the other wrapped around his fingers, Baduz exposed Kili's arm to the hearth, his pale skin flushing in the heat. Kili let out a moan, pulling away as he realised what was heating in the flames. _A branding iron._

"No - please - I'll put the collar back on please don't do this!" Kili gasped as Azog reached into the fire. "No! Not there Azog you don't understand!" Nazarg's heart sank as Kili burst into desperate tears. " _Azog no!"_ He kicked out, Baduz hooking one thick leg around Kili's, keeping him very close. " _Anywhere else!"_ His hoarse screaming rose in the air, into the darkness above.  _No not there anywhere else._ The wrist of the sword-hand was sacred. It was where Kili would one day wear the name of the dwarf-lass he took for a wife. " _Not there!"_ Panic caught his tongue, stumbling over his words, making it hard to speak coherently. "The name I'll w-wear the name of my wife there Azog _please!"_ Why did he bother screaming in Westron? The two who held him down, they remained silent. Azog watched him, one eyebrow raised, as though waiting for Kili to finish. 

"Azog it's where dwarves wear the names of their lovers." Nazarg spoke in a low rush, speaking up for Kili, whose desperate screams fell on unhearing ears. There was a smile on Azog's face as he red-hot iron rose into the air. He wasn't surprised to hear it. The orc healer felt his heart sink, just a little further.  _Azog knew_. He already knew. Kili's struggling increased, he was twisting in their grasp and Nazarg had to hold him down very tightly, unable to do anything else. He knew his grasp was too tight on Kili's broken arm, knew he must be hurting him, but didn't dare to loosen his hold, and have Kili break free. He couldn't bear to face those consequences. 

" _No!"_ Kili screamed, arching his neck as the iron pressed into the skin of his wrist. It wasn't the pain that pulled at his heart. It was just a small mark, he could handle it, after what he had been through in the last days. It was the action, of having his right arm marked, marked with a symbol of Azog's choosing, one that would recall the orc king, burned into the space where Kili would eventually have had tattooed the name of his wife, should he be so lucky. Azog thrust the iron back into the forge, shaking his hand free of the glove as Nazarg released his hold on Kili. He wrenched his arm free of Baduz, a flash of strength, holding his burned wrist up to his eyes. It was, slightly modified, the letter 'A' in the mother tongue of orcs, although Kili did not know it. His mouth trembled at the symbol, the line across his wrist marked with two arrows. And he closed his eyes, pressing his wrist to his mouth as he shook his head. _How could he?_ Azog was speaking, indicating towards Nazarg. Kili sank to his knees, wrist still pressed against his shaking lips. It didn't matter if he explained it away. It was a mark that would never leave. His mother had hers burned off completely, but the heavy scarring still told a story, that somebody had once been there, somebody once laid claim to her. That was what Azog had done. He claimed Kili, he put his mark on him to show the world that Kili was his. Kili felt dazed, kneeling on the floor of the forge as the two orcs erupted in an argument around him. He didn't know what they were saying, he didn't care. It didn't matter. He ran his fingers over the mark, shaking his head with a moan. Even if he lived, even if he made it out of here, Kili would never, ever be the same. The other marks, they could have come from anywhere. He could have always put them down to battle. But this scar, this one on his wrist, was obvious, deliberate and unique. It was a mark of ownership. Azog put it there to show the world that Kili was _his._ Even if Kili ran away, even if he somehow found an escape, Azog would find him. Any orc or goblin who saw this would know in an instant that Kili was the property of Azog the Defiler. He was marked, for ever.

It was complete. Kili had lost everything, now. Everything he had with him, the morning he left Beorn's hall, everything was gone. He'd lost his clothes, his weapons and armour. He lost his pride. He lost his honour. He lost his necklace. And now, he'd lost his identity. He tried to tell himself that Thorin wouldn't mind, he would know that it was forced upon Kili, everything was forced upon him. But he had the overwhelmingly sick feeling that if Thorin ever laid eyes on him again, that he would look upon his nephew with shame, for what he had done. And the thought was unbearable. It left a lump of ice in his chest, Kili feeling cold, so cold at the thought. He wore the mark of an orc in the place where he should bear the name of his wife. And nothing could ever change that. Somebody grabbed at his elbow, pulling Kili to his feet. He followed on in silence. Let them. He had given up. The betrayal of his brother, and the imposition of an orcish name on the sacred skin of his wrist, it was too much for him. He didn't deserve to be called a son of Durin. He didn't deserve to be called a _dwarf._ His name, which had never meant much, was now truly worthless. There would be no tales of the bravery and heroism of Kili. The one who wore the name of an orc like a lover. He went very, very pale. That was what they would think. Those who didn't know him would see the symbol of an orc and think the worst. If there was a bigger affront to the name of Durin, Kili was yet to hear it. It didn't matter if it wasn't true. It was what they would think. 

Nothing could ever undo the damage that had been done against him.


	17. Bloodied Fingers

Dori knew something was wrong when his hand closed around the half-full mug of tea, the clay cold against his fingers. His younger brother had a particularly soft spot for Dori's chamomile tea, although of course he would never admit it. He pulled a face and sipped at it like medicine, knocking back long gulps when he thought nobody was looking, winding his fingers around the clay mug and breaking in deeply. But tonight it was left beside him, half-full. He looked down at the abandoned drink, raising it to his lips to check the taste. No, it was as soothing as ever, sweetened with a little honey, but stone cold. Beside him, Ori toyed with a loose piece of wool on his fingerless gloves, eyes reflecting the firelight. He looked exhausted, eyes half-lidded, head drooping downwards as he struggled to stay awake, sitting with crossed legs on his blanket.

"Ori." He touched his brother's shoulder, the young dwarf starting beneath the touch. He hadn't seen Dori. He looked over at him, looking strained, brittle. The little centre was otherwise abandoned - Bilbo was playing cards with Bofur, and Fili sat alone beneath a large tree, away from the group as he waited for the others to bunk down. He looked asleep himself, but Ori could see from his bed that Fili's hands were clenched into while-knuckled, trembling fists. "Ori, what's wrong? You always finish your tea."

"I'm fine." Ori whispered, sounding so obviously _not_ fine that Dori's heart stung. His grip tightened on Ori's shoulder, a soundless offer for him to continue. "I'm just tired."

"Why don't you go to sleep then?" He used that soft, low voice, the one reserved for when Ori was ill. He had been using it a lot, recently. Ori shook his head. "Do you want to come and sit with Nori and I? Bofur can deal you into the next round if you like."

"No - I'm fine." Ori was so weakly insistent that he was okay. "I'm all right here." He hadn't looked over at Dori at all. Concerned, the elder dwarf leaned in, following Ori's eyeline. His gaze was fixated on Fili. _Oh._

"Why don't you go sit with Fili? You've been walking with him recently." Dori didn't realise that it was only because Fili wanted to avoid Thorin, because he knew at least that if he walked with Ori he could be guaranteed silence. Ori's gaze broke, he looked over at his brother with those huge, wide eyes. "He's very lonely Ori. Nobody knows what to say to him. He won't listen to the words of an old fool like me, but you're around his age. Go sit with him."

"But Dori-"

"Hush. You don't have to talk about Kili. You don't have to say anything at all. Just sit with the lad for a few minutes." He stood up, taking Ori's hand, the other still clasped around the cold mug of tea.

"Dori no." Ori stood up, but he didn't move, toes curling in his socks. "Please - I haven't spoken to him in weeks. I wouldn't know what to say." Dori was frowning at him.

"Why? Did he say something?" Did Dori have to go and sort him out? Heir of Durin or not, Dori would contest Fili in a heartbeat, if he had any inkling that the blonde had hurt his younger brother. "I didn't know you had a falling-out."

"We didn't." Ori's eyes lowered to his fraying sleeves, his cheeks slowly turning red. "He-he _knows,_ Dori." His voice faded to an embarrassed whisper. He couldn't look at the grey-haired dwarf, shoulders hunched over in some sort of anticipation for a blow. He knew Dori wouldn't smile through this.

"What?" He didn't. Dori grabbed his shoulder, very tightly, fingers biting into Ori's skin as he pulled him in, cold tea slopping over his sleeve as he scolded his brother under his breath. "How? I told you not to tell anybody Ori. Mahal, _please_ tell me you didn't tell Kili."

"I didn't tell them." Ori whispered back. "I still haven't told anybody Dori. Only you." His face was redder than ever. "Fili saw one of my drawings..." He stumbled over his words, still staring resolutely down at his hands. "He went quiet and didn't talk to me again - and whenever Kili would talk to me, he'd find some reason to pull him away."  He didn't mention how Fili pulled him aside in the morning, after obviously stewing over the drawing all night, fiercely whispered in Ori's ear to stay away from Kili or he'll get a punch in the kidneys so hard he'd piss blood for a week. That if he ever saw another drawing of Kili, he'd break Ori's skinny little fingers. Ori remembered with a repressed shiver the flash in Fili's blue eyes, the scowl on his lips. He didn't look like himself that morning. He looked like some sort of animal.  "So - I think he figured it out."

Not that it helped at night. At night, Ori and Kili slept side by side, because Bilbo complained that Ori's particularly whistling snore kept him awake, when they were close. So it was Ori, Kili, Fili, and Bilbo, in a little row, close enough for Ori to reach out and touch Kili's outspread hair, a splayed hand, if he ever dared. Ori now wished bitterly, that just once, he had. Dori closed his eyes. _How had he missed this?_ He gave Ori the sternest, firmest possible talking to before leaving their home. He couldn't stress enough how bad it would be if anybody ever knew. That Ori would be kicked out of Thorin's Company, of Ered Luin, faster than he could blink. That he had to keep his head down and promise not to act odd in front of Kili. And for so long, Dori thought his brother had been coping, that nobody was the wiser. Instead, Kili's own brother had a pretty clear picture of what was going on. Oh, poor Ori. He looked almost beside himself now, in remembrance."You fool Ori." There was a genuine anger in Dori's voice. "I told you to keep all of that down. You're lucky Fili hasn't told his uncle." He glanced over at Thorin. No, there was no way his king knew. He would have sent Ori away, the moment he heard even a whisper. He wouldn't tolerate it. _Especially_ if his nephew was involved. "Where is the book now? Beneath the Misty Mountains, I suspect, with everything else." Ori nodded silently. "Mahal." He let out a long breath. "Ori - what am I going to do with you?"

"W-Well..." Dori's heart clenched, when he realised he'd driven his youngest brother to tears. "I-It doesn't matter anymore now, does it?" Ori wiped at his eyes with his unravelling sleeve, sniffling. The tight grip on his shoulder loosened. "I mean - he's not..." Ori swallowed, breaking off with a shrug.

"I said would end in heartbreak Ori. Didn't I?" But not like this. He never thought it would end like this. The hard edge had fallen completely from his lowered voice. Several of the others looked over at the pair, curious, but they all let the brothers be. They all knew when to keep their long noses out of other dwarves' business. Ori only nodded silently. "I'm sorry. That was unkind." The hand at Ori's shoulder shifted, rubbing his back slowly. "Sit down lad. I'll refresh this." Ori sat back down on his bed in silence, rubbing at his cheeks with his fingers, through the soft wool of his half-mittens. He watched as Dori rustled around in front of the fire, batting away a hand-sized moth that flapped about his head. None of them like dealing with the moths, with the eyes that stared out at them in the flickering shadows, but none of them were prepared to deal with a night of complete darkness, not yet.

But Fili came as Dori bent over the fire. Ori looked through his fingers with a pounding heart, barely daring to breathe as Fili shrugged himself out of his heavy coat, kicking off his boots. He watched as the blonde sat on his bed, facing Ori. But he didn't look at him. Fili's hands stretched out, onto the ground, curling into the forest floor as he bent his head. He looked at the empty space in his hands, the one that shrank, with every night, as the beds drew in closer, as the gap Fili kept in remembrance was pushed tighter and tighter, until it would disappear completely, and Fili and Ori would lie side by side in the night, as though nothing had ever been between them. Dori stood up from the fire, seeing Fili and Ori so close together, and he sat back down, pretending to sip at the fresh tea, listening intently. Ori lowered his hands slowly, clenching them into fists, watching his knuckles turn white.

"I'm sorry." Ori's voice surprised the both of them. Fili looked up, his eyes red, marked with shadows, the blue of his irises looking very, very dark in the shadows. "I'm so- I'm so sorry." Ori gasped, finding it hard to speak. Fili lowered his gaze back down to the ground, to the dirt that he pawed in. "Please - I - I never I-"

"Ori." Fili's voice was _hoarse._ Ori fell silent, watching as the dirt and leaves sprouted between Fili's fingers. "Stop." His head remained bowed. Every word from Ori's mouth, it was a fresh knife in his heart. He couldn't be near him, couldn't look at him, without cold memory. Without remembering with an awful jolt, seeing his brother's face sketched with such grace and care on the white page, so close, close enough to reach out and touch. The way Ori would smile at himself as he drew, would nibble on his lower lip, keeping the book very upright, turned away from his kin. _How could he not realise sooner?_ "Just stop." _Forever._ Fili wanted to scream at him. Wanted to grab Ori's shoulders and shout at him to never let Kili's name cross his lips, to never let him besmirch the name of his brother. Wanted to call him the worst, most awful names and curses. Disgust boiled in his stomach, it made his fingers tremble and itch. He's contained himself, for weeks, knowing nothing would protest Kili's innocence better than absolute silence. He didn't keep quiet for Ori's sake. He did it for Kili - because he was terrified that if anybody ever heard about it, if they knew, they would say Kili _asked_ for it. That he led Ori on, that he acted in such a way that invited such attention. Because he was _so_ different, because he had no beard and he didn't braid his hair and he was so thin. Because he looked more like one of their maidens and, well, that spoke volumes, didn't it?

So he held his tongue, let those four words be his speech, his long monologue. There was nothing more to say. And he raised hands from the earth, shaking the dirt from his fingers, straightening. The tracks on his cheeks glistened in the amber firelight, and Ori held his tongue, humiliated. Crouched by the fire, Dori listened to see how his brother would respond. But there was nothing to listen to. Ori couldn't speak. He didn't dare to. Talk slowed and quietened, until eventually Thorin called for the fire to be put out, for the group to bunk down for the night. They were thick and weary, snoring and snuffling in the darkness. Fili was reminded of a nest of badgers, curled together beneath the ground, all fur and claws and glistening eyes. He pulled the blanket over himself, and his coat too, but he was still very cold. His limbs shook and he pulled the blanket over his nose, the cramping cold sending ice through his limbs. It was a long time before he could sleep.

But not as long as Ori. He lay on his back for hours in the pitch black, feeling the tears leaking out of his eyes and into his hair. Thinking of Kili. Of the dark-eyed archer who was the first to step forward in a fight, who once stuck up for Ori when a gang of thugs tried to steal his books in Bree. Who showed Ori how to ride in the saddle without getting a sore bum. Who could make anybody laugh.

_Who Ori killed._

* * *

There was sweat on Nazarg's forehead - but it wasn't from the forge.

His hands curled into fists, watching as Kili sank to his knees after breaking free from Baduz, raise his wrist to his mouth, breathing in short, uneven gasps. He was shaking his head and moaning to himself, moaning something unintelligible. Baduz was laughing at him, prodding him in the side with his foot. Nazarg remained still and watchful, the nails of his grey fingers making thick ridges in his palms. And Azog had a look of cool, quiet satisfaction on him, one steeped in memory.  Nazarg wondered what he was thinking about. He didn't realise that this was not the first time that Azog had his name written upon a dwarf of Durin's line. Nor would it be the last, if Azog's plans came to their violent fruition.

"And _you."_ Nazarg looked up as Azog turned to him. "The famed healer from Isengard." There was a very obvious sneer on the orc king's face. Nazarg allowed himself to feel insulted, replicated the cold, level stare that came in his direction. "This the best you can do?" He visibly bristled at the insult. How _dare_ he. It was obvious to everybody that Kili had undergone a marked improvement from the broken, half-dead captive on the edge of starvation.

"Considering that _state_ he was in, yes." Baduz shot the orc a look of cold fury, thinking Nazarg assumed an air of blinding arrogance. "You nearly killed him - and you _will_ if you continue to treat him like a beast." He inwardly winced at his own words, his defense of Kili. It was shameful, sticking up like this for a  _dwarf_. But he was only doing what was asked of him. He was merely following orders. Care without compassion, it was worthless. "He can't keep living like this." Azog's eyes were focused on him, staring very, very intently at Nazarg's mouth as he spoke, as though his lips carried some sort of secret. "I've never seen a dwarf so frail."

"I was not aware the fords of Isen had regular contact with dwarves." Azog snarled, his voice poisonous. "I recall no settlement to the south." Nazarg followed that cold, unbreaking stare. "I have personally dealt with hundreds of _dwarves_ over the last century, orc-healer." Nazarg swallowed. "They are stronger than men and elves. They last longer without food and rest. They stand up better to pain."

"Not Kili." Something twitched in Azog's face at the mention of his name. "Don't be a fool Azog-"

" _Watch yourself."_

 _"_ I _said_ , don't be a fool." Nazarg spoke over Baduz, unafraid. He had the name of Isengard behind him, the underground city lingering beneath a green forest, one that grew silently, veiled from the eyes of men. One destined to wreak havoc and destruction on the grand kingdoms of the south. "He's broken Azog. Look at him." They both cast a glance towards the young dwarf, kneeling on the stone with his face in his hands, shaking. "If you want him to live long enough to parade in front of Thorin, you need to stop torturing him at every possible opportunity." Did Azog completely lack a sense of compassion, an understanding of just what he was doing to Kili? Nazarg couldn't understand why he would treat the dwarf so badly, if he plainly had real use for him. He needed to make Azog understand that Kili could die if he was forced to go on as before - but it seemed empathy was completely beyond the orc king.

"Nazarg, I _swear-"_ But Baduz fell silent as Azog raised his hand in a wordless gesture of quiet. Azog was staring at him, his startling blue eyes boring deep into Nazarg, trying to read him for any ulterior motive. Nazarg held up under the wordless interrogation, straight-backed, his hands still clenched into fists.

"So you are saying that he will die without care." They stared straight at each other, the king from Moria, and the healer from Isengard. Both who forged a name and reputation for themselves. One for blood, violence, death and pain, the other for skill, compassion, and intelligence.

"Yes. I am saying that." Nazarg spoke very clearly, as Azog narrowed his eyes, struggling to read the orc. Trying to understand why one of his people would have such an outward care for the well-being of a _dwarf._ He didn't understand that it was in Nazarg's nature to act with unwavering kindness the sick or injured was set down before him, regardless of race. Saving lives was his purpose, and he was _good_ at it. Nazarg would think that Azog, of all orcs, would understand the value of a skilled healer, considering his own mutilation.

"Your place within my company will be greatly valued then." Nazarg's eyes widened, a smile twitching at Azog's mouth as he saw the expression. Baduz made a muted sound in his throat. That was _not_ part of the deal. He couldn't lose the only soul beneath this mountain who could wrestle his goblins from the jaws of death. This was beyond arrogance. They would _die_ without someone to care for them.

"No." Nazarg shook his head. "My place is _here_." He waved his arm about the forge. "Before I arrived, the Great Goblin left his sick and injured to die in the streets, to have their bodies picked over and left to rot. I'm not leaving them." Azog looked at him, cold and impassive. "I'm _not_ leaving!"

"I didn't ask." Azog began to swing his mace idly, Nazarg suddenly reminded of just how tall the orc king was. He was head and shoulders above even him, dwarfing most of the slouching little goblins that scuttled about the forge. He squared his shoulders, taking in a breath.

"With all due respect Azog, I'm an orc of Isengard and I answer only to-"

"But you're not _in_ Isengard. You're beneath the Misty Mountains. _My_ mountains." Baduz visibly bristled, insulted at Azog's sweeping claim to the domain he currently fought for dominion over. "You may have these creatures eating out of your hand, but I won't be swayed by the threat of a faraway kingdom." Nazarg was very, very still. Kili had gone limp on his knees, fingers knotted in his hair. "I assume you will have your own warg, being an orc of such high standing from Isengard." There was something cool and sarcastic in Azog's voice with the last words, one that sent Nazarg's blood boiling. He opened his mouth, ready to burst out screaming, that Azog had _no right_ to speak to him like this, to order him around like a common snaga, that he had earned respect and admiration after years of tireless work, and was not going to have it undone by abandoning his post on the whim of a despotic king. He was furious, he was beyond furious. A white-hot rage course through him, coming out in a low growl beneath his voice.

And for a single moment, the darkness of Isengard eclipsed Nazarg's normal mask of calm. His teeth were bared in a slate-grey face, black blood gathering on the ridges of his nails as his fists clenched to whiteness. He thought of Thrazarsh, with his missing leg, Durk's collapsed lung and Sorlug's crushed spine. They only lived while Nazarg was there to cauterize and stitch and bandage. And there would be others - there always was. Accidents at the forge, an outbreak of disease, in-fighting, a rogue warg gone mad - his broad services were exhausted at the best of times. _He couldn't do this._ But he his angry complaints would have fallen on deaf ears - because Azog was _right._ He wasn't in Isengard, not anymore. While Grimuz and Baduz sneered at Nazarg and looked at him with disdain, they still had a deep respect for what the healer had done for their town. But Azog had no such concerns. They were not his people; they were a pale shadow of his vast tribe of brutish orcs beneath Moria. He cared nothing for them. He had come to plunder Goblin-town of their best fighters, wargs, and supplies, and now that included Nazarg. And he was powerless against the mighty king of Moria. He could do _nothing._

"Yes." It was a death knell to half a dozen goblins resting in his cave, and to countless others. Nazarg felt sick, thinking on them. He had failed in his basic duty. But he had _no other choice._ To disobey Azog meant death. And dead, he could not return to resume his work. _They only ever had a chance._ He reminded himself.  _It happens._ But his stomach was uncomfortably tight, burning with shame and failure. "I do." His shoulders slumped, defeated. He received only a grunt and a smirk in response, Azog turning away from him and reaching out, seizing Kili by the elbow. He rose to his feet with the mechanical, separate stiffness of somebody very far away. His eyes were unfocused, face the colour of bone. Nazarg caught the mark on Kili's wrist, reminded once more of how he screamed, how he desperately sobbed that it was a place reserved for the sacred tattoo of his lover's name. Nobody, Nazarg knew, would want him now. Prince or not, he was tarnished. But he couldn't linger on it. Numerous faces jostled for attention in his mind's eye, images of the sick and dying, slinging desperately to the last threads of life, threads Nazarg kept spinning, watching as some thickened into sturdy ropes, while others dissolved into blackness. He had to go back, to spend his last hours beneath the stone in a frantic attempt to pass on orders, to teach everything he could to his underlings Klug and Zark, throw everything he could at them and hope that something would stick. To find that little goblin-child with the boil and get it lanced before infection ruined the arm. To crush the very last of his stolen herbs into something resembling a salve. Kili disappeared from Nazarg's mind completely as he turned away, boiling with inner rage, his clenched fists shaking in furious humiliation. He'd never had his work dismissed with such carelessness. It rocked him. Azog had _no right_ to do this.

He caught the glance of Baduz as he walked away, their eyes meeting in a momentary, sidelong gaze. The goblin's mouth was fixed in a muted snarl, his anger visible, fouling the air around him. He too then, wrestled with a blinding fury that threatened to come out as an attack against Azog.

But Baduz too, was powerless against him.


	18. Amongst the Ruins

More darkness and fire. It flashed around Kili, dragged about like a broken doll, following Azog with a hitched gasp, struggling to keep up with the orc king's long, loping strides. The screeching. The jeers. He kept his head downwards, at his feet as his heart thrummed in his ears, a drum resounding through his head. A deep, low drum, that beat all too fast against the inside of his skull. Kili shook his head, but couldn't clear it. His wrist flashed outwards, the mark glancing at him, searing into his brain, and Kili had to stop, battling a wave of sick terror that rose in his chest. Azog pulled at him, snarling, but Kili couldn't move. His fingers brushed the branded skin, lips trembling. He still couldn't comprehend it. This changed _everything_ for Kili. He knew now, there was no disguising from anybody where he had been, what he had done. Even a foreign tribe of dwarves who didn't know his name, they would see his wrist and they would _know._

Kili cried out as Azog grabbed a handful of hair, at the top of his head where it hurt the most, jerking painfully. Forced to stumble on, to follow behind, Kili let his arm drop to the side, not wanting to see it. But he could _feel_ it. It burned, it throbbed with his heartbeat, the one that boomed in his head. And he couldn't forget it. What would Fili say, when he saw it? For he would surely see it, if Kili lived long enough to see his brother, as Azog promised. Azog would hold his arm forward and show how he had spoiled the youngest sibling, had marked him. He would revel in the way Thorin cried out in anguish and Fili cursed and shouted. For wasn't it the entire point, to bring Kili out, to show off his meticulous work, how he had taken something so rash and carefree and bright, and burned and beaten and broken him down into the dried-out shell that allowed himself to be dragged by the hair, deeper and deeper into the heart of the mountain? He had no idea of just how depraved Azog's plan had become.

There was a horrible smell, of burning, rotting meat. It made his stomach heave and the sour taste of bile dance on his tongue. His head jerked up, against Azog's hand, as the pair stepped into yet another dark, narrow cave. Kili held his breath. He could hear the growling, yapping and snapping and fighting, coming out of the darkness. His heart clenched, his hand gripped the mace in Azog's arm out of pure instinct. Something to hold on to. He knew the sound that came from the darkness. _Wargs._ Azog looked down at him, the hands that clung to his weapon. Kili was shaking, shrinking away from the darkness with very wide eyes, staring blindly into the dark. _Never seen a dwarf so frail._ The words echoed in his head. Kili wasn't the _most_ frail, not to Azog. That had to be the snivelling younger brother of Thorin Oakenshield, who grovelled at his feet, panting through an arrow wound, broken fingers scrabbling at the head of his grandfather,  _sobbing_ for his life. They had the same large brown eyes. The other children and grandchildren of Thror had piercing blue irises, so light and clear. But he remembered the shockingly dark gaze, turned upwards, dripping tears. And remembered his surprise, at seeing the crest of Durin in the hair, around the throat, of somebody who begged and cried so openly.

Not the _most_ frail - but a close second.

"I've been expecting your Greatness." Kili gasped at the voice, coming from behind them. His grip on Azog's mace tightened. The orc turned to see Grimuz, his watery grey skin shining in the dim light. "I have alerted the keeper of the wargs of your arrival, and he has selected his finest specimens, if you would care to follow me." Azog snarled very openly at the tone, but followed. He released his hold on Kili's hair, the dwarf still clinging to the black metal in his arm. His fear of wargs was obvious. Azog remembered the sheer number he found on the plains of Bruinen outside Rivendell, straight through the throat, the heart. They were excellent shots, far better than any other he had seen from a dwarf. It was difficult to imagine this terrified child was the one who ended the lives of a good quarter or so of his original contingent - but his scout swore blind the archer had no beard. The sound of growling grew louder, Kili's thudding heart deafening. He could barely handle the greying warg that lapped at his face and back - it was only her supposed gentleness, Nazarg's firm insistence, that kept him still. He heard the horrible sound of a body thudding against iron, a snapping.

They descended even further. The keeper, a bellowing, long-limbed creature with rotting teeth and a drooping paunch by the name of Dalg, waited with a torch before the row of cells. They were originally designed for prisoners. Kili saw by the yellow light that the first cell had scratches marked into the walls, a tally. And runes. His stomach tightened. Khuzdul runes. _Nyr. Third year of Nain I's reign._ His people were imprisoned in this stone - hundreds of years before. These cells held dwarves. Kili found his throat had closed, voice completely lost as he stared at the runes. Another in the cell - _Ginnar_. _Fiftieth year of Thorin I's reign._ They invoked the name of his ancestors. His fingers fell lax on Azog's mace, he took a step forward, trying to read more of them in the torchlight.  _Regin. Eighty-seventh year of Durin VI's reign._ His hands closed around the iron bars, breath lost in his throat as he scanned the shadowy cell, searching for any other sign of his lost people. His curiosity got the better of him - the horrible sounds that clashed against the stone had vanished from his mind. These were old markings - eight hundred years, it had been, since Durin VI sat on the throne of dwarves. Their children, their children's children, would be long dead. Ten generations had passed, since Durin VI, and Kili. Ten generations ago, a dwarf was trapped here, locked beneath the stone, destined to die. And in a desperate effort to ensure he would be remembered, he scratched his name, the name of his king, into the stone, deep marks, to withstand the ages. And then another followed. And another. Kili forgot himself completely, his nose poked through the bars. Azog was snarling at him, some warning in Black Speech, but Kili ignored him, looking at the stone, the names. He had to memorise them. He couldn't bear to ever forget them. Nyr, Ginnar, Regin, An, Nithi, Bruni. He repeated them in his mind, not paying any head to the low grow from within the cell. Nyr, Gunnar, Regin, An, Nithi-

A bark sounded from the darkness. The shadows heaved, with brown fur and eyes the colour of fire, as the warg within the cell rushed at the bars. Kili screamed, scampering backwards and tripping over in his haste to get away, falling heavily against Azog's legs, gasping for air in shock and terror. It was _huge,_ foaming out the mouth, throwing itself against the bars in an effort to break free, finger-length fangs snapping in the flickering yellow light. The other three laughed at Kili, leaning against Azog's legs and hyperventilating. The warg's roar set the others off, and they all began to wrestle and strain against the cell bars, the sound filling the dank air. _Come on you idiot._ He cursed himself. _Breathe. Just breathe._ As the laughter faded, he raised his head slowly, struggling to hold the quivering air in his lungs, letting it escape in a long, slow breath. He curled his hands into fists and rose to his feet, squaring his shoulders. Seeing Kili rise, the warg threw himself against the bars once more and Kili visibly flinched, a fresh chuckle coming from the keeper at Kili's strained reaction.

"Not a fan of wargs, dwarf?" Dalg sneered at Kili, walking past him, slinging his iron club over his shoulder. "This 'ere is Dugh." He rapped at the bars, switching to Black Speech. "Hates dwarves. Hate's 'em. We keep 'im in the cells all th' time, so the smell keeps 'im rarked up. Don' it Dugh?" The warg threw himself headlong into the bars a fourth time, burning eyes fixed on Kili. Azog stood several paces from the cage, looking thoroughly unimpressed.

"Tell me, warg-keeper. Why would I choose to ride a beast with a blood-lust bent towards dwarves, when I am holding one prisoner?" Dalg faltered, watery eyes widening as he looked Kili up and down. Oops.

"You _idiot_ Darg." Grimus groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. Kili's eyes were locked with the warg, who paced the cell, back and forth, keeping a low, continuous growl. "Please tell me you haven't bred the entire litter to hunt out the smell of dwarf-scum."

"Well - not _all_ of 'em." The warg-keeper's eyes slid uneasily from Azog to Grimuz. "But - come on, we all love th' taste of dwarf-flesh, am I right?" Kili's eyes flickered up to Darg, noticing how _hungrily_ the goblin stared at him. He stepped back with a shudder, drawing, although he didn't quite realise it, closer to Azog.

"My wargs were well trained enough to restrain themselves." Azog eyed the warg, watching as he rammed his head into the bars, foam flecked on the ground. Kili flinched, earning a snicker from Darg. "And my soldiers, too."

"Well - come down 'ere." Clearly annoyed, Darg turned away from the raging warg. "Shut it, Dugh." He rapped the club against the bars, Dugh shrinking back with a whine. "This 'ere is Talg. E's got a mean bite. C'mon Talg, open up them gnashers." He poked the club through the bars of the cell, the chestnut-coloured warg snapping at the iron weapon. "Tears right through skin, fur, armour, you name it." There was a swagger creeping into his voice. "And he's a biggun', too. Enough to carry your Malevolence across any vast distance." Azog stared through the bars of the cell at the creature, watching its hungry, yellow eyes. Kili couldn't look at any of them, he kept his eyes downward, struggling to keep himself calm, to breathe. Trying to tell himself that he was being irrational, that no harm would possibly come to him, not while Azog was about.

"I see." He sounded mildly impressed. Azog approached the bars, tilting his head to get a better look at Talg. "Tell me - do you have any female wargs?"

"Females?" Darg blinked. "Well - o' course, not in 'ere, but-"

"Females, warg-keeper, while as a rule not as large as their male counterparts, are undoubtedly more fierce and aggressive, particularly if they have pups." It was a mother's instinct, that sent their nerves aflame, left them teetering on a fit of rage, ready to give out at any moment. Nink had three litters of beautiful white-silver wargs, and after each pup was weaned, she grew harder, meaner and more violent. "Bring me to your best breeding females."

"O-O' course, your Greatness." Darg cast Grimuz a sidelong look as he turned, beckoning them all to follow down the dark passageway. Kili kept very close to Azog, the growling and whining and snapping setting his pulse on fire. They all smelled him, they yearned through the bars to tear him limb from limb, to feast on his flesh and bones.

"Skung! Look sharp!" The warg-keeper barked his orders as he stamped into a low, wide room. This, at least, was set with half-a-dozen torches, flickering in brackets against the damp cave walls. The makeshift pens came up to Kili's chest, made from petrified, ancient wood. The smell was horrendous. Eight mothers curled on their sides, each with four or six or ten pups, biting and yapping in the torchlight. The goblin at the far pen straightened at the sight of Azog, mouth falling open. He curled himself in a bow, a mutter of 'your Greatness' going unheard by the orc king as he cast a look inside the first pen. This one was far too small. He wrinkled his nose, shaking his head. Kili watched Azog inspect the next little pen, but that too was passed by with a sneer. Darg began to feel both affronted and a little nervous. He thought his wargs, while not as magnificent as those found in Isengard or Gundabad, were still excellent specimens, bred with care over the decades to be light, quick and strong. Kili followed Azog, breathing thickly through his mouth. But the smell of meat, of droppings and decay, it caked his tongue, the dwarf choking down a gag. Finally, Azog paused in front of the second-to-last pen in the row, leaning forward to examine the warg who caught his interest. She nursed three pups, mere days away from being weaned, her fur a thick grey, glistening with silver at the tips. Her left ear was forked, a nasty scar running down her cheek.

"Ah, that's our Grishuz." Azog's eyes flicked towards Darg for a moment. Grishuz meant  _bloody_ in Black Speech - a good sign. "This is her sixth litter. Not as big as some o' the others, but she's a fighter, all righ'. We used t' run 'er against the bears." Azog's lip curled - he never approved of using wargs for sport. They were noble creatures of battle, not the playthings of orcs. "She's as fast as she ever was." Kili peered over the edge of the pen, fingers curling around the wooden rim. He looked at the three pups, sleeping in a huddle. They were half the size of ordinary wolves, but already had the teeth, the claws, of fully-grown wargs. One of them could still bring him down, grab him by the leg and pounce. Kili was reminded just how small he was, even here, with half the goblins around his height. These beasts were bred for creatures much larger than he.

" _Fûth."_ Grishuz lifted her head at the command. Awaken. Up. Azog held his hand out to her. " _Skaat."_ Come. The pups shifted about as she rose to her feet, crossing the tiny pen. Azog nodded. She knew her basic words, at the least. Grishuz sniffed the outstretched hand for a moment, settling down on her hind legs. Azog pressed his hand against her nose, a sign of natural dominance. And she licked his hand, a sign that she accepted. Azog ran his finger over the thick scar, checking to see her vision wasn't spoiled. But her eyes were clear and bright, reflecting the golden torchlight. And he nodded, in satisfaction. "She will serve well." While the silver-grey warg was no Nink, he could see himself astride her, could see her fierce teeth and eyes tearing apart her prey, her large paws leaping lightly across grass and rock. If only she wasn't so _small._ Azog sighed, looking over to Kili. Because he wouldn't be riding alone. He would have a passenger - Azog wouldn't risk simply handing Kili over to somebody else.

"She's too small." Disappointment was evident in Darg's voice as he watched Azog stare at Kili. "T' carry both, she's too small."

"I _want_ her." Azog growled, looking the warg up and down as she sat before him obediently. "This is the one I want."

"You'll have to ride alone." Grimuz spoke up. Azog snarled at him, eyes flashing. "She can't bear the both of you, you'll break her back." Kili listened to the exchange quietly, not knowing they were talking about _him._ "Unless you want the dwarf-scum to ride something else, you'll have to get a bigger warg." Azog narrowed his eyes, looking from Grishuz to Kili, and back again. And he had a thought. One that slotted in _so perfectly_ with the plan that slowly grew in his mind. One he wished he'd thought of before.

"Tell me warg-keeper, do you have juvenile wargs? Not pups, but not fully-grown? Have you trained them?" Darg nodded, in surprise. "Trained them _well_?"

"O' course, your Malevolence."

"Trained them to resist dwarf-meat?" Darg looked up at Azog, head tilting as he finally realised what Azog was getting at. "One for him?" He jabbed Kili in the shoulder, the dwarf looking up at Azog, realising that all three were looking at him.

"What's going on - why are you looking at me?" Only Grimuz and Darg could decipher the Westron, but Azog read the confusion in his voice. Kili backed into the pen, feeling the petrified wood dig into his spine. Why were they looking at him?

"Y-Yeess." Darg looked deep in thought. "E's a runt, but pretty docile. T' be honest, 'es destined for the bear-trap. Skung! Get Nardur will you!" He hollered behind him, the goblin scampering away. Nardur. _Small._ Azog fought down a sneer. "Does 'e ride?"

"My soldiers found a number of ponies while searching for them in Bruinen." And delicious they were, too. Darg chuckled darkly.

"These aren't ponies." He had to allow a swagger to creep back into his voice. No, indeed. There was a clang, a whine, and Skun returned with a grey warg in tow. Two-thirds the size of the nursing mothers in the pen, Nardur sniffed the air cautiously, catching the unfamiliar smell with his nose. "E's too young to know what dwarf-smell is." Skung kicked the warg in the side, muttering at him to sit. "A bit thick, but e's got the basic commands righ'." Azog grabbed Kili by the arm. They both approached the warg, Kili shaking visibly in Azog's hold, turning away. Even a small warg like this, it sent his stomach cramping. He closed his eyes and couldn't look. Azog took his wrist, fingers brushing the fresh mark with a smirk, placing it on the nose of Nardur. Kili's eyes snapped open at the touch, throat closing as he found his hand on the warg, Azog holding him fast, unable to pull away. He gave Kili's wrist a tight squeeze, a wordless command to hold it in place, before lifting his hand away. Kili stood in silence, his quivering hand resting on the warg's nose. Nardur and Kili locked eyes. There were several tense, endless moments, where Kili thought he would pass out, where he bit his lip to keep from crying out in terror, so sure that his fingers were going to be bitten off, or the warg would rush at him, with a howl and a bark and tear at his throat.

Nardur licked his fingers.

Kili's breath tightened, he watched as the warg lapped at his palm, his wrist. He stood it for only a few moments before pulling his hand away, taking a step back from the creature with a heaving chest. Nardur cocked his head and looked at him. With his mouth closedtilted head, he looked so _doglike._ Their gaze was yet to break.

"Excellent." Azog's voice sounded behind him. "Have them both ready to go in the morning." Kili wiped the saliva from his hand onto the fabric of his rawhide trousers, shaking hsi head as he realised what was happening. How he'd repeated Azog's actions in holding his hand over the warg's nose. This creature - was it _his?_ Kili watched as the beast was led away, fingers still tingling from where he'd been licked.

"I don't understand." He spoke up, hoping one of the two would answer him. "Is it - is it _mine?"_

"You should consider yourself lucky, dwarf." Grimuz sneered. "Very few souls outside our people have the pleasure to ride a warg." Kili turned, looking at the goblin. But he already had. Kili shook his head.

"I can't." He whispered. "I can't - there's no way, I-I can't..."

"It's a better alternative to walking on foot." Azog frowned, prodding Darg on the shoulder, asking him to translate. The Black Speech, already mangled in the warg-keeper's rusty accent, was made worse by the effort of translation, his voice slow and stumbling.

"I have the clothes - the weapons," for his new bow was still in Azog's pack, "I've eaten the food, I have this _scar_ , I can't ride a warg too!" Kili's eyes shifted to Azog. "I'm a dwarf! Not an orc - a _dwarf."_ He repeated the words, more to himself than to the three who stood around him. He didn't know who he was trying to convince. "I-If you give me a pony I can-"

"And where would you find a pony?" Grimuz sneered. "Stop complaining, you ingrate. Do you even realise how _lucky_ you are, to be alive? That Azog has bothered to feed and clothe you? We have never shown such hospitality to dwarf-scum beneath this mountain." Kili remembered the runes scratched into the cell walls. Nyr, Regin, Ginnar, and - and - _oh no I've forgotten the rest._ Kili's heart sank, he listened to the goblin in silence, head bowed like a disobedient child. "If I were Azog, I'd give you a-"

"Enough Grimuz." Azog spoke over him, reaching out to take Kili's arm. Grimuz watched as Azog lead the dwarf away, shaking his head. It was blatant favourtism. He didn't understand what Azog was _getting at_. This wasn't how you treated prisoners. You made sure they knew their place, you kept them bound, subdued, in pain. You didn't try to heal the wounds you gave them, to give them new clothes and a weaponand a warg. He didn't understand that Azog had begun playing the long game. He had realised, wrapped up in his furs as he slept, thinking of Kili alone and in pain, thinking of how he slipped further and further, ebbing closer to death, that keeping him in a perpetual state of torture for the long time it would take to find Thorin Oakenshield and his company - for surely, they would be in Mirkwood by now - meant he would be showing to the exiled king a corpse. And he thought, long and hard, about another way he could get at Thorin through his captive nephew.

And it came to him. It came to him with a broad smile, a little light that went off in his head. He physically sat up, mind alive, as he ran over the controversial plan in his mind. It was _brilliant._ He'd already given him the clothes and weapons - that part was easy. Azog counted on his fingers, thinking through things. He would make sure Kili ate _only_ the meat of two-legged creatures, whenever he could. He would teach him Black Speech. He would give him an orcish mark. Azog was convinced it would work. Kili had entirely given up all hope of rescue, he no longer struggled and fought against Azog. He had been completely dominated and broken. After his last fight, trying to strangle Azog in his sleep, and receiving such a horrific punishment in return, Kili had become compliant. And surrounded in the hostile darkness, pressed in by orcs who wanted him dead, Kili had begun to reach out for Azog. The orc king remembered clearly when Kili had been lead away on the platform before the throne. How he looked back at Azog, pleading wordlessly. _Please don't leave me._ It was written, all over his face.

He led Kili out of the reeking pens, Grimuz following. As they walked slowly past the cages of vicious, antagonized male wargs that howled and yammered in an effort to get at the dwarf-flesh that hung before them, Kili screwed up his eyes. He drew in, just half an inch, closer to Azog. He felt it. He felt Kili _seeking refuge in him._ And he knew, Azog knew that he had Kili in the palm of his hand. That he could crush him or set him free in a heartbeat, a fragile insect. He knew that after the horrors of the past week, after losing all hope, Kili would desperately turn to any solace, any comfort he could. Oh, he would promise to himself it was an act, it was all for show, that he was dwarf through and through, nothing would ever change that, he was a child of Durin, he would never forsake his people, certainly not for his own meagre survival. But Azog knew that his outward show of assimilation would slowly sink through his skin and into his bones. Oh, it wouldn't be Kili Azog would set before Thorin. Not at all. He smiled at himself, in the darkness. He would turn Kili against them, would plant seeds of doubt in his mind. They abandoned him. They left him to die. They didn't care about him. He would have Kili curse the name of Thorin Oakenshield through anguished tears. And he would piece together the broken dwarf himself, would girt him with black iron. He felt the small body close beside him in the darkness, the shallow breathing, the obvious fear at being trapped beneath the stone, surrounded by beasts which had mutilated him so terribly as a child.

Thorin Oakenshield would regret the day he _ever_ attempted to cross Azog the Defiler. He would pay. But the price would not be in blood. Oh no.

The price would be a soul.


	19. Silver in the Dirt

The goblin hovered in the entrance way, watching the pair. Azog had pushed aside his finished plate, he leaned back in the chair beside the fire, stretching his bare feet out and sticking his toes almost in the flames. Kili ate very, very slowly. More than half of his meal remained, blood oozing on the stone plate as he chewed, looking extremely ill. Baduz had to wonder if Azog _told_ the dwarf exactly what was for dinner, or if he had simply guessed that it could not have been the flesh of any beast. His fingers trembled, the knife clattering plainly against the plate as he went to slice another thin chunk of meat. He held a closed fist over his mouth, grimacing as he swallowed. Disgust and fear had battled within him, and fear obviously won, as Kili speared the tiny piece of very pink-looking meat. He forced himself to chew and swallow one last time before the knife slipped from his shaking hands, he pushed the plate away, shaking his head.

"I c-can't Azog please-" His stomach lurched, Kili's face white as he fought down the urge to retch. Azog returned his attention to the dwarf, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. He looked at Kili for a moment, before stretching his hand out, pushing the plate towards Kili, who let out a low moan, shaking his head. " _No."_ Just because it was the third time he ate this - or something like it - it wasn't any easier. There was something chillingly sadistic in the way Azog watched him in cold silence, operating with a jerk of the head, a twitch of the fingers, a snarl. This was worse than the orc who held Kili down and forced his mouth open. This was calculated, playing Kili's fear of Azog against the corruption and horror of such an unspeakable taboo. Kili's head sank into his hands, he was fighting the literal urge to throw up, the awful metallic taste thick on his tongue. He would have waited, but with Azog's demand for haste ringing in his ears, Baduz broke the tension in the room with his entrance, raising his voice to make his presence known to the orc king.

"I have what you requested, your Greatness." Baduz bowed very low as he entered the warm, brightly-lit room. Azog had declined their offer of a generous parting feast, opting instead for a simple meal to be brought into his chamber. A simple meal of _special_ taste. Grimuz was furious at Azog's request for dinner, saying if he had such a hankering, then why didn't he lop off the broken arm of the pathetic dwarf he kept around rather than break into their delicacies. But he muttered it only to himself, sending one of his scouts up to the cool-store packed with snow and ice fetched from the slopes of the mountains, and within a few hours a steak-sized slice was served on the stone table, Azog bending down and giving an exploratory sniff, before nodding assent and asking for a second plate.

They weren't expecting _that._ Grimuz was forced to swallow his sardonic mutterings of favourtism. If anything, he had a certain newfound respect for Azog as he set down the plate of polished silver, carved with runes (and oh, how more perfectly appropriate could it have been?) watching as the orc king carved off a third of the thick steak, slapping it onto the empty plate with a splattering of blood, pushing it towards the dwarf who sat opposite him on the table. It was a cruel mockery of a familial dinner, the pair sitting across from each other beside the cheerily crackling fire, Azog sprawled out in a chair a little too small for him, Kili looking like a child seated at a table which seemed far too big. Grimuz looked positively gleaming when he muttered to his comrade at just what Kili was forced to eat for dinner, Baduz letting out a guffaw in the dark passageway. It was just _too_ good. Obviously they hadn't given Azog's depravity enough credit, for plumbing the depths of Kili's psyche, for exploiting the emotional weakness as well as the physical. Baduz would have to tell him about this, about how Kili was dry-heaving, head bowed below the table as he coughed and spluttered. But he held it all down, he held it all down as he lifted his grey face, eyes black in the light of the fire. And he looked across at Azog, shaking his head as his quivering lips begged silently for release. But Azog simply pushed the plate a little closer to Kili, raising the golden goblet to his lips, arching his back as he took a long gulp of bloody wine. Azog held his hand out silently for what he asked for, Baduz stepping into the warm room in silence. Kili's knife clattered against the silver, his breathing low and ragged, mingling with the crackle of the fire.

"It's almost entirely from the packs of the dwarf-scum that killed the Great Goblin." Baduz shot Kili a look of venom, a poisonous glance that went unnoticed by the young dwarf. He was fighting back sobs, his breath coming out in shudders that wracked his thin, bandaged frame. "There's a few spare pages in the back of the book, so we put that there too." Azog nodded in silent assent. "Is there anything else that your Greatness requires?"

"No, that will be all." He muttered, sounding distracted. He shooed Baduz away, leafing through the scraps of parchment and vellum. There was pencils and ink, most importantly, and a lot of it. Azog would make do, he could use the underside of the animal skins that made up the bed if need be. Baduz bowed as he withdrew, leaving the pair in silence. Kili choking down the food with agonised resignation, Azog leafing through the paper, tapping his fingers against the stone, and thinking. It had been many, many years since he had taught somebody the nuance of Black Speech. And worse, he didn't have some sort of vernacular to communicate with Kili. He was flying blind into this. All he could use were gestures and crudely-drawn images to link words and concepts to the dwarf. Azog flicked back through the sketchbook, looking back over the images as he waited for Kili to finish his dinner. Kili watched Azog's turning, his lurching stomach growing sicker as the orc tapped his fingers against the page in obvious impatience. Kili bent his head and swallowed with his eyes screwed up tightly, shaking his head. There was still a third of it to go. He couldn't finish. He couldn't do it. He pushed the plate away, to the edge of the table, with a firm resoluteness. He couldn't do it. He couldn't handle anymore. Surely it was enough. Surely, Azog had now proved his point. He looked up at the orc with his black eyes, pleading with him. Azog met his gaze with a cold levelness. He watched as Kili's lip trembled and his eyes glistened, his face completely colourless. And with a sigh, he straightened up in his seat, closing the sketchbook. He pulled a sheet of vellum towards him, Kili's shoulders slumping as he let out a broken sob of relief. The first half was covered in runes, they looked like some sort of recipe or remedy. He found a stub of pencil, and began to draw, the grey lines shining in the light of the fire. Kili watched him with wide eyes, hands twisting and turning over each other. Azog looked up, turning the page and pushing it to the centre of the table. Azog had drawn four figures, one just over half the height of the others. The four races, he deduced, was as good a place to start as any. And he knew at least the Westron for them.

"Orc." He pointed at the first, which he had drawn with a scimitar, with huge, gnashing teeth. Kili looked exhausted in the light, but he hung on, staring at the page. " _Uruk."_ Kili's brow creased in a frown, not understanding at first what exactly Azog meant. " _Uruk._ Orc." He prodded the page again, and Kili looked up at him.

"Uruk?" He repeated, the rising intonation showing his obvious confusion. He didn't understand. His head still spun, his stomach lurched, he was tired and in pain and didn't want to do this. He wanted to sleep, to sleep for weeks and then wake from this terrible nightmare. "Azog I don't understand."

" _Uruk."_ Azog pointed at himself. Perhaps he really did need a translator for this. He didn't want to involve anybody else - the less people who saw this, the better, but obviously the stupid dwarf was too _thick_ to realise he was receiving his first lesson in Black Speech. But he wanted this! He had tried, three times, to get Azog to teach him. His slowness was infuriating. " _Uruk."_ He repeated, lips twisting in a scowl, miming a talking sound with his hand. His language. Kili stared at him blankly for another heartbeat, before his eyes brightened in understanding.

"Oh! _Uruk."_ He pointed at the orc-figure. "You call yourselves _Uruk_ in your tongue. I understand now." Azog shook his head, rolling his eyes. Kili swallowed. "Azog can we maybe do this tomorrow I just want to sleep and I feel sick and-"

" _Ogh._ " The orc king cut over him, pointing at the second figure, with a sword and shield. "Man."

" _Ogh."_ Kili repeated, feeling so very tired. Nothing surprised him, not anymore. He didn't understand Azog's change of heart, didn't try to untangle it. He sat there numbly, feeling his stomach twist and turn, the bile rise in his throat, his tongue stinging from the metallic taste of heavy meat, eyes itching with tiredness. " _Ogh_. Man. I get it."

" _Golug._ " Azog snarled as he pointed at the third. He drew it with comically large ears and a bow and arrow. Kili's eyes raised to meet him. "Elf." He nodded silently, looking down at the page, too tired to argue.

"Golug." He murmured sleepily. "Elf." At least he was catching on. Azog looked at the inattentive dwarf, lip curling. He thumped his fist on the table, Kili starting awake, eyes wide and back straight. "Sorry. I'm awake." He looked at the fourth, shorter figure. "I'm guessing this is the dwarf."

" _Akh._ " It was a sign of assent, although Kili didn't know it yet.

" _Akh._ _Akh_ means dwarf, I get it." Azog growled shaking his head.

" _Kau._ _Akh..._ " He nodded his head. " _Kau."_ He shook his head again, willing Kili to silently understand yes and no. " _Ghaamogh."_ He pointed at the dwarf drawing. " _Ghaamogh._ " Azog pointed at Kili. "Dwarf." He clarified.

"Right - sorry." Kili nodded. " _Ghaamogh_ is dwarf." Azog nodded. Kili's eyes lowered. He wanted to sleep. " _Uruk_ is orc, _ogh_ is elf, _golug_ is man, and _ghaamogh_ is dwarf." Azog shook his head.

" _Kau."_ Azog already sounded angry at him. " _Golug,_ elf. _Ogh,_ man." Kili looked up at him.  _"Glob."_ Azog muttered under his breath. Fool. Kili sighed, trying again.

" _Uruk_ is orc, _ogh_ is man, _golug_ is elf, and  _ghaamogh_ is dwarf." He repeated, rubbing at his aching eyes. Ugly, ugly names. They sounded thick and bitter on his tongue. But they were correct and Azog nodded at him. Kili was too slow and sleepy and stupid-feeling for this. It was like being back at Balin's lessons, learning Khuzdul again and staring at rows and rows of odd, scratchy-looking runes that meant almost nothing to him. "Azog please-" But Kili fell silent at the glare tossed in his direction. And he watched as Azog began to draw a new row of shapes, of figures in the light. The room was uncharacteristically bright and warm, it made Kili feel sleepy. He'd been wrung out, over the day. His fingers brushed the skin of his wrist. The raised skin sent a shiver along his fingertip and he shuddered, a fresh knife wound twisting in his heart.

And with a thudding heart and stinging eyes, tongue thick and slow, brain stupid and sleepy, Kili's lesson began.

* * *

"What do I do."

He whispered the words low in Dwalin's ear, leaning over beside the dwarf stiffly, one hand on his ribs. They pained him today. Perhaps it was because his heart beat so desperately against his chest, bursting to get out. Dwalin looked over his shoulder, watching as Thorin knelt on the dirt beside him, hair falling over his face. Thorin rested one hand on Dwalin's arm, fingers grasping desperately at his silent companionship. They both looked up for a moment. Fili sat against the tree with his knees drawn up to his chest. Mahal, he looked so _small._ So frail. Fili was pulling out his braids with trembling hands, the braids Thorin wove into his hair some days ago now, combing the golden tangles through his fingers. He didn't rebraid them. He let the silver clasps fall to the ground, scattered and abandoned at his feet as his hair hung loose. He ran his hand through them, pushing his hair back from his face. It fell back forward, into his eyes, the blonde locks unused to this newfound freedom. Dwalin and Thorin watched with short, flickering glances as Fili wove his arms around his legs, resting his chin on folded knees. Those who didn't know him would think him doused in a crippling sadness. But they saw the way his jaw clenched, his fingers dug so tightly into his trousers. He smouldered in bitter silence, staring at the ground.

"I've lost him Dwalin." And he sounded so agonised, so close to tears. Dwalin kept his face forward, knowing he wouldn't want to see the expression his king wore. Knowing it would push him too far over the edge. "He won't talk to me. I've lost him." The other dwarf sat in silence, listening to Thorin speak. "He hates me. I can feel it. He won't say it but he blames me for all of this." Thorin's hair flashed, as he shook his head. "I don't know what to do." Dwalin kept his mouth closed. Because he couldn't speak. Because he couldn't trust his voice. Because he knew if he tried to talk it would come out hoarse and trembling, and that would be too much for Thorin too, and they would both start blubbering, the strongest two of the company, and it was far too late for them to be caught crying. Thorin's sadness bled in compassion. His own grief at losing Kili had been pushed aside, left to join the tears he never shed for Thror, for Thrain and Frerin. The other three jostled aside to make room for Kili in Thorin's hardened heart, shutting the loss out of his mind, willing himself to go on in bare-faced silence. He couldn't protect Fili the way he protected himself; he would never expect Fili to carry on as he did. But Thorin's flimsy offerings at comfort and strength were pushed away, Fili shielding his grief with anger, shutting himself off from the only person within a hundred miles who could ever possibly understand the gravity of his pain, suffering in lonely, desolate silence.

Dwalin wordlessly took Thorin's wrist. The one that lay in the dirt, keeping his eyes forward and the gesture low, so nobody else would see. He squeezed the limb, wrapped in leather, trembling in his own hand, for several moments before letting go. He saw the head nod at the edge of his periphery, breathing coming out in a long, shaking sigh. Dwalin thought for a moment that Thorin would break, that he would have to stand up and cause some sort of loud distraction, get them moving from their short rest early, leaving his king alone in the grass to catch up. But Thorin cleared his throat and found his voice, eyes dry.

"We can't stay still for much longer." Thorin's voice was level and calm. That of a king. "We shouldn't have stopped at all." Stopping just reminded everybody just how hungry they were, trapped in their leafy prison. Bofur and Bombur rationed their supplies very, very carefully. If all went well, they had enough for six weeks. And if not - well. Some of the eyes that stared at them in the night would make their way into their cooking pots, wholesome or not. At least it rained occasionally, dripping through the eaves, and they could collect enough murky water to parch their drying lips. "We must move forward." Thorin's voice rose with him as heaved himself onto his feet. "We can make camp a mile ahead." He had to keep pushing them. They weren't moving fast enough. They were listless and tired, their clothing too loose, dirty and demoralised. They felt as though they had only inched across a map which spread out for miles before them. And it frightened Thorin, their limp tiredness. Because if this is how they were now, barely under the eaves of the wood, what would it be like in the coming weeks, as they ventured into the heart of the dark forest? How could they forge on, when this was all they could give?

He got mutters in response, a handful of dark glances cast his way. But they all rose to their feet, shouldering their packs and trudging on forwards with bowed heads. Thorin led the march onwards, plunging forward into the deep gloom. But Dwalin stood and waited, waited for Fili to rise to his feet and join the rest of the company, isolated and apart underneath his tree. Fili stood up, boots shuffling through the leaf litter. He left the little silver clasps on the ground, abandoned them, turning away from the tree and towards group. Dwalin looked out of the corner of his eye, wondering if Thorin saw. He had. The four little clasps were a present from Thorin for Fili's eightieth birthday, solid silver and crafted by Thorin's own hand. And now they lay on the ground, not even glistening, looking very small and pathetic in the grey shadows. Thorin looked stone-faced, watching as Fili walked past him without a word, his hair hanging entirely loose now, save for the single remaining clasp in the back, part of a matched set, the other half resting at his throat. The king remained motionless, mouth half-open. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't believe Fili would do such a thing. _How could he_.

Dwalin stepped forward, ready to grab Fili by the shoulders and shake some sense into the boy. Grieving or not, there was _no_ excuse for such a rude, vile insult. Fili should have known better - he _did_ know better. It was a cold, deliberate act, aimed straight at Thorin's heart. And Fili seemed remorseless. But Thorin rose his hand, just enough for Dwalin to see, shaking his head. No. Leave it alone. Dwalin curled his hands into fists, giving Thorin a silent glare. _How could you put up with this?_ It was rude, it was beyond rude, what Fili had done. But Thorin only gave a small, sad smile. A half-shrug, across the forest path. He looked broken down, defeated. It was the sadness of somebody who didn't know what else who do. Who bore the attack against him with bowed silence, an acceptance of what he had done, all the while nursing his own crippling grief as the face of his youngest nephew haunted half-shaped, dark nightmares. He would not meet Fili's anger with a raised voice or clenched fists. Thorin was withered and exhausted.

So Dwalin stepped back. He watched as Ori walked past, the glint of silver, small and pathetic but still plain in the gloom, catching his eye at the foot of the gnarled tree. And he crouched down, sifting through the leaves that Fili's boots kicked up, the clasps clinking in his fingers. One, two, three, four. They lay on his gloved hand, looking very pale. Ori looked down at them, frowning. They were Fili's, he knew they were Fili's. He looked over, seeing the untamed mane of gold hanging so rumpled over Fili's shoulders, lowering his gaze to the carved silver clasps. And the frowned deepened, Dwalin watching as Ori approached his king, holding his palm out.

"Th-Thorin," And he stammered through his nerves, unsure of how to act, what to say. Thorin looked at the red-headed dwarf impassively. "Thorin I think these are Fili's.... D-Do you want them or should I..." He trailed off as Thorin shook his head. His blue eyes were dark with inexpressible pain.

"No, they're not mine." Dwalin's heart tightened in his armoured chest. "Keep them Ori. Fili doesn't want them anymore." Ori looked down at them, fingers closing around the silver.

"A-All right." Ori looked confused. He didn't understand the significance of what he held in his hands, didn't understand how much it destroyed Thorin, to see the coming of age gift he bequeathed to his nephew lying abandoned amongst the dirt and leaves. Didn't realise that Thorin couldn't look at them, couldn't hold them in his hand, for fear that it would unleash a tempest of emotions, an uncontrollable fit of sadness and pain that he could no longer withhold. "I'll hold on to them." Dwalin closed his eyes as Ori slipped the clasps into his pocket, turning away red-faced, scampering a little to catch up to the rest of the group, slouching tiredly along the dark path. Thorin's gaze met Dwalin's as his eyelids open, brown and blue fixing on one another in the dimness. Dwalin saw only hopelessness and despair, a loss which hamstrung Thorin's heart.

"We need to get on." Thorin's voice barely rose above a whisper. Dwalin fell into step beside his king, one of his oldest and closest friends. Who dove into battle first at Thorin's left hand, and then as Balin declared himself too old and frail to fight, his right.

"I can sort him out." Dwalin kept his own voice low in his throat, leaning over to breathe against Thorin's shoulder. "Tell him to pull his head in." But Thorin shook his head, passing a hand over his eyes. "He needs a kick up the backside Thorin, and no mistake."

"I cannot begrudge him for his grief." Thorin sounded so much older than his years. He'd taken on too much, too young. He had spend too many years being their king, for a dwarf yet to see his two hundredth year. "I will not drive him to further anger Dwalin. It's a frightening memory." They both knew who Thorin spoke of, the taboo of uttering his name hanging thick in the air. "They're so similar." He tiptoed on the edge of sacred tradition. "I'm frightened that if I push Fili, then _he_ will come back." He looked over at Dwalin, sharing a momentary look of deep-seated fear, wrapped in thick, heavy memory. "I cannot bear that anger again Dwalin."

"Leaving him to steep in lonely grief will only summon further demons." Dwalin muttered in short response. But if Fili wouldn't talk to either of them, what else could they do? Dwalin was all for having it out, and now, before Fili sank deeper into himself lulled in a dark, brooding spell. To pull him aside and tell him to get a grip. That they _all_ missed Kili, they all felt his loss, but there was no excuse for Fili to hurt Thorin like this. He saw the dark burning anger that consumed the young prince, and it frightened and confused him, and he wanted to manage it on his own terms, rather than face the violent, imminent reaction. But if Thorin wished to wait, then Dwalin had no choice but to follow his king. It was not his judgement, not his decision. He was not Fili's uncle. Nor, no matter how hard Dwalin hoped, how hard he tried to pretend, was he Fili's father.

He was an outsider, nobody, with no claim to him.


	20. A Bed of Ashes

Kili's eyes snapped open as a particularly loud snore rattled through the room.

The fire had burned down to embers, flickering weakly in the iron grate. His arms bound in the thick furs he'd wrapped around himself, Kili looked like a cocooned animal, a pair of eyes and a nose peering over the edge of a warg-skin. His eyes followed a piece of ash, rising from the fire, twisting lazily through the air and coming to rest beside Kili on the stone. He lay close to the fire, trying to get as much warmth as he could in the stone cave. He lay on the soft pelt of a huge brown bear, nose pressed against the brown hair, breathing in the wild smell of blood and dirt and sunshine. It had been some hours since Azog gave up on teaching Kili, throwing one of the heavy furs from the bed onto the ground beside the fire, jerking his head towards the bear-skin. He slept a little, a short but achingly deep sleep, waking from a nightmare of screaming and bright colours with a trickle of sweat rolling down his temple. He dozed in and out, unable to regain the soft, peaceful solitude of that sleep, jarred awake ever hour or so by real and imagined sounds. But he remained still. Lying on his side, face turned to the fading fire, wrapped so tightly in animal furs, Kili felt admittedly warmer, more comfortable than he had for a long time, surrounded by the smell of fur and animal hide. It was a faint echo of home.

But there was another snore, and Kili's fragile illusion shattered to pieces. He rolled over onto his back, sitting up and watching the rising and falling chest of the sleeping figure on the huge bed in the corner of the room. He caught a flash of very white skin, illuminated in the light of the dying embers, another snore. Kili drew the furs tighter around his shoulders, dislodged from the movement, toes turned towards the fire. He drew his legs loosely up towards his chest, resting his elbows on his knees with the fur draped over him. His dark eyes watched the soft breathing of coal-fragments and red-hot splinters of wood, the last remnants of the fire sinking the room into reddened shadows. Unable to maintain the pretense of sleep, Kili rose slowly to his feet, the furs falling from his shoulders as he approached the stone table. The papers were still scattered there, thrown into haphazard piles. One was thrown on the floor, after Azog lost patience. Kili touched the side of his face, where the orc had hit him after growing frustrated at repeating himself for a third time. He gathered up the papers and pencils and ink and the book too, kneeling before the fire and spreading it all out across the bear-skin, examining it by the dull red light of the dying embers.

He looked at the images Azog had drawn, sounding the words out in his mind, trying to boost his memory. _Uruk, ogh, ghaamogh, olug._ The four races. There were others, drawn as simple stick figures _._ Eat. _Throk._ Sleep. _Dhûl._ Attack. _Diisum_. Kill. _A_ z. Words Azog thought Kili would need. _Azog._ Kili swallowed as he looked at the figures, piecing the name together in his mind. Man-killer. He'd drawn runes beneath them, simplified Westron, a rough representation of the sounds uttered in Black Speech, to jog his memory. After giving him forty or fifty basic words, Azog turned to the back page of the calf-skin sketchbook, and began to write for Kili a simple alphabet. It was a pale representation of the pure pictoral forms as expected by a fluent speaker of Sauron's language, but Azog would not in fifty years expect the stupid young dwarf to ever grasp it. So he replicated the simplified, corrupted scratchings used by lesser goblins, sounding them out slowly and watching as Kili roughly approximated the sound beneath in dwarvish runes. Kili looked at them now, holding it up to the light as he sounded the letters out in his mind. It was a different system of writing than the one he was used to, based on word-segments and syllables rather than individual sounds. There were over a hundred, they stretched across two pages, looking crude and sharp and angular, so unlike his familiar dwarvish runes that it made his heart sick.

He whispered them aloud to himself, brain stupid and slow. They were were dull, tangled memories, fuddled about in his head. Kili couldn't understand them. So he continued turning through the pages, flicking backwards, heart racing as his eyes fell on Ori's sketches, beginning to look very dirty and smudged in the blood-red light. He leafed through them slowly, unsure of when he would have the luxury again. Turning backwards, he ran his fingers over his own face, his mussed hair and thin nose. Was that really how he looked? Was his beard that sparse? Kili's cheeks burned, and he found he couldn't look at himself without a rush of humiliation rising in his chest. He tried to distract himself, looking at the drawings of his fellow dwarves. But all too often, he flicked past his face, Kili's stomach cramped and uncomfortable as he kept seeing himself, his stupid thin young face. Even his eyes weren't right. Thorin, Fili, Dis, they all had startling blue eyes, albeit of varying hue. But Kili's were dark and muddy. He was reminded of a dirty brown pond, in comparison to a clear spring. Kili didn't look right, not like them. He was like a foundling child, a cuckoo bird in a nest of swallows. The book fell from Kili's hands as he stood up, not noticing that the snores had vanished. He crossed fur, back to the stone table, reaching for the heavy silver plate. Azog lifted his head, watching in silence as Kili knelt down before the fire, unsure of what the young dwarf was about to do. Kili rubbed at the plate with the edge of a fur, trying to clean the blood and fat from the silver, polishing it to a sheen. Satisfied he'd done the best he could, Kili inched closer to the iron fireplace, trying to angle the plate, catching his reflection in the light of the embers. He wanted to see if the face on the paper was really his, if his nose was really that small, his eyes that dark and chin that narrow. Did his hair really fall into his eyes like that, so wild and shaggy? Kili tried to see his face in the plate, but it was misty, clouded and distorted. He frowned, attempting a different angle, trying to see himself.

"Kili." The dwarf gasped, the carved plate dropping from his hands and falling with an awful crash, a clang onto the stone ground. Kili jerked to see Azog sitting up in bed, staring at him. _What was he doing?_ Kili knelt on the fur, mouth open. Azog took in the scene, the book open on a picture of Thorin Oakenshield, papers scattered about the now dented silver plate shining like copper in the emberlight. Azog made a low growl, a sound of annoyance, in the base of his throat. " _Dhûl_." He issued the short command, lip curling. Sleep. Kili remembered that one. He nodded silently, gathering up the papers with shaking fingers.

"Yes - I will." He murmured. Azog grunted, Kili looking up at him. The orc tilted his head just a fraction, expecting something else. Kili swallowed. " _Akh."_ He murmured, very softly, giving the response in Black Speech. Kili set everything aside by the fire, winding the thick fur across his shoulders. But his hands stilled on the calf-skin book, looking back at Azog, who rolled over, ready to go back to sleep. Kili's eyes lowered to the page, thumbing through the paper. He didn't know if he could have his hands on this alone again. Kili flicked through the book, very quickly, turning to the sketch of him and his brother. There they were, Kili braiding Fili's hair, his eyes down on his work, mouth in a smile, while Fili laughed at some joke, leaning back on his hands, forearms and ankles naked in the morning light. Kili couldn't breathe. The lump in his throat hardened, refusing to dissolve. With the iron hand, he grabbed the spine of the book firmly, and with the other, began to tear down the page, holding his breath. He was terrified that he would rip it completely in two. The paper tore with a whisper, the page coming loose after several heart-pounding moments. The rest of the book lay abandoned as Kili examined the paper in his hand, pressing it very close to this chest. _Mahal Fili where are you I need you here more than anything._ He embraced the page as though it really were his brother, bowing his head. He would have the strength of a thousand armies with Fili at his side; but alone, he was weak and desolate. He couldn't do this, not alone. Panic rolled over him in a long, slow hot wave. _No._ He couldn't have yet another breakdown. Kili opened his eyes, looking down at his brother.

What would Fili say, if he were here? He would tell Kili to keep his head. To stay strong. To remain calm. That he would only get out of this by being smart and brave. And he could do that, he could, really. He was a son of Durin, and no one could ever tell him otherwise. Kili repeated them in his head, tried to imagine Fili's voice in his ear, whispering the words to him. Tried to imagine those dark blue eyes smiling at him, promising courage. Courage and hope. But he couldn't do it, the voice in his head wasn't Fili, it was a poor shadow that did nothing to convince him. Kili folded the page in half, and over once more, slipping it inside his shirt. He lay down in silence, pulling the thick fur over his limbs. But the warmth and comfort, it had truly vanished. The embers were almost entirely lifeless, only a thin rim of red remained, illuminating a dull throbbing glow over the plate, but the rest was deepening shadows. Kili closed his eyes, cheek pressed against the bearskin as he faced the dying fire, the furs tightening around his shoulders.Tried to tell himself to breathe, tried to banish his sickening fears. He shuffled in his makeshift bed, the paper crackling beneath the shirt. To lull himself to sleep, Kili tried recalling his new orcish words. _Ogh, ghaamog, golug, uruk. Throk, d _hûl, diisum, az.__ He counted them over in his soupy mind, feeling a soft ebb and flow in his ears, as he slowly drifted towards sleep. _  
_

He fell asleep with the words of Black Speech in his ears, not realising at the time that the precious dwarvish names he promised to remember, the ones scratched on the cave walls echoing a forgotten past of fallen kings, had vanished from his mind entirely.

* * *

It was a poor dinner that night.

A thin soup of wilting vegetables, a hunk of very hard bread. But they all ate without complaint, murmuring amongst themselves, drawn very tightly around their tiny fire, their shield against the night, pressed shoulder-to-shoulder with the darkness of the forest at their backs, trying to ignore the eyes that stared out at them. Everybody except Fili set down an empty bowl, clasping mugs of hot water. There was little to brew into tea, but the warmth of a steaming mug between blackened fingers was enough to dissipate at least some of the cold shivers. Fili pushed a half-full bowl of soup across the ground, drawing his into his chest, staring into the fire. Hollows were beginning to show in his cheeks, his dark eyes very dull. He was wasting away. Heart twisted in futility, Thorin took it without a word, giving the untouched bread to Ori, the lukewarm soup to Bilbo, the pair's eyes meeting across the sputtering flames. They all murmured softly, pressed close together, not wanting to allow an inch of darkness in. The sound of an animal cry made them all jump. Bombur's hand jerked, he swore under his breath as his mug of hot water slopped all over his woollen glove and halfway up his sleeve.. They all drew in a little closer, looking about them in fright.

"It was a small creature." But even Thorin's voice shook. He looked at them all, their faces etched in heavy fear. "Nothing to be alarmed of."

"Probably being killed by something much bigger." Bofur remarked, earning a withering glare from Balin. "You all right there brother?" He snickered, watching as Bombur peeled the soaking glove from his hand, rolling up his wet sleeve as he held it up towards the fire, getting a short grunt in response. Bilbo watched silently behind his soup bowl, frowning as he noticed for the very first time the blue mark on Bombur's wrist.

"I didn't know you had a tattoo, Bombur." Anxious to distract himself from the beasts of the night, Bilbo leaned in a little to look at it. A rune, on the soft skin of the dwarf's wrist, tattooed over his veins. "What does it mean?"

"It's my Inga." There was a rare smile on Bombur's face. "One hundred and forty-five next winter, but she doesn't look a day over ninety." Bofur bit back a chortle. Her figure suggested otherwise.

"She's his wife." Balin explained, noticing Bilbo's confusion. "When we marry, we wear the names of our wives on our wrist. Have you never seen it before?"

"Maybe he thought we sprang out of the dirt." Bofur commented, earning a rare chuckle from several members of the group.

"No! I-I mean I know you must have _some_ ladies," The hobbit stumbled over his words. "But - well - you always wear gloves." Bilbo looked around at the fire, noticing how almost everybody either wore soft wool around their hands, or heavy leather gauntlets. Those with exposed wrists had smooth, unmarked skin. "I've never seen it before." Which was a shame. It was such a lovely thought, carrying the name of a loved one so close, over the heart-lines of the arm. So much stronger, darker, more permanent, than a ring. "And well - nobody really speaks of their wives." He watched their eyes all lower to the campfire. "It's not really the place to think on such things, is it?"

"Nay, lad." Gloin's voice was very heavy. But he unbuckled the gauntlet on his right hand, rolling up his sleeve and showing Bilbo his wrist in the firelight. "This is my Oddleif. She waits at home with my son for our return." While the others may have kept down their thoughts of home, Gloin let their faces dance before his face every night. They kept him going. They were his strength. Gloin had one purpose for this quest, and it wasn't gold or jewels; he was _determined_ that his Gimli would have his eightieth birthday, his coming of age feast, in the great Hall of Erebor. Bilbo found his throat had become oddly stuck, as he looked at the mark. There was a softness in Gloin's eyes, one he had not seen before.

"So who else is there then?" Bilbo set down his empty bowl and rubbed his hands together in the warmth of the fire. "Who has wives, I mean." He added quickly. "I can't believe I haven't asked earlier, terribly rude of me." He looked around at the twelve faces staring into the embers.

Silence.

"No one else?" Bilbo breathed, not realising just how much he was putting his foot in it. "But there's _twelve_ of you. Surely somebody else..." He trailed off, race reddening as he realised just how he had insulted ten members of the ragged company. "Sorry."

"S'all right, you're not to know Bilbo." Oin sounded very old in the stuffy night. "My Rúna passed five winters ago." He had married her in Erebor forty years before it fell, had sworn his life to her between the stone feet of Durin. The loss of her home hit Rúna achingly hard, and she was never the same, passing through Middle Earth as a pale shadow. So two years ago, when Thorin's eyes shone in the firelight, freshly-woven gold braids trailing over his fingers as his voice rose in the modest Hall of Ered Luin, Oin had vowed to return, to sit beneath the statue of his oldest ancestor, to recite his vows once more, and call her soul home.

"I'm so sorry." Bilbo murmured, eyes downcast, feeling hot and uncomfortable, realising now why the subject had never come up until now, until he dragged it out of the deep shadows.

"We males outnumber the lasses two to one, so only the best are lucky enough to snag a wife. I don't know if you've realised, Bilbo." And there was something so wry, so sarcastic in Dori's voice. "But we're not exactly the finest specimens of dwarves on Middle Earth. The lasses go for dwarves with skill and cunning, who prove themselves in battle."

"And money." Dwalin's voice was hard, cold and bitter. "They like money, too." Bilbo watched as Balin rested his hand on his brothers' shoulder, squeezing very tightly. Thorin couldn't look at him.

"Aye, and none of us have much o' that." Nori muttered, tightening his hands around his mug of water. "It's why were here, 'aint it?" Dori gave his brother a sidelong glance, but remained silent, reminding himself that at least a few members of the company had slightly more noble intentions.

"What about love then?" Bilbo looked down at his steaming mug. "If you haven't married... Surely you've been in love?" He looked around at them, eyes shining. "Even from afar, Love is still love."

"I courted a maiden for three years as a dwarrow." Bofur's lips were in a sad smile. "But she chose a Longbeard warrior, in the end. Said it was all well and good if I could make her laugh and was good with my hands, but it didn't put food on the table." The smile sank downwards, tugging at an old wound that refused to heal. "Last I heard, she had four sons and he was making a name for himself putting down goblin forces down South." If Bofur harboured any resentment towards either of them, Bilbo didn't see it. He just slumped his shoulders in sad acceptance. "Besides, we keep busy. More than enough dwarrows were made orphans at Erebor and Azanulbizar." While not strictly one of Durin's folk, Bofur had lived long enough in Ered Luin to get on well with the youngsters, and had a hand in raising them, making toys and reading them stories. His comforting warmth and laughter was strange to the young dwarrows, so used to cold and pain and hunger, of cold aloof warriors for fathers, now lost. They clamoured to hear his tales, to receive his legendary toys as name-day gifts. It was almost enough to make Bofur forget his painful longing for children of his own. Almost. "Someone has to look after 'em."

"What happens in death?" Bilbo couldn't resist asking. "We hobbits remarry if our husbands or wives pass and we're still young. You live for so long, surely..."

"Life is life." Thorin was firm in this. "For both halves, life is life. There is no remarriage. You cannot write a new name on your wrist."

"But you can burn it off." Fili's voice broke out of the silence. Thirteen pairs of eyes swivelled towards him. Dwalin's hands clenched into fists. Thorin opened his mouth, looking a little stunned.

"What do you mean?" Bilbo breathed. There was something else in Fili's face, something new to Bilbo. A deeper, more ancient pain than he ever could express. A shadowy memory of his mother, kneeling swollen over the fire with a red-hot dagger in her hand. Fili wrapped up in her cloak, half-asleep, watching through cracked eyes as she gritted her teeth and let out a single whimper of pain.

"Fili." Thorin uttered a short warning. But his nephew ignored him, turned to face Bilbo who sat two places along from him. The others watched in silence. Three of them knew the full story, five heard rumours, and the other four had no idea about what had ever happened to Fili's father.

"Exactly that." His voice was very calm. That was bad. It meant he was teetering on the edge. Dwalin braced himself against the ground, stomach boiling. "Ask my mother. It's only ink beneath the skin. You can burn past that, pretend that-"

" _Enough_ out of you lad." Dwalin broke Fili's speech, grabbing the blonde roughly by the elbow. "With me. _Now."_

"No - Let me _go!"_ Fili protested vocally, the other watching as Dwalin dragged him away from the light of the fire, out of earshot, stomping in the dirt with Fili struggling and protesting against him. "Hey!" Fili gasped as Dwalin shoved him roughly against a tree, a looming shadow in the distant firelight.

"Fili, hold your tongue for _five_ seconds." The older dwarf sounded _angry._ Fili remained silent, trembling under Dwalin's tight grasp on his arms. "How dare you insult your mother in the company of eleven other dwarves!" His fingers dug into the leather on Fili's limbs, their noses very close. "How dare you suggest-"

"I'm not _suggesting_ anything." Fili panted, in pain but refusing to show it. "I'm _telling_ you it wasn't an accident. I've been trying to tell everybody for years and nobody will listen to me-"

"I said _hold your tongue."_ Dwalin was shaking with rage. This had gone far enough. He could handle Fili acting like a spoiled brat, his sulky rage, his rudeness to Thorin. But insulting Dis crossed a line that ran across his heart. He would not for one moment accept it, even from one of her sons. _Especially_ from her sons. "It is not your place Fili. Dis told Thorin, told me, that she was burned in an accident and it is _not your place_ to argue against it."

"But you know I'm right." Fili snarled. "You know-"

"Durin help me Fili, I said be _quiet."_ It was hard, so hard to keep his voice low, to keep from screaming out at Fili, to keep his hands on his arms and not to hit him. "You are being a child. I know you are in pain. I know you are suffering." Their foreheads were almost touching. Neither of them saw Thorin approaching in the darkness. "But this is _not_ the time to bring up old memories. It is done. It is over." He sighed, heavily. "It's been _years_ Fili, years since you brought any of this up. Why now?" Fili's eyes glistened in the shadows. "Did you do it to hurt Thorin? To hurt me?" He saw the eyes blink, felt Fili's arms loosen as he took in a short breath, as though he were about to dive into a turbulent ocean. "Why?"

"Because he's dead." Thorin's breath hitched in his throat, masked in the blackened night. Fili swallowed, bowing his head a little. Dwalin drew back from him, but his grasp on Fili remained as firm as ever. "He died years ago."

"What - how." Dwalin hissed. "How do you know? _Tell me Fili."_ He shook him, Fili's neck lolling a little, a broken puppet. He met Dwalin's eyes, or where he thought they would be in the darkness. "How do you know?" He repeated, unable to fight the tremor in his voice.

"Gandalf told me." Thorin's hands clenched into fists. That _meddling wizard._ "It was in Dunland, he was living there and-"

" _Enough_ Fili." The aged warrior whispered. "Say no more. Durin, when did he tell you this? How long have you been holding this in?" He saw, with a horrible stab in his chest, that the left side of his face glistened.

"The day we found Kili's... His things." Fili breathed. "When we travelled alone together." His lips were trembling. "So it doesn't matter now. He's dead. He's gone and we can-"

"No we can't." Dwalin cut over him. "It doesn't end in death. It ends with time, with existence. It ends when the last of those who knew his name stop breathing. Death is only half of his punishment Fili." Thorin watched the pair, how small Fili looked in his grand leathers and furs, how Dwalin, so tall, loomed over him. "You are going to go back. You are going to apologize. You are going to say that you never meant such an insult against your mother. And you are going to tell Thorin that you will never utter such things again." Fili's breath quickened.

"No Dwalin please you have to listen to me-"

" _Never again_ Fili." Fili was shaking his head. "Never again." He repeated. Thorin felt heartsick, watching the shadows so close in the dark. The realisation sent the earth reeling beneath his feet, it made his head spin. He told himself for seventy-seven years that Fili was too young to know what had happened. Dis swore blue that Fili never saw a thing, that he was just a babe. She kept the secrets locked within herself, refusing to let a single word pass her lips. But he wasn't. He wasn't. _Fili remembered his father._ He closed his eyes, trying so very hard to keep his breathing slow and even, indeterminable in the darkness. Fili remembered the Ironfists. He remembered what they did to Dis. He remembered their violent, bloodthirsty culture. She had sworn that he had been shielded from the darkness, the terror and pain. _She lied to him._ Mahal, what had Fili kept silent from him?

"Dwalin." Fili had sagged, exasperated and sick with frustration. "Please. Thorin won't listen, Balin won't listen - _nobody will listen to me."_ Thorin's eyes stung. _Fili what did they do to you?_ Thorin was bent almost double, hands on his knees. "I can't keep quiet and pretend nothing ever happened it _hurt_ and I can't-" Fili's voice broke off in a sob, one that carried into the night. Thorin sank onto the forest floor, biting on a knuckle to keep from crying out. He had his suspicions but Dis always _swore_ that Fili was innocent to what she had seen. She lied to him.

"Fili," But there was a resignation in Dwalin's voice, and Fili read the conversation before it happened. That he was going to tell him to be quiet, that it was the past and he would solve nothing by dragging up old memories. He pulled himself away from the older dwarf, wrenching his arms free from that grasp with another sob, turning away from Dwalin. He walked abruptly back to the fireplace, Thorin holding his breath as Fili walked past him. But his boots, inches from Thorin's fingertips, kept on walking, not noticing his uncle on his knees on the forest path. Fili's raw open wound had been left to bleed out, he knelt back at his place in the fire, his hair shining like gold in the light, head bowed. Thorin knew that there would be no apology for what he had said and done. He didn't expect one. Dwalin stood in silence, hands at his side with an odd ringing in his ears. He had tried to defuse the situation - but all he had done was push Fili even closer to the edge. His heart ached. He couldn't allow Fili his confession. It was not his place, as a half-uncle, in name and not blood, to allow Fili to break such a sacred, ancient law. There was no father, there never was a father.  And that was all Dwalin could say.

And Thorin, kneeling in the grass, fought a very real urge to be sick. The pieces of Fili had cracked and fallen around him. He'd allowed himself to be taken in by a web of lies. Allowed himself to believe Dis' obvious falsehoods. For Fili's sake. Allowed himself to pretend that Fili was for all intents and purposes born in Ered Luin, in his arms, with nothing to remember from beforehand. With no father to call upon in his mind. Only now, he understood the threat, the danger of Fili's anger. Why he attached himself so closely to Thorin, why he threw himself headlong into his exhaustive preparation and grooming for the throne. Why he tried so very, very hard to prove himself as being the perfect heir of Durin. Why he was so viciously defensive of Kili. Why he allowed Kili to take the blame, leaving his own reputation untarnished. His strained relationship with Dis during his twenties and thirties. Unspeakable terrors lay within Fili's mind, dark memories of violence and depravity. Frantically, Thorin recalled every rumour, every shred of gossip he had ever heard about the wild Ironfist clan which lay on the eastern edge of the world. How much Fili would have seen with his half-formed eyes.

 _Mahal what have I done._ Thorin looked through his fingers at the golden mane, unbraided and loose. Dwalin still leaned against the tree, his breath a long, heavy groan. He seemed incomparably old. Thorin couldn't breathe in the dark, muffled air beneath the trees. He felt crippled with agonizing guilt and pain. _Mahal what have I done to you Fili._ For he could blame no one else. For shielding his ears for decades, for telling his nephew to be quiet and not speak on his father, for turning away when Fili whined that he had a secret to tell, Thorin could blame nobody else for the corruption that blackened Fili's soul. It was a monster, fighting to escape from Fili's heart. And with the loss of Kili leaving Fili so raw and open, there was nothing to stop the monster from turning his nephew inside out. Secrecy and lies had hammered Fili into something deformed.

And Thorin could blame no one else.


	21. Shattered

They stood on the edge of the sunset.

Kili was painfully aware of just how small, how young he was, as he stood before the crowd of goblins. Some sitting, some standing, fiddling with their packs and idly tending to their wargs, awaiting the orders of their new general. There were forty-two of them, and it seemed to Kili a vast army, as he thought of the exhausted, ragged cluster of twelve dwarves and a single hobbit. He knew they could never stand a chance. There was a lick at his hand. Kili looked down, eyes meeting the warg which was now supposedly his. The creature was already laden with a saddle close as they could get Kili's size, a small set of saddlebags lightly stuffed; Nardur was young, and Darg advised against too heavy a burden on such a runty creature. He was going to _ride_ it. Kili rested his hand on top of Nardur's head, trying to get himself used to the sensation of the coarse grey fur beneath his hand, so unlike the thin soft hair of a pony. He was going to have to relearn everything he knew about riding, and quickly.

_You can do this._

Kili knelt on the stone beside Nardur, running his fingers over the warg's face in gentle strokes, trying to be coaxing and kind. Perhaps if he showed friendliness to the beast, he wouldn't be so violent and bloodthirsty. A number of the other wargs growled at Kili, low in their throats, pawing at the ground, and had to be pulled back by their riders, kicked into whining submission. Kili rubbed the top of Nardur's head, receiving a lick on the cheek in response. Kili fought back a cry, very aware of the eyes that stared at him, muttering to each other in confusion. He knew they all wondered who he was. What he was doing here, dressed like an orc, with a warg of his own. Kili couldn't even answer that question. He didn't _know_ what it was Azog was planning to do with him. Maybe he had seen some sort of sense. Kili didn't know what he was to Azog at this point - prisoner, pet, student, they'd all melded together. All he could do was keep his head down, his tongue still, going through the motions. He was raw iron, ready to be hammered into shape. He didn't care about maintaining his name. About his family honour. He wasn't even sure if he wanted to _live._ All he knew was that Azog was coming after his brother. After days of uncertainty, Kili knew there was nowhere else they could be going. Azog's threats were spoken in truth. They were going to hunt Thorin and Fili down. And Kili _had_ to be there. He had to make it long enough to see them once more. He wouldn't die without seeing Fili, without holding him and breathing him in. Kili would do everything within his power to make it through. That was all he had to do. He just had to survive. Kili looked at the pack of vile creatures that stood around him, heart hammering in his throat. Mahal, it was not going to be easy. He knew what they all wanted to do with him. He could see it, written in their faces and replicated, again and again. They wanted to hurt him. There was only cold cruelty in their eyes.

Save one.

Nazarg sat cross-legged, leaning against the side of his Aanash, feeling the dwarf look at him. But he wouldn't meet Kili's gaze. He kept his gaze downwards, in a cold angry silence. He _hated_ this. This powerlessness. Being forced. Having no way out. It was an entirely foreign sensation to the orc-healer, one that left him seething with fury. Having to pack up his precious things, giving his patients one last visit, it left him feeling sick. He had to end the lives of three of them with a hammer and chisel to the back of the neck, knowing there was no way they would survive without him. Their hope had run out. The others had a chance, and a slim one at that, but he could do nothing else. All he could do was obey whatever orders came in his direction. Azog valued his own vanity project over the lives of dozens of goblins, those supposedly under his domain. And he would not ever forget that.

Azog turned away from the face of the cave, regarding the figures that were sprawled out before him. At his movement, the cluster of goblins all fell silent, rising to their feet and standing to attention. He stared around at them all, lip twitching in the beginnings of a rare smile. They were the strongest, the swiftest of foot, the best with a blade, that the dilapidated down had to offer. They weren't a patch on his first contingent - but they would do. Yes, they would do very well, for his purpose. Kili was slow to stand, he kept his head down, his good hand fiddling with the iron cast.

"This evening, we ride." Azog's voice rang out, harsh and cold and clear in the cave. Fading sunlight filtered through a distant entrance, soft and warm as butter. Kili reached out for it, anxious beyond words to feel the sun on his face after what felt a lifetime below ground. "I am sure you are all very aware of who we hunt." Kili tried to follow Azog's speech, but could only understand one word in ten. "Thorin Oakenshield and his company travel east, towards Erebor. They intend to reclaim their homeland." He smirked. That would not happen, not if he had anything to do with it. He was determined that Thorin and his nephews would never see the Lonely Mountain. "And we are going to catch them." Kili understood _catch._ He looked up at Azog, fingers curling in Nardur's fur. "I want it made very clear that I do _not_ put up with rabbles of mindless, idle fools." Azog's face clouded. "I expect a _very_ high level of conduct amongst every creature under my command. You will keep your wargs in line. You will not fall behind. You will not speak the ugly languages of men and dwarves. You will not hit out against any of your comrades. You will obey every command I ask of you. And you shall be duly rewarded. I only want three members of Thorin Oakenshield's company." His eyes fell on Kili for a moment. "The other ten are yours, and you are free to do take them back to your caves and do with them whatever you wish." There was uplifted muttering, chuckles and jeers, at that. "And regarding Kili," He reached forward, taking the dwarf by the good arm, dragging him forward so everybody could see him. Kili swallowed at the forty pairs of eyes that focused so intently on him, feeling a trickle of sweat oozing down the back of his neck. "I want it very clear that you are to treat him as an equal." They all fell very silent. Nazarg unfolded his arm, brow creasing in a frown. "You will not abuse or taunt him. You will not try any wickedness with him. He is _mine_." Azog turned Kili's arm, the mark on his wrist very plain in the cave, lit with dozens of lanterns and the faintest glow of a dying sun. Kili closed his eyes, catching a momentary glimpse of the brand and feeling his stomach clench. "Am I understood?"

He was met with compliant silence. Silence he rightly took to mean _yes._ He released his hold on Kili, the dwarf lowering his gaze to the ground, wanting more than anything to have them all look at something, anything else. Anything but him. Their pale yellow gaze, it stung him. He could see their minds, laid open to him, contorted in anger and hate. To regard a _dwarf_ as anything other than the scum of the earth was an affront to them. They bore it only under strict orders. Azog turned away from them all, signalling to the slender grey warg that he now called his own. She rose to her feet, waiting patiently beside the orc king, ready to bear her heavy load. Kili watched as the other all made to do the same, stumbling to his place beside Nardur, running his fingers over the worn leather of the saddle. It was trickly, but he managed to hoist himself up with his good hand, gripping tightly the horn at the apex of the leather. There were no reins; Kili would have to hold on and grip the creature very tightly with his legs. These were not beasts that could be muzzled with leather and iron. Kili grasped the horn with both hands, gripping very tightly, remembering the commands Azog had taught him the night before.

" _Sûr."_ He tried to keep his voice firm, but he simply sounded weak and unsure. Kili cleared his throat. When Darg led the young warg to Kili, he warned the dwarf that he had to be firm and strict with Nardur, else he would never get any respect. He had to assert his own dominance. " _Sûr._ " He made sure his voice was a little harder. Nardur began to walk, following the rest of the pack as they approached the mouth of the cave. Kili wasn't sure if it was his command which had spurred the action, or the warg's natural instinct to follow the pack. He would probably find out later. Kili swallowed as he stepped into the dying sunlight, feeling it on his face for the first time in days. The others drew back and hissed, but Kili arched his neck back, drawing in a long breath, feeling the wind in his hair, the last warm whispers of a latesummer day. It was a momentary escape for Kili. But all too soon, he had to lower his head and open his eyes, standing on the verge of the outside world in the beckoning twilight. And he felt very self-conscious. Not for what the goblins thought of him - he couldn't care less on  _that -_ but what Thorin would say if he could see him, right now. Not just Thorin, but Thrain and Thror too. All the great kings of dwarves he called his ancestors. Noble, proud rulers who lived by a code of honour and valour. What would they say if they saw Kili, son of Dis, daughter of Thrain, dressed in the vest and tunic of goblins, the name of Azog burned onto his wrist, an orcish bow slung across his back, feeding on the flesh of  _\- of_ -. He couldn't even think it in his mind. It was too disgusting to entertain in his head, let alone on his lips. Kili felt as though he had swallowed a very heavy rock. He knew the insults that would be hurled at him. He knew the shame he committed to their memory. _But what else could he do?_ Was it better to die, than to subject his families' name to this humiliation? Surely not. Surely Thorin would understand. He had to understand. _He had to._ Fili would. He must. Kili couldn't lose them, couldn't have them reject him for the sins he had committed against his people. He couldn't bear even the thought.

Without Thorin and Fili, Kili had no reason to go on.

* * *

Thorin knew as soon as he woke that Fili trod on the edge.

He opened his eyes, seeing his nephew already awake, sitting up with his legs crossed, looking as though he had not slept at all in the night. His face was uncharacteristically pale, his nails had been chewed almost completely off, his eyes ringed with shadows. The others were making their slow, stiff emergence into morning, Bofur blowing life back into the fire and getting food ready for breakfast, Ori rolling up his blankets and stuffing them into his pack, Dwalin re-fitting his knuckle-dusters. Fili sat in silence, gripping his ankles with his eyes fixed at the ground. He looked as though he hadn't moved in a very long time. Thorin slowly pulled on his furs, watching out of the corner of his eye for any sudden flashes of gold. He knelt at the fire between Balin and Dwalin, beckoning them both to lean in, very close.

"He's going to snap." Thorin breathed. "The both of you - this is very important - I need to know. You can tell me. Has Fili ever said anything about life before Ered Luin? Even a whisper, an offhand comment, I need to know."

"Is this about last night?" Dwalin spoke into Thorin's ear, casting a backwards look at the blonde who sat with fingers trembling around his ankles. Thorin nodded. "Mahal Thorin, how much did you _hear?"_

"Almost everything." He gave Dwalin a sidelong glance. "Enough to know that I've had it all wrong for a very long time. He _remembers_ , Dwalin."

"He was a babe." Balin spoke calmly. "No older than four years old. He wouldn't remember much Thorin. Even if he did, he wouldn't make much sense of it." He could feel Thorin, so tense beside him, wanted desperately for him to remain calm.

"He remembers his father, Balin." Thorin ran a hand through his hair. "He's been trying to tell us for years and we never listened -" He broke off, shaking his head. "I've been a fool. Such a blind fool. Are you sure that he has told you nothing?"

"If I'd ever heard a whisper, I would have told you Thorin." Balin rested a hand on his king's shoulder for a moment. "I'm sorry, but I know nothing."

"You heard him last night." Dwalin murmured. "He tried to tell me but I couldn't - Thorin I'm not breaking those laws. It's not my place." Thorin bit hard on his lip, raising his eyes to the leafy canopy overhead. _  
_

"I need to talk to him." Thorin's voice tumbled out in an urgent rush. _"_ _Now."_ He got up on his knees. "I don't know how long it will take. Let the others finish breakfast and go on, we'll catch up la-"

Thorin was cut off by a high cry, just several feet away.

The three turned, there was a collective shout, the sound of scuffling. Thorin's blood went cold as he saw Ori hunched over, holding his nose. Blood slipped like rubies through his trembling fingers. Fili was shouting, shouting at _Ori_. Bifur and Bofur held his arms, trying to pull him back, the blonde straining against them. _No._ Thorin knelt on the ground in shock for a heartbeat, watching as Fili elbowed Bofur hard in the ribs, the dwarf letting go, swearing. Fili rounded on Bifur, who still grasped the other elbow, Thorin leaping into action. He caught Fili's fist before it connected with the silent miner, wrenching his nephew free and dragging him, kicking and screaming and swearing away from the group. Fili found his feet, Thorin's mouth filled with wild locks of golden hair. He disentangled himself from Fili, wanting to face him, to hold him still and calm him down. But Fili moved quicker. As he turned to face Thorin, the smouldering rage within him caught completely alight. With a growl, he curled his hand into a shaking fist.

" _You!"_ It wasn't a shout. It was a sob. Thorin's eyes widened, a short cry spilling from his lips as Fili struck his collarbone, reeling back from the force of the blow. " _How could you?"_ Fili was screaming brokenly in Thorin's ear, unable to think, to see, to breathe. He hit Thorin again, square in the stomach, his uncle sinking to his knees, winded as his chest flared up in pain. Fili lunged, knocking Thorin to the ground and raining heavily blows on any part of him he could reach. " _How - could - you!"_ Thorin weakly tried to shield himself with his arms, the limbs knocked away to the ground. " _You killed him!"_ Thorin let out a choked cry as Fili drove a particularly hard punch into his ribs, right into the slow-healing wound he sustained from Azog's warg. " _You - bastard!"_ Fili's breath caught in his throat as a thick pair of arms wrapped around his torso, crushing his arms into his sides. _"_ _Let me go!"_ He looked down at the heavy forearms, the hands marked in blue ink. Dwalin. Fili snarled, kicked out at him as he was lifted from Thorin's trembling body, dumped unceremoniously on the ground. Fili leaped to his feet, Dwalin grabbing his wrists before he could land a blow on him.

"Easy." Dwalin tried to keep his voice calm, but he was shaking. The others watched in stunned silence. Thorin lay on his side, coughing, Balin kneeling at his shoulder, gently coaxing him up. He looked _bad._ Dwalin regretted the precious time it took to take the metal knuckle-dusters off his hands - but he couldn't run the risk of accidentally hurting Fili. Ori held a rag over his broken nose, eyes glistening with tears as he watched Fili struggle madly in Dwalin's hold. He was strong, but Dwalin was stronger. And he held Fili fast. "Fili _calm down._ " He stared wide-eyed at the blonde, unable to believe what he had seen. Fili had gone completely mad. He growled, locking eyes with Dwalin. His irises were almost black. He bared his teeth, Dwalin's chest constricting in cold terror. _This wasn't Fili._ This was a beast in his skin. His knuckles were red and swollen, face slick with sweat and tears. Fili's vision was a hazy blur. All he could see was red, so much red, blood glittering, the choked pain in Thorin's bright blue eyes. He tried to wrench his arms free, yanking so hard he almost pulled the limbs from their sockets, but Dwalin's grip was as lasting and hard as stone. Fili's parted lips rumbled in a growl, thwarted in his attempt to get at Thorin, to _hurt_ him, to make him suffer like he suffered, and he drew up his leg with all the strength he could muster, bringing the leather-clad kneecap right between Dwalin's legs.

The dwarf crumpled, breath knocked from his lungs as a flash of white seized his vision. His midsection flaring with agony, Dwalin's fingers slipped from Fili's wrists, and he sank to his knees, head bowed as he gasped and coughed for air. Eyes the colour of night, Fili returned to his prey. Thorin was on his knees, clutching his ribs, breaking in short, choked gasps. But he didn't stand alone before Fili. Gloin, Balin and Bifur stood in front of their king, a shield of bodies, ready to protect him against the animal that had claimed his nephew. Fili stood frozen, mouth half-open, panting for air as he regarded the four for a split second. Groaning, Dwalin rose back onto his feet, hands on his knees as he bent almost double.

"Fili," And Balin held his hands out, _pleading_ with the young prince. "Fili _calm down_. Please." Fili was sobbing, breath hoarse and broken in his throat. Balin's attempt was futile. There was no one would could bring him down from this dizzying rage. Nobody who lived. " _Fili."_ Fili backed away from Balin as the elderly dwarf took a step forward, shaking his head. His hands were throbbing. He looked at the dim scene, eyes widening with the horror of what he had done. Dwalin still bent over. Ori nursing a broken nose. Thorin wheezing for air. _Mahal no._ Fili's hands went to his hair, his unbraided hair, winding the tangled curls about his fingers, pulling hard on his scalp as the adrenaline faded, as the momentary stillness allowed Fili a moment of his senses. He looked at Thorin, shielded behind Gloin and Bifur's legs, catching a flash of bright blue, staring up at him. Staring up in him in _fear_. "It's all right." Balin was a poor substitute at this moment. He knew who Fili really wanted. He wanted a ghost. A body whose heart had stopped beating. Who no longer breathed. Fili couldn't speak. _He called Thorin a bastard._ He felt the rage swell up again in his chest, clenching his hands into well-practiced fists. But it wasn't anger at Thorin, or at Balin and Dwalin. Not this time. It was himself. _What have I done?_ Hot tears spilled over on his cheeks, Fili shaking his head.  _No what have I done?_ He looked up at them all, twelve faces that stared at him in shock, anger. "Fili come here - Fili no!" For Fili did the only thing he thought he could do. Humiliated, enraged, he did the only thing that seemed possible at the time. He couldn't stand there, couldn't bear their judgement. Couldn't look at what he had done. Couldn't face up to his violence and bitter rage. So Fili did the only thing he could do.

And with his golden mane flying out behind him, Fili turned on his heel, leaving the company behind as he burst from the safety of the elf-path, plunging into the wild forest.


	22. Slow Decay

_Mahal no._

Thorin staggered to his feet, pushing past Balin and Gloin, ignoring them all as he pitched forward, unsteady on his trembling legs. Dwalin _screamed_ at him, Bifur seized his sleeve, but Thorin shook the dwarf free, following Fili’s steps away from the path and into the wood. Terror seized him, smothered his senses and left his limbs weak. He coughed, lurching forward, his chest wracked with pain. Every breath brought another stab of agony into his lungs. His collarbone throbbed.  But Thorin paid no attention to his aching body, clambering over a fallen tree-log, breath a shallow gasp in his pounding chest.

“Fili!” The air tore from his lungs, the cries of his company muffled and distant. “Fili stop!” His hoarse voice was met with a distant crashing, as Fili pushed his way through a maze of ancient greenery. Thorin’s hands shook with panic. He couldn’t lose Fili too. All the warnings left by Gandalf to stay on the path had slipped from his mind. He couldn’t lose Fili. It was an impossible, terrifying thought. _Please no._ He moaned, stumbling, falling heavily to his knees. Thorin’s fingers curled in the dirt and leaves, coughing heavily. Blood was on his lips. Fighting down the urge to cry out, Thorin rose to his feet. He reached out, clutching the slim trunk of a sapling as he gasped for air. The pain had doubled in his chest from the exertion of pushing his broken body through the dense, wild forest, but Thorin couldn’t stop.

“Fili!” His voice was weak. Thorin staggered, trying to listen for a sound, any sound, through the pulsating hammer of blood in his ears. The crashing, the sound of scrabbling, had ceased. He didn’t know if he was heading in the right direction anymore. But he forced his way through, pushing aside branches, stumbling over gnarled tree-roots and battling the tendrils of ferns and vines that attempted to choke him in a leafy embrace. It was so _dark_. It was like wandering through night. The shadows left everything almost black, shades of slate and iron looming about him. Thorin kept his head bent, watching as he negotiated the hostile terrain. A twisted ankle would finish him, and Fili would be lost. He was slow, too slow, he knew. Fili was getting away from him. The sounds had already faded and Fili would fade too. Thorin groaned and shook his head, willing his legs to move faster, for the air to push through his lungs. _Please_. He lurched forward, trying to cling to a tree-trunk. Wet green moss came away on his hands, rich and sticky. _No please._ He forced his battered body onward, farther and farther away from the relative safety of his company. And farther away from Fili. He knew he wasn’t catching up. He knew Fili had slipped through his fingers. He wasn’t quick enough.

Thorin stumbled, taking his eyes from the ground for just a moment to stare about himself in the heavy gloom. It was enough and he tripped, foot caught in a twisting tree-root. He fell hard, throwing his arms out to catch himself and receiving only broken pieces of leaves. Thorin landed heavily on his ribs, winded as an explosion of white-hot pain coursed through his chest. The ground flecked with blood as he coughed and gasped for air, convulsing. He couldn’t move, couldn’t rise to his feet. Was the forest growing darker or was it his own fading vision? Thorin turned onto his side, curling over as the blood spilled from his mouth. He clutched at his weak, frail chest, as though he could reach inside himself and pull the pain out. The earth pitched and moved beneath him.

Unable to move, unable to shake the bloodied coughs that wracked his frame, Thorin stared at the ground with half-open eyes, refusing to surrender to a looming darkness.

* * *

Nazarg was right.

He sighed as he stared at Kili’s back, tracing his fingers over the wounds. They had reopened from the ride, blood oozing from the split skin and staining the bandages. Kili bore the touch without flinching, leaning his chin on his knees. He was listening, listening for words familiar to him which peppered the languid, ugly mutters of the goblins that moved around them. Frequently he asked Nazarg what a word or phrase would mean, repeating it on his tongue and trying out the sounds with his own mouth. Nazarg whispered a translation in Westron, the language now forbidden in Azog’s camp, eyes bent towards his work.

He was furious, but couldn’t rebuke Kili for something beyond his control. So Nazarg kept his tongue still, remaining quiet about the three lives he had ended for the dwarf’s sake. And his own, he reminded himself. He had his own fortunes to concern himself with. The swelling rage at his own powerlessness licked at him, and he had to keep his teeth gritted, his utterances short, edged with iron. Kili could hear the orc’s subtle anger in his voice, keeping his questions to a minimum as he felt the fingers against his back. This wasn’t like the warm little cave with the burning brazier. They were here under different terms and both were keenly aware of the dramatic shift in power.

“Should be enough.” The orc’s voice was a low mutter. Kili nodded at the voice in his ear, looking up from his hands and turning his neck. Nazarg was already shoving his things in his pack, standing up. He didn’t want to remain here. He didn’t know what he would say to the young dwarf. The lack of language between them was the least of it. Kili threaded his arms through the sleeve of his vest, fiddling with the belt at his waist. He was about to stand up when his view was blocked by a very tall shadow. Nazarg paused and watched as Azog thrust something into Kili’s face, wrapped in a small twist of stained brown cloth. His nose twitched, eyes widening. He _could not_ be smelling that. It was impossible. He waited until Azog had stomped away before crouching down in front of Kili.

“Do you know what that _is?”_ He whispered urgently, on one knee as his eyes darted around him. Kili looked up at the voice, mouth full of cold meat, frozen at the expression on Nazarg’s face. The orc looked at him in horror, stomach lurching as he stared into Kili’s eyes. They looked _dead._ He had an idea, all right.

“Of course I do.” Kili stared down at his shaking hands, and his voice cracked. “Don’t – don’t tell me _.”_ He bowed his head and curled inwards so nobody could see his expression as he ate. “Just go – please.” The orc crouched on the floor, shaking his head in slow disbelief. His gaze flicked up to Azog, who lounged beside the fire with a smirk, and he felt his blood boil. Nobody, at least nobody in Isengard, had inflicted such raw, mental cruelty on one of their prisoners. How far was Azog going to go in breaking Kili down?  “I’m sure you have something better to do.” Kili spoke around a mouthful of food and the sound sent another lurch rolling through Nazarg’s stomach. He stood up wordlessly and turned away from the young dwarf, shouldering his pack as he crossed the low dark cave, their home during the fierce noon-day sun.

He had a lot to do, Kili was right. He found a bush of horsetail growing in the shadows near dawn; he ripped the whole thing out and had a thick handful of bugs, roots, and weeds to pull the useful parts out of. The goblins sneered at him, watching as he gathered the best bits and started splitting the stems with his knife, but Nazarg held his tongue and kept an eye on his work. They wouldn’t be sneering later on, when they needed his compresses for a bite-mark or a sword-cut or whatever other nasty wound they would eventually get on this stupid journey.

He did look up though, from time to time, when he saw the great white orc-king making his way to the little dwarf who sat hunched over by the fire. Azog sat down opposite Kili, with a stack of papers and a brown leather book. He was _teaching_ him, the healer realised, the knife lowering in his hands. He was teaching Kili how to speak and read their language.

 _Azog what are you doing._ He narrowed his eyes and shook his head, knowing that he was cooking up something devious and cruel, and Kili was in the centre at it. But try as he might, his quick mind could not unravel Azog’s complicated plan.

* * *

“We have to-”

“Dwalin _no!”_ Balin caught his brother by the edge of his furs before he crashed into the forest. “Don’t take another _step.”_ He pulled Dwalin back, dragging him from the darkness and gloom of the tangled forest. “Mahal – nobody move!” He held up his hands, breathing heavily. The eleven knelt, stood, sat, whispering to each other. “Nobody make a sound.” Balin held his breath. The only noise came from Ori, fighting back tears from his broken nose. The first rag was already cast to the ground, saturated, and Dori had torn a corner of his shirt, pressing it against his brother’s swollen nose. Oin turned his battered ear-trumpet towards the wild forest. They all heard the sound of crashing, a hoarse, broken cry. _Thorin._

“Enough of this-” Dwalin shouldered his axe. He didn’t stop to hear Balin’s cries of protest, plunging head-on into the wood. Almost immediately he brought his axe into the gnarled back of the tree, pulling out a chip of wood the size of a dinner plate. The honey-coloured heart of the tree glimmered plainly in a gloom of green and grey. He took half a dozen steps before swinging the iron weapon again, making a clear sign in the trunk. He wasn’t afraid of losing himself in these woods – he had always had a clear sense of direction, after a century and a half of mines, tunnels, and caves. Let the cursed forest do its best to trap him – Dwalin would not be led astray.

“Thorin!” Dwalin called out into the thick air, bringing another slice of wood out of an ancient tree. He heard a crash, a cry of pain and his heart seized. He knew Thorin wouldn’t have made it far – he saw the way his king had staggered forward and clutched his chest. There was no way he could keep his feet for this long. Dwalin stopped and held his air in his lungs, tuning his ears into any whisper of life. A breath of wind, an insect. But the dark forest refused to beckon at his call. It was desolate and dead and Dwalin could hear nothing.

He swore in Khuzdul, crashing his axe against wood before resuming his steps, crashing through the undergrowth. He was furious with himself, with his closed refusal to speak to Fili. How much of this could have been avoided if he’d just grown a spine and sat the lad down, if he had just asked him to spill his heart and be done with seventy-five years of anger, hatred, lies and downcast tears? Hang his place. Hang everything. They had already lost Kili – was that not enough? Was it not enough for Thorin to let go of his pride, his illusions, his _stupid_ stupid refusal to listen to his own damn heart? Dwalin stopped once more to mark a fresh tree, and this time he paused, leaning his forehead against the knotted wood, breathing heavily. Was it not enough for Dwalin to fight his own way into Fili’s heart and drag his little prince out before he completely hardened to stone?

Apparently not.

Dwalin froze at the sound of a low moan, on the barest edge of his hearing. He turned, taking a half-step in one direction and then the other. _Where was it coming from?_

“Thorin?” He called out, arching his neck towards the gloomy canopy. “Thorin, is that you?” Dwalin listened with close, keen ears but not even the leaves whispered a reply. “Fili?” He tried, knuckles white around his axe.

There it was again, from his left. Dwalin took off, making sure to pause at every fourth three and take another great swing at the dim wood. Thorin hadn’t made it far at all, before collapsing to the earth. Dwalin stilled, heart in his throat as he saw the slumped figure of his king, curled over in the dirt. Thorin’s face was bone-white, lips bloodied and a bruise already darkening his cheekbone.

“Thorin.” Dwalin sighed, slinging his axe across his back, sinking on his knees in the earth. “You fool.” He shook his head, one arm beneath his king’s shoulders, forcing him to sit up. “Come on – get up.” Thorin groaned, head slumping against Dwalin’s chest.

“Mahal.” He pressed two fingers into the base of Thorin’s neck. A sturdy pulse throbbed against his skin. That at least was a relief.  “Come on then.”

“No.” Thorin mumbled, shaking his head. “Fili... Dwalin w-we have to...”

“We’ll get Fili.” Dwalin’s jaw was tight as he rose to his feet, hefting the heavy figure in his arms. “He won’t go far. There’s thirteen of us. We’ll find him. We won’t lose him.” _Not like we lost Kili._ Dwalin hated himself, for allowing the thought to flash through his mind. But how could it not? How could he forget for a single moment, when every step he took, every gasp of air that filled his lungs, brought a fresh memory? All he had to do was turn his head and see Fili sitting, standing, walking beside him. Alone. He listened to the shallow breathing of the figure in his arms. It was like a wind, shaking through a tree-branch. All whispers and clatters and an emptiness. The eerie wind shook in Dwalin’s arms, he followed his own cut trail through the maze of trees and vines and moss, squinting in the dark. His marks were pale but they stood out in the deep gloom, and he never lost his way.

But Dwalin still breathed a long sigh of relief as he stepped back to the sturdy, familiar elf-path, feeling the well-trampled dirt beneath his feet. He ignored Balin’s glare, pushing past the others and kneeling down beside the relit fire. He spread Thorin out gently, as though he were a child, Oin was already on his knees beside the wounded king, pulling aside Thorin’s clothes and muttering to himself. Both felt their hearts sink at the bruises blossoming on Thorin’s skin. His ribs were already black.

“I can’t do much.” Oin shook his head, shrugging with an unusual, defeated hopelessness. “They’re just bruises – bad ones, aye, but all I can do is give ‘im something for the pain.”

“Save it.” Thorin’s voice made them both start. “Dwalin – Fili, _please-”_

“We’re going to get him.” He looked up at his elder brother, Balin obviously deep in thought. He gestured silently at the dense maze of trees, eyes gleaming at him. “Now.” Dwalin crossed the path, muttering into Balin’s ear. “What are we to do – stay put in the hopes that he stumbles back onto the path? Pack up and _leave_ , without him?” He pointed at Fili’s place beside the fire. “He’s left behind his sword, cloak and boots. Balin he’s going to get cold and he can’t defend himself. We need to go _now.”_ Dwalin paused, and his throat tightened. “We can’t lose Fili too.”

“I never said for a moment we weren’t going.” Balin looked across at the fire, at Dori who held Ori’s nose, muttering underneath his breath. At Thorin, weakly trying to sit up as Oin crouched over him anxiously. _Mahal,_ who saw this coming? Balin never expected such a violent outburst from Fili. He had never seen it lurking in the shadows. Not like this. “We need to go in pairs.” His voice rose, he looked at the remainder of their ragged company. “Take all your clothes and weapons – we don’t know what’s in there, and frankly, I don’t want to. Make sure you have something to mark the trees with – and mark them _frequently.”_ He cast a look to his brother. “How dark is it in there?”

“Dark.” Dwalin muttered, crossing his arms. “We’ll need torches, else we won’t see a thing.” The others looked at Balin silently. It was an unspoken rule – with Thorin down, they listened to Balin, the second-in-command and right hand to the king. But they were tense. Dwalin noticed Nori and Gloin looking down at the earth. He started kicking around at the ground, looking for dry tree-limbs to set alight. They wouldn’t be much good without oil, but it was far better than stumbling about in that awful grey darkness.

 _Hold on._ He threw an armload of thick branches beside the fire, crouching down and stripping the twigs with his hands. Bifur helped; the rest pulled on their cloaks, stepping into boots, readying themselves for yet another perilous search.

* * *

Fili couldn’t stop running.

His left foot was bleeding from a particularly sharp splinter of wood that tore across the skin, his breath was a short gasp, side in agony from a stitch, eyes blurred and raw, but he could not stop. He had no sense of direction, of where he was, how far he had come and what direction he ran in. He didn’t care. There was only one burning thought in his mind – putting as much distance as he could between himself, and the awful, awful thing he had just done.

He ran until his legs gave out. Until the air refused to fill his lungs and he sank to the damp earth, fingers digging into his side as he struggled to breathe. His mind whirled; he closed his eyes and tried to stop the ground rocking beneath him. The roaring in his ears was deafening as his blood raced. Fili could smell rotting leaves, thick and damp in his face, the rasp of wood against his legs. He rose to his elbows, rubbing at the dirt clinging to his lashes. He still gasped for air, a knife in his ribs. Fili looked down at his red, swollen knuckles streaked with dirt. He sat up slowly, raising his shaking hands to his eyes. There was blood on them. The air was stolen from his lungs in a broken moan, unbound hair falling across his face as his head sank into his hands.

 _What have I done?_ Disgust and horror sickened him. His bare toes curled into the black leaves. Half-lying against the mossy roots of a huge oak, Fili sobbed alone in the dim forest air, heavy and stale. He called Thorin a _bastard._ He had hit him – not just one or twice, he beat him into the ground, he attacked him. Like a beast. He had smashed his fist into Ori’s nose and felt the bone break beneath his hand. He lashed out at Dwalin, Bofur, leaving them gasping and swearing in pain. He grabbed handfuls of his golden hair, matted with dirt and leaves, pulling down hard. Fire raced across his scalp. He gritted his teeth and willed the tears to stop, but they refused. They burst stubbornly from his eyes and dripped into his soft beard, lingering without a breath of wind to brush them away. _He attacked Thorin._ Fili groaned as the physical urge to vomit leaped in his stomach. His uncle. His _king._ He had lashed out like a drunkard, a monster. He remembered those blue eyes, startlingly bright, glistening upwards at him through Gloin’s legs, looking at him in sick fear and pain. Fili lurched forward, forehead pressed into the dirt as he battled his nausea. He curled his fingers in the decaying leaf litter, pushing the black earth under his nails, writhing in sick pain and horror. _What have I done?_

A monster roared within his head. He screamed into the dead leaves, trying to drown out the deep rushing with his own faltering voice.  The sound was muffled in the earth, his cry neglected in the ancient, blackening forest. Mirkwood was cold and unforgiving. No bird or insect broke the deafening silence that pressed down on Fili, crushing him into the earth. He was completely and utterly alone. Alone and lost.

Fili lifted his head, smothered in black fragments of dead plants. He had been alone and lost for weeks now. He was alone and lost when he awoke in Beorn’s hall, when he flung out his arm to find the bed beside him cold and empty. _Kili._ A high whimper spilled from his lips, the sound of a dying animal. He wasn’t supposed to be alone. He _couldn’t_ be alone. He couldn’t walk this earth without him. He couldn’t take another step. He had driven away his uncle, had beaten back those closest to him, had drawn blood from one of his people. _How could Fili do this alone?_

Anger and shame had bound his heart tight, had squeezed all the life out of it. Fili sat up, heaving with the last of his strength from his exhausted arms, pressing his dirty face to the moss-green of the oaken tree-root. He leaned heavily against the slimy bark, the roots twisting around him in a frozen, lifeless embrace. How could he face them? How could he look Thorin in the eye and _apologise_ for what he had done? He insulted his uncle, he beat his fists against him; there was no forgiveness to expect. How could he expect grace and mercy for breaking Ori’s nose, in a seemingly unprovoked, random attack? Fili’s chest was paralysed with terror, his heart struggled to beat. His blood felt slow and cold. He had been violent towards _Thorin._ The sheer magnitude of what he had done began to clench at his stomach and he pressed his face deeper into the unforgiving wood, fingers curling around the gnarled root as a roar of panic exploded from his throat. _No._ There was no exoneration for this. No show of penitence could excuse what Fili had done.

He couldn’t go back. Fili gripped the slimy tree-roots, drawing his knees close to him, curling inwards. He couldn’t go back to them and face their accusations, their hatred. It didn’t matter if Fili was Thorin’s nephew – no prince was above punishment and there was no pardon for what he had done. _Why are you still crying. Stop._ He pushed his hands into his eye sockets, rubbing dirt into his eyes and making them sting. He wasn’t Fili for those few moments. He was a monster. He had sunken into a violent, depraved past, one that he’d spent nearly eighty _years_ trying to forget. But he couldn’t forget, he could never forget, and without Kili, the memories bubbled at the surface, they burst, and Fili couldn’t close his eyes without having a very dark pair of twilight-blue irises staring back at him, without memories of screaming and fire and blood oozing across the dust.

He’d broken everything. A lifetime of faultlessness, of being the heir that Thorin wanted, the prince Erebor waited for. He’d worked, so _hard_ , to prove to everybody that was a true child of Durin. At a terrible cost, he became somebody his people could be proud of. And in a fit of violence, he’d lost it all. Seventy-five years of courage and strength lay scattered and broken at his feet, and there was nowhere to shift the guilt.

It would be so easy to say this wasn’t his fault. But he didn’t. He wasn’t going to blame his father for this. He couldn’t – he would be weak and heartless to do it. In his stomach, Fili was so sure that his failures were entirely his own. His inability to control himself, his faltering will; they were faults that lay in him. Fili’s breakdown was a product of his own unstable temper. He was a beast, allowing the rage to consume him.

 _And you almost had them all fooled._  Fili opened his eyes, looking down at his shaking hands, the bloodied, swollen knuckles streaked with dirt. _You almost convinced everybody that you were perfect._ He had been months, mere months, from taking his rightful place beside Thorin beneath the Lonely Mountain. He couldn’t muffle a pained moan. _You almost made everyone forget who you really are._ They would never forget now. Even if he somehow retraced his steps, if he fell to his knees before Thorin and begged for forgiveness, if Thorin found it in his heart to excuse his last living nephew, they would never forget what Fili had done. They would walk beside him in doubt and fear. Wondering when he would next explode. Waiting for the next fit of violent rage. And when what if he were king? Fili shivered. They would think him a king of bloodshed, not of honour and valour. The truth stared at Fili, it screamed in his face, loud and ugly and he could not block his ears and turn away from it.

His forehead pressed into his knees, Fili wrapped his arms around himself, curled in the winding roots of the oak, bowed in weight and age. It held him close to the earth, a cold embrace of dirt and moss.

* * *

“You – dwarf-scum.”

Kili looked up at the voice. He sat crossed-legged before the fire, working on an arrow in the light. There were fourteen in the quiver he took, and they were horrible, poorly-forged things, with uneven fletching and notched wood. The sinew that bound arrowhead to crooked shaft was brittle. He wouldn’t bring down a thing with these mediocre arrows, and Kili was resolved to devote few hours of free time to making a new set. They were bodkin points, lighter and cheaper to make than his favoured broadhead’s, but without a forge, he had to make do. The black iron was still better than combing the ground for a chance fragment of obsidian or flint. The goblin crouched before him, eyeing the arrow.

“My name is Kili.” He watched the creature reel back in surprise; Kili had answered him in Black Speech. Inwardly, the dwarf cringed at the horrible sounds on his tongue, but he kept his face still. He tried to deaden himself against whatever horrors threatened to come his way. He couldn’t show fear or rage or sadness. They would see his weakness, seize upon it, and crush him in their blackened fingers. “What do you want?” He tried so hard to keep a quaver out of his voice. He was going to remain steadfast and firm. Kili was resolute. He was not going to let these goblins get the best of him. _All I have to do is survive. If I have to learn this awful language – It’s not a high price to pay._ It was a pittance, to see Fili once more.

“Gulg.” He gestured to himself, a clumsy greeting. “Your warg.” Kili had obviously thrown him off. The goblin intended to strike fear into Kili’s heart with quiet snarls and threats of cruelty; low mutterings that went unheard by Azog. But the dwarf, the wide-eyed, thin little dwarf, he looked up at him with a lifted, clenched jaw. He was standing his ground. “Come.” He jerked his head towards the back of the cave. Kili eyed him cautiously, laying the pieces of his arrow down on the stone. He set aside the bow and quiver, following Gulg to the back of the cave. Four others already waited, leaning forward with torches in their hands.

There was a high whining from the stone. There was a sharp drop at the back of the cave, a very narrow crevice that seemed to stretch down forever. Twelve feet below, there was a flash of grey, a whining creature bracing himself against the stone walls, scrabbling desperately. Kili’s breath hitched in his throat. Nardur whined and howled. He stuck but not entirely trapped – if he twisted or curled, then the warg would slip into the crack of darkness.

“Get him out!” His voice was high, the last word breaking into Westron. The creature at his side smirked. Kili swallowed, curling his hands into fists. He would have said please – but if there was a word for it in the goblin’s language, he was yet to learn it. “ _Now.”_

“Oh, we are.”

Kili cried out as two pairs of hands grabbed at his arms. The rope was crossed around his torso, fastened at the waist. He kicked out but there were too many, they bound the rope close around him, pulling tight to ensure the knots held fast.

“What – no!” Kili’s voice rose against the stone, the harsh ugly words a short gasp. “No!”

“Your warg.” They pushed Kili to the very edge, winding another rope around his wrist. They spoke in short, simple sentences using basic words that Kili would know. “You go.”

“No!” Kili looked over the edge, head spinning with vertigo. “No – I can’t.” He reached out, trying to back away, clawing at something else to hold onto. Nardur scrabbled at the smooth stone, whining as he saw the dark-haired figure looking at him.

“Go or he dies.” There was a shove. Kili gasped, pitching forward clumsily and almost falling. Someone sighed and grabbed him by the wrist, reeling him in. Kili turned, looking at the four goblins. “Your warg.” Gulg repeated. “You go.” Kili looked down at the warg, listening to him whine and scrabble against the rock. _Mahal._ He couldn’t leave the creature there. He couldn’t leave him to fall and die and he couldn’t leave himself without an animal to ride. He couldn’t back away and show them how afraid he was. They would never let Kili forget how he left his warg to die in a moment of cowardice. Fear was a weakness that could kill him if he didn’t learn how to mask it.

Wordlessly, Kili snatched the torch out of Gulg’s hand, shooting the goblin a dark look as he approached the ledge. He crouched down, one foot searching for a hold on the surface. As a rule, Kili normally wasn’t overly concerned with heights– he had always been a climber, although he preferred trees to cliff-faces, but the yawning abyss below Kili sent his heart racing. He was certain this was some sort of trick. What were they going to do, pretend that the rope slipped? Make it fray and break against the rock? Kili held the torch in his iron arm, negotiating his slow way down the endless twelve feet to Nardur. He braced himself against the stone, climbing like a spider into the darkness. He didn’t look down, but he heard the poor creature bark and scrabble at the stone in an effort to get to him.

“ _Kau_ Nardur,” He breathed. _No._ But the warg paid no heed to his command – he writhed and struggled, barking up at Kili, his voice rising into the cave. Kili shuffled down at a snail’s pace, trying very hard to brace himself with only one arm. His boot slipped halfway down; Kili cried out and threw out his broken arm to hold himself against the stone, the torch clattering into the darkness. Nardur yelped as the fire narrowly missed a tuft of grey fur. Kili screwed up his face in pain as the broken bone was jolted but didn’t scream, regaining his footing after several agonising minutes and holding the broken arm closer to himself. He opened his eyes and saw it was very, very dark. He saw only a pale looming shape beneath him. The light of the goblin-torches didn’t reach him down here. Kili looked up, seeing four black silhouettes peering down at him. “Nothing wrong!” He called out from the dark. Not that they asked. Kili swallowed, turning his attention towards the poor trapped warg. He was five feet from Nardur – it could have been a mile.

“What’s going on!” Azog’s voice boomed into the darkness, and Kili froze. “What are you doing!”

“Your Malevolence – there’s been an accident, that _stupid_ warg you gave the dwarf-scum sniffed too close to the ledge, and-”

“Kili!” Down in the crevice, Kili froze. He arched his neck, seeing a very familiar shape bearing down on him. Azog snarled with rage. “What are you doing you fools! Get him up – _now.”_

“No!” Kili understood only half the sentence, but it was enough. He knew _up_ and _now_ and figured what Azog was demanding of Gulg. He pulled on the rope with his broken arm, biting back a cry of pain. He could see Azog’s face reflected in the firelight, twisted in a scowl as he glared down at him. “No!” He shouted out of the darkness. “I need – I need to-” He filed through his crude vocabulary, but Kili realised he didn’t know any orcish words for _rescue_ or _save_. Azog obviously figured Kili wouldn’t need to know them. “He’s my warg!” Kili tried again, Nardur whining from below; he was starting to weaken with the effort of holding himself up. Kili didn’t have long. He returned his gaze downwards, pushing himself down with a stronger sense of urgency. He took bigger steps, pushing back the pain and using his bad arm to move faster, covering the last few feet in a third of the time.

“Your Greatness?” Gulg held the rope in his hands with two others, looking at his new leader for orders. Azog peered over the edge, watching as Kili descended further downwards with a new sense of urgency. There was a cold snarl on his face. Kili was _disobeying_ him. He flouted a direct command.

“Why did you make him do it?” Azog rounded on the nasty little goblin. The wretched creature reeled back at his rage. “Did you think it would be _funny?”_ He stared, open-mouthed. “Do you want him to fall?”

“It’s his stupid beast.” But the cry was pale and defensive, a whine against the rock. “ _I’m_ not going down. He’s from a race of miners. Dwarf-scum can climb just as well as us goblins, they’re used to the stone-”

“Kili is _not_ like most dwarves.” Down in the stone, Kili could hear them. He heard _Kili_ and _not_  and _dwarf_. His stomach clenched, and he bowed his head, face reddening with humiliation. Not a dwarf. He was a foot away from the warg, Nardur clambering upwards but unable to heave himself any further out of the stone, the strength sapped from his limbs. “Reel him up.”

“No!” Kili shouted up. “I-I have him!” He braced his feet, legs starting to tremble with the effort, reaching down to loop the rope from his wrist around Nardur’s chest. “Wait!” The warg lapped frantically at Kili’s arm as he crossed it around the heaving muscles, knotting it three times at his back. “Get us up!” There was a heave, Nardur yelped as he was pulled free from the stone, scrabbling for the smooth surface. Kili watched as his grey beast was slowly dragged out of the cave, Kili breathing a sigh of relief at the tension on his waist. He let his limbs fall free, one arm trailing against the stone as the firelight grew closer. Within moments, he was grasping the ledge, heaving his exhausted frame out of the darkness and onto the unyielding stone floor of the cave. Kili sat with his legs before him, shaking fingers fiddling with the knots on his stomach. _Not a dwarf._ The words still hammered away in his mind in that ugly speech, making his heart thud. He knew Azog never thought much of him – but to tell them all that he wasn’t a proper dwarf, not really, it made his face burn with humiliation, and he couldn’t look at any of them.

But he had to look up when Azog stepped in front of him. The hands stilled on the tight cords at his waist, Kili’s throat tightening as he saw the face twisted in undeniable rage. He was going to get in _trouble_ for this. For his recklessness. He couldn’t even argue that it wasn’t his fault. He could have been pulled back up – and he told them to stay their hand. _Why did he do that?_ Kili couldn’t break his gaze with Azog; the orc-king took a step towards him, Kili scrabbling back on his hands. He managed to rise to his knees before a blow to the side knocked the breath from his lungs. Stunned, Kili thought at first he had been struck – but there was a rasping tongue licking at his face, his nose filled with the undeniable smell of warg-fur.

Azog snarled as the beast crashed into Kili, pinning him to the ground as he licked at the dwarf’s face. Kili sputtered, trying to pull himself free, but Nardur was determined to show his gratitude. Azog wasn’t going to get any contrition out of the dwarf, he could tell. He wanted to hurl his boot into Kili’s side, hear him cry out and feel bones crack beneath his foot. He clenched his hand into a tight fist, but his feet remained unmoving on the stone. Kili managed to pull himself into a sitting position, his hands on the warg’s face. There was no fear in his chest as he looked his creature in the eye. He couldn’t see any darkness or hatred there. Just a warm gratitude, and Kili couldn’t fight back the smile as the warg licked his nose. He was like the wolves he had seen adopted by men, snatched from their mothers as sightless pups and raised in boxes lined with old blankets beside the fire. He was trying to yank him off, trying to disentangle his exhausted limbs from a clutch of grey fur and sharp claws but Nardur held him fast, wetting Kili’s face and hair with long, stringy gobs of saliva.

Kili laughed.

The goblins all paused in their muttering, Azog feeling his cheek twitch. Kili was laughing as he tried to pull himself away from Nardur, the warg thinking it was some kind of a game and holding him tight. Whether it was tiredness or relief or he had simply sunken into madness, Kili was _laughing_ , ducking his head as he playfully fought against Nardur’s affectionate embrace. Kili wasn’t sure what it was. But the warg’s tongue on his cheek sent a laugh bubbling in Kili’s throat, and he let it break free. He realised, with his fingers curled in the thick grey fur, that he had been genuinely afraid that he would watch the warg fall into the darkness. He never expected Nardur to try and play with him, to show affection. The warg was genuinely grateful, he _knew_ what Kili had done for him.

“ _Kili!”_ Azog’s voice brought the entire cave to a stand-still. Kili’s voice died in his throat and even Nardur slunk back, a low whine sounding in his throat. The dwarf sat, looking up at Azog with all trace of humour snuffed out, a candle-flame in water. “Go.” Azog pointed wordlessly at the fire, burning with obvious rage. The sound of Kili’s laughter set him ablaze. Henever wanted to _hurt_ Kili as much as he did at that moment. He had never seen a smile, a warm emotion cross Kili’s face. He had been in pain and misery and Azog was proud of what he had done. To see him laughing, it made his chest surge in fury and he struggled to contain it. He turned away from Kili, knowing he couldn’t hit out at him. He couldn’t beat him into remorse, as he had done before.

Kili kept his head low as he returned to his place beside the fire, where the arrows lay waiting for him. He heard the thud of heavy feet following, and as he knelt down in the stone, the warg curled up beside him, resting his head on his paws with his nose turned towards the flames. Kili looked down at him, but that little glimmer of joy had been well and truly smothered, and he kept his eyes on his work in silence until Azog declared the outside world dark enough for them to venture into the night.


	23. A Prison of Earth

The sunrise was red.

 _Blood has been spilled._ Kili remembered the old proverb, repeated it silently on his lips as he arched his neck to look up at the sky. The others hurried on their beasts, rushing across the meadow. Their scout had found a small cave ahead – barely more than a crack in the earth, but it was shelter enough from the heat of the sun, as they ventured further from the slopes of the Misty Mountains and the heavy shade of the fir trees, Azog grew more desperate for darkness. These goblins couldn’t march through sunlight quite like his old forces could; they cowered and whined and complained that it was too bright to see, and Azog couldn’t do a thing with them. The orc king himself admitted that the light, especially from an early autumn sun, was too bright, too harsh and hot, to march beneath unless absolutely necessary. But caves were rare – this was the first they had found in two days, and the ground only grew flatter and softer. Azog wasn’t sure quite how they would cover the ground to Mirkwood without the dark little creatures poisoning themselves in the sunlight.

Kili slid to the grass as he approached the mouth of the cave, the very last of the pack to enter. He turned back, watching as the very first ray of sunlight pierced through the clouds, a single thread of gold amongst the red. It looked as though the sky was burning. It was a heavy, rich morning, where his skin was flushed pink, and even the grass was cast in a deep reddish tint. Everything looked as though it had been washed in blood. Kili closed his eyes and turned towards the darkness of the cave, realising how much it pained him to look at it. It was dark and bloody and it left him cold. A sunrise wasn’t supposed to look so dim and red. He had to duck to enter the cave – it was small indeed, Azog chasing out the wargs with a snarl. There wasn’t room enough for the entire contingent and their beasts. Kili pressed himself against the stone as forty wargs dashed past him, chased outside by their masters, biting and snapping and growling at each other, a tangle of fur and teeth and burning yellow eyes. Kili closed his eyes and let out a long breath as they left, trying to still the pounding of his heart.

A fire was already being prepared, three goblins bent over a lame deer they had found and killed in the night. Kili watched, wondering idly if they would let him have the sinews to restring his arrows, if he were to ask. He stepped forward, trying to remember the right words, but before he could open his mouth, a voice from the back of the little cave made him stop short.

“Kili!” It wasn’t Azog. It wasn’t Nazarg or Gulg either. Kili turned to see a goblin who had never spoken to him before. So he was on name-terms with these creatures, then. The dwarf swallowed. Evidently his little rescue of Nardur had gained him a certain level of respect. “Come ‘ere.”

“What is it?” Four goblins stood in front of a smooth slab of stone. Although not a miner, Kili could instantly tell it had been cut from a different sort of rock – it was paler, the grain finer than the dark granite that surrounded them. Someone had put it there. “What have you fou-” One of the goblins was jostled aside, Kili catching a glimpse of Khuzdul runes.

 _What in Mahal’s name,_ Kili rushed across the cave, stepping on several pairs of hands and not caring. He was half a head shorter than the goblins, but he pushed two of them aside without a second thought to get a close look at the stone. Although he could now _speak_ the language of his ancestors with ease (Fili, Thorin and Dís all refused to speak to him in Westron for six months when he was seventy, until he finally picked up their mother tongue), his written Khuzdul was still sloppy. He could still read the runes if he sounded them aloud in his head. But he didn’t need to read these slowly. He didn’t need to read most of them at all. He saw the name carved in the stone marker, the symbol beneath it, and Kili knew in an instant who the tomb was for. Sick horror crashed down on him. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see, couldn’t hear. His eyes closed but the runes still danced before them, an agonized cry tearing through his throat and filling the heavy air of the small cave.

_Kili, son of Dís, daughter of Thráin, son of Thrór King under the Mountain_

The entire contingent fell silent at the horrible sound. Nazarg started, and Azog rose to his feet turning towards its source, the dark-haired figure clutching at the smooth slab of stone and sinking to his knees.

“ _No!”_ Kili pressed his forehead against the carvings, beating his fists against the stone. “No – no _no no_ _NO!”_ Azog approached the dwarf; they all parted to make way for the orc-king, watching in shocked silence as Kili dug his fingers into the runes. “ _No...”_ Kili’s hoarse voice broke. “I’m not – I’m not – Please – I’m not dead _.”_ He repeated it, a mantra, his heart and mind bound in shock and agony. “I’m not _– I’m not dead! I’m not dead!”_ He shouted in Khuzdul, the sacred language alien to the cluster of dark creatures. Azog watched as Kili clawed at the stone, gasping for air. “How – How can you – I’m not – I’m not –” Kili shook his head, hyperventilating in terror as he pressed his hands against the stone.

“It’s a tomb.” Azog looked down at the voice beside him. The goblin sneered at Kili. “Who d’ya think’s buried there?”

“Family?” Another piped up behind Azog. “I can’t read them dwarf-scum scratchings. Looks new. Why would a tomb be out _here?”_

“It’s not family.” Azog’s mouth stretched in a wide smile as realisation struck. Kili was not mourning the loss of one of his kin. The murmuring goblins beside him fell silent. “It’s _his_.” Of course Thorin Oakenshield, upon presuming his nephew dead, would have erected something in his honour. Of coursehe would have built a marker, probably filled it with whatever leftover possessions they had, leaving them to rust and rot beneath the stone. He watched as Kili’s head sank further downwards, he collapsed slowly, deflating. Azog could not have _dreamed_ of finding something so cruelly devastating to Kili. His tomb, his own stone, showing that his kin had released their hold on him and considered him dead in this world, it stood before Kili, plain and ugly and unmistakeable, a dark affirmation that they had given up on him. Thorin had turned his nephew against him, by having this humble marker carved into the stone. Azog would use it to break any loyalty, any love that Kili had for his uncle. _He had proof that Thorin left Kili to die._

“Back to work, you lot!” Realising that Kili had attracted the attention of the entire contingent with his screaming, Azog barked out his order. “Ignore the dwarf and go about your business.” The silent tension in the cave broke; he watched the bustle of activity, of readying the fire and skinning the beast, of settling down with weapons to sharpen. The goblins all turned away from the pair, giving Azog and Kili the illusion that they were being unwatched. Kili still pressed his fingers against the runes, cheek cold as he buried his face into the stone. He moaned against the stone, his words indecipherable to Azog. But he didn’t need to speak Kili’s language to know he was heartbroken, betrayed and utterly devastated to see the empty tomb erected in this tiny little cave. He knew exactly what Kili was thinking. He was wondering how they could have left him for dead. Azog stood behind him, silent, unnoticed by Kili, as he crouched down slowly. He stretched out his hand, fingers brushing Kili’s hair as he clasped the dwarf’s trembling shoulder.

Kili gasped. He broke away from his one-sided embrace with his own tomb, shrinking back against the stone as he saw Azog crouching down before him. He struggled to breathe, wiping at his eyes as he stared down at his knees, shaking his head. Azog remained close to the ground, watching, waiting as Kili slowly regained his composure, swallowing back the sobs that left his throat raw and cheeks wet. _This couldn’t be true._ Kili closed his eyes, as though that would stop the rushing in his ears. It couldn’t be true. Thorin and Fili wouldn’t do this, they would never leave him, they would _never_ give up. _How_ could they have given up on him? How could they make such a terrible mistake? They had nothing, no proof of his death. They had a ransom, they had a night to come. But they didn’t, they never came, something held them back, and now Kili saw they had constructed a simple memorial for him. He had been hoping, wishing, that perhaps they were biding their time, waiting for an opportunity to strike. That perhaps they had somehow lost Kili in the wilderland, the way he had lost himself, but they still looked, still held out hope, still tried to find him. Kili now saw that he had been terribly, terribly wrong. There had always been a fear that they really had left him, but Kili had tried to ignore it, tried to rationalise that they must have had a very good reason. He never for one moment believed that they would abandon him entirely. Although his hopes of rescue grew dimmer and dimmer as the days stretched into weeks, Kili always carried his hope within him, a burning ember that refused to die out. He’d kept it alive for _nothing._

They had left him for dead. They _abandoned_ him. The awful realisation crushed him, searing through his chest and leaving him gasping. _They left him to die as Azog’s prisoner._ He wanted, so much to believe it wasn’t true, but the cold truth stared Kili in the face. They never came. Thorin never attempted to bargain with Azog, never took the ransom offer. It had been a _long_ time since Kili had left Beorn’s Hall. He didn’t count the days but he saw the waning moon, vanishing in the night sky to a silver thread. Two weeks, perhaps two and a half, had passed since Kili’s imprisonment, too long to still expect a rescue. _But he had_. He had stupidly, foolishly, naively hoped that something would happen. He’d tried to harden himself against the darkness and terror, tried to mask his fear and act as though he were strong enough to face whatever came at him, but that strength lay in the memory of Fili and Thorin. All he had to do was hold out long enough to be delivered into their hands. But with the painful revelation that Thorin and Fili had given up on him came a crushing defeat in his heart, a hurt that would linger until his last breath. _They abandoned him._

Kili looked up to see that Azog held out his hand. He crouched with the limb outstretched and jerked his head towards the fire, silently. Kili sat frozen, looking from Azog to the burning scraps of kindling. He was so cold. Cold and tired. He tried to picture Fili’s face in his mind, but it made him feel sick. He imagined those dark blue eyes before him, and his pulse throbbed, dull and heavy in his temples. It hurt him to think on it. He couldn’t imagine his brother without an agonizing, crushing pain tearing through his chest. Kili couldn’t come to terms with the revelation that he had been _abandoned._ It didn’t make sense to him. _How could they do this?_

He was so cold.

Kili pressed his hand into Azog’s palm. The orc fought back a smile, closing his fingers around the trembling little hand, so small and frail in his. He rose to his feet and faced the fire. Kili followed him obediently, turning away from the tomb erected in his honour, unable to think about his Fili without tears of anguish burning in his eyes. He lifted his head and looked towards the cluster of goblins gathered around the fire, absorbed, or pretending to be, in whatever menial task had been set for them.

* * *

“Thorin, are you... are you asleep?”

Hand clamped over his nose, Ori looked cautiously over the bloodied scrap of fabric, biting on his lip. The injured king lay beside him, still and silent on the thick layer of blankets and furs, his nose pointing towards the sky and face pale. Flecks of blood clung to his lips like tiny rubies. Ori sat with his legs crossed, staring wordlessly into the fire, lowering his handkerchief every few minutes to check the sluggish bloodflow. He touched his throbbing nose, and winced. Ori was sure, beneath all the swelling and discolouration, that his now-unrecognisable nose was crooked.

“Mhmm...” The young dwarf started at the limp figure. Thorin’s eyes flickered but remained closed. He fought against unconsciousness, knowing how bad it could be for him, if he were to give in to the darkness. “Still up.”

“G-Good.” Ori remembered Oin’s warning not to let Thorin sleep. “I need to check your heart.” Face reddening, Ori reached across, resting his bloodied fingertips on the juncture of Thorin’s neck, counting slowly. Oin had taught him to test for a pulse, had warned Ori to check every few minutes. It was only a precaution. There was very little chance of Thorin worsening, and Oin could in reality do very little for his king, this far out in the wild. He was better of joining the rest of the company in searching for Fili. They paired off, five groups of two, taking their own routes into the forest and leaving Ori alone with an injured Thorin, hovering between sleep and waking. Ori insisted to his brother that he was all right, he didn’t need his nose to walk and he wanted to help, but it was Balin who stepped in and said that somebody had to stay behind and look after Thorin, and Ori was the most sensible option, given his current situation.

It was humiliating. _Current situation_. Hah. Everyone could read between the lines. Ori was the weakest. His face flushed with embarrassment, he drew back as the others readied themselves for their trek through the ancient wood. He remained behind, waiting, growing bored and tired and feeling steadily light-headed as his nose leaked yet more blood. Fili’s blow had been _hard_ , it almost knocked Ori out and left him fighting back tears as the broken bone throbbed in agony for a good hour before slowly subsiding.

“Does it still hurt?” Ori’s voice was so very small in the gloomy forest. Thorin grunted, giving a half-shrug, his eyes still closed. Moving sent spasms of pain through Thorin’s chest. He was so tired. He wanted to sleep, to let his mind drift and sink. Ori watched as Thorin’s head started lollng to the side, neck slack. “Thorin.” Ori shook his shoulder. “Thorin you need to stay awake.” He pressed his fingers back against Thorin’s throat, counting for a few brief moments. All was well with his heartbeat, but Ori wasn’t going to dare breaking Oin’s command. He got only a low groan in response. “Thorin.” Ori repeated, giving him another shake. “Stay _awake._ Please.”

“Mmm.” Thorin groaned, head now entirely to one side. “I’m all...” He trailed off, Ori’s hand on his shoulder. He shook Thorin once more. “All right Ori...” Thorin sighed at the touch, vision fading in and out. Ori swallowed, toying with the edge of his sleeve nervously.

“No, you’re not.” Ori shuffled closer to his king, reaching out and finding Thorin’s hand. He wrapped his thin artists’ fingers around Thorin’s callused palm, squeezing tight. “Do you want to try and sit up? It might help you stay awake.”

“No.” Thorin mumbled. “Hurts.” His hand tightened around Ori’s tentative little grasp. “Just keep talking.” He cracked his eyes open, looking up at the young dwarf who sat closely at his side. Ori held one hand over his nose, the other wrapped firmly around Thorin’s. Ori’s eyes widened.

“Talking?” He lowered his hand, sighing with relief. Finally the bleeding had slowed enough only to require an occasional dab. “Wh-what about?”

“Anything.” He couldn’t see through his bleary gaze, couldn’t see just how Ori’s face had reddened. “Tell me about yourself.” Thorin blinked, trying to keep his eyes open, trying to concentrate on the dwarf who held his hand. He realised that he couldn’t really say _anything_ much about Ori. All he could say with certainty is that he was a bookish little dwarf who kept his head buried in his drawings. “Your brothers. Whatever you like.” It hurt to talk, to force the air through his lungs. He fell silent, breathing lightly through his nose. “Listening... Listening keeps me awake.” He winced at the effort of stringing such a sentence together.

“Well... All right.” Ori paused to take Thorin’s pulse, dabbing at his nose. He stared into space, thinking about what he could say that Thorin would find interesting. “I didn’t really do much of anything in Ered Luin. It’s my hands.” He tightened his grip around Thorin. “They wouldn’t hold up in the forge or the mines. Balin said I was the best student he ever had, but our people don’t have much use for books and pictures now.” He looked down, his flush deepening. “Certainly not enough to make a living... I know Dori tried but he wasn’t a rich merchant. He just couldn’t hold on to money. That was why Nori had to... Well.” He cleared his throat.

“Steal.” Thorin mumbled. He’d heard rumours about it. He never took from his own people, of course, but Nori had a habit of taking off, and coming back days, weeks, months later with his pockets bulging. It was no mystery to anyone how he obtained his wealth.

“Y-Yes. Steal.” Ori stumbled over his words, nervous of broaching the subject with Thorin. “He’s here for the gold. I think he might be the only one who’s really here for the gold. Everybody else seems to have some sort of noble purpose.” He hoped Thorin didn’t notice how red his face had flushed.

“Ori...” Thorin sighed. “More than you... you think are here for it.” He swallowed, breathless. Ori wiped at his nose, watching. “Trust me.” Thorin’s eyes flicked up to him, dazed and foggy. “But you... What about you?” Ori blinked. “Why are you here? Gold? Adventure?” It was something that had genuinely puzzled Thorin. Ori wasn’t old enough to remember Erebor – he had no emotional connection to the homeland of his fathers. And he never struck Thorin as the kind of wild-hearted dwarf to drop everything and risk his life on a distant quest.

“Well...” Ori’s heart hammered. He could never tell the complete truth. “I s’pose I just... I just wanted to see more and do more and _be_ more. I’ve read all these stories about battles and quests and grand journeys, and I want to write my own. I-If that makes sense.” He ducked his head. It was true, Ori _did_ want to break out of Ered Luin, out of that makeshift home where he wandered as a useless shadow. But that was still only half the reason, and Ori would die before admitting to Thorin that it was his nephew that sealed Ori’s decision to shoulder his few precious possessions and leave behind the only home he knew.

“Makes perfect sense.” Thorin mumbled. His hand tightened in Ori’s grasp. “I’m glad you’re here.” Ori’s throat had closed. “We need more like you Ori.” The young dwarf moved his lips wordlessly; his voice had left him. He couldn’t speak. “More with... your heart.”

“Thank you.” Ori found his voice, his fingers shaking in Thorin’s hand. He watched those bright blue eyes, hazy with pain and exhaustion, flicker towards the heavy green canopy. They were glimmering. Ori realised with a heartsick blow to the chest that Thorin was thinking on his nephews. “I’m... I’m so sorry Thorin.” He mumbled quietly, unsure at first if his king had really heard him. Thorin’s eyes lowered from the trees to Ori’s face, the younger finding the grip on his hand tighter than ever for a moment, a short squeeze before loosening. 

“Ori, I do not blame you.” Thorin’s voice was low, the effort of talking physically painful for him now. “Kili...” He screwed up his eyes, taking a shallow breath. “He did... did a very foolish thing.” Ori watched him silently. “It was not your job to... to tell him what was right.” No. That was his. Thorin’s jaw hardened, clenched with the tight effort to counteract the trembling of his lower lip. Ori tested Thorin’s pulse, finding his heartbeat quickening. _Mahal_ , Fili was right. It would _never_ stop hurting. Thorin wasn’t sure he could ever imagine that sharp little face without a crippling agony rushing through his heart. “I’m sorry Fili... Fili hurt you.” Ori dabbed at his nose.

“Oh, just a broken nose. People get them in fights all the time.” Thorin allowed a smile to grace his lips for a heartbeat. “But... Thank you Thorin.” Ori swallowed. “I’ve been lying awake a lot, thinking about what would have happened otherwise. If I’d just...” He trailed off, feeling his heart clench. There were _so many_ ‘what-if’s, they spun around Ori and made his head hurt. Sometimes he felt all he could do was dwell on a lost past. “Don’t worry about it.” Ori forced a smile, realising how much it hurt Thorin to think on his nephews. Both of them. His pulse was thudding too fast, he was obviously holding back his emotions in an effort to save face. Ori couldn’t watch this painful attempt to maintain a steady expression. He had to distract Thorin from the thought of his nephews, rather than reminding him of them. “I-I think I was telling you about Dori.”

“Yes.” Thorin murmured. “Dori.” The elder brother who had a knack for spending money quicker than he could ever make it. Ori wiped at his drying nose, taking a long breath. “He clearly... loves you very much.”

“He does.” Ori smiled. “It’s not his fault. Nobody planned for me, least of all our mother. He didn’t know what to do with me when she died. I think he wanted to settle down and have his own children but I sort of got in the way.” Perhaps that was best. Ori didn’t see how someone like Dori could provide for a family with a steady income. Not with the way gold slipped through his fingers. “Anyway - did you ever hear about the time he ran into trouble with some traders from Mithlond and Nori had ask Dwalin for help?”

“I heard rumours.” Thorin mumbled. “But tell me again.” Ori pressed his fingers against Thorin’s neck, feeling a steady pulse. The beat had slowed; Thorin’s brush with an emotional fit had passed. He looked up at Ori, blue eyes slowly clearing. And with a smile, Ori began his story, feeling Thorin’s hand clenched tightly around his.

* * *

“Fili!”

“ _Fili!”_

Fili’s eyes snapped open. The voices were vague and directionless. He couldn’t tell where they came from. Heart hammering, he rose slowly to his feet, joints cold and stiff.

“Fili!”

Behind him. Fili whirled around, breath low and shallow in his throat. _No no no no._ Not his people. He could hear crashing. They were coming for him. He took a step, knee buckling as pain flooded through his foot. He looked down at the long cut, biting his lip. Running from them would be out of the question. _No please._ He couldn’t bear to face them. Any of them.

“Fili!”

He held his hands over his ears, shaking his head. No. He couldn’t face their cold judgement, couldn’t look at what he had done. He looked down at his dirty, swollen knuckles and swallowed. He couldn’t run away from what he had done.

“Fili!”

His eyes swivelled back to the tree, the one he had been crouching under, cold and frightened and alone. The huge twisting roots rising from the earth and the bowed trunk. Fili dove onto his knees, forcing himself through a gap on the slimy green roots. There was a tiny space in the darkness, enough for Fili to curl up in with his knees to his chest. He was virtually invisible; they would find him only if they stared very hard at the tree-roots and noticed a flash of gold in the shadowy darkness.

“Fili!”

The blonde pressed himself as far back as he could into the damp earth. Something slimy crawled over his toe. It was cold, very cold in here. He folded his arms and legs close and kept his breath very low.

“We’re more likely to attract wild animals than Fili if we keep this shouting up.”

Fili gasped as the voices drew closer. Dori and Nori. He tried to burrow into the earth, his heart seized with horror. Not them. He heard their footsteps. They were close to him now, less than fifty feet from his hidden burrow beneath the tree.

“I’m surprised you’re even here. You looked for a moment like telling Balin to shove off.”

“I was tempted.”

Fili listened to the two brothers, their heavy boots drawing nearer. He rested his chin on his knees, arms wrapped tightly around his legs. He shivered, not knowing if it was the cold or fear that made his limbs tremble.

“But I figured if we’re the ones to find Fili, I could maybe wring his neck without Thorin and Dwalin finding out.”

There was no humour in Nori’s voice. It was hard, an edge of genuine anger. He wanted to punish for Fili for what he had done to his younger brother. Fili held his breath as he heard them on the other side of the tree. His heart pounded, Fili convinced that the pair could hear it thudding in his chest.

“I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to break _his_ nose.”

“Exactly. I’m surprised Balin let us go together. He can’t expect us to find him.”

They were passing the tree. Fili tried to still his quaking limbs, biting down hard on his lip. He watched Dori turn to his brother, shaking his head with a chuckle.

“You couldn’t take him a fight brother. Not alone.”

Fili watched him pause, drawing his knife against a nearby tree-trunk. Dori was carving his familiar rune into the bark. After making the mark, Dori stepped back, clapping a hand on Nori’s shoulder, and gesturing him onwards.  They were side-on, less than ten feet from where Fili crouched in darkness, hidden in the tangle of mossy tree-roots. He still couldn’t breathe. Fili clutched at his side. He always kept himself armed. Always. He slept with a small dagger thrust inside the waistband of his pants. Even when he laid his swords aside for sleep, he kept the tiny blade close to him. It was an old knife, one Thorin had given him when he was young. He would never use it against these two, but it was a small seed of comfort to feel the firm steel in his hand.

“I’d damn sure try though.”

Fili felt his heart sink at the dark mutter, struggling to remain silent. It was plainly obvious to him now. Nori hated Fili. He hated him for his violent outburst against poor Ori and the thief wanted to show Fili just what he thought of him. He held his breath until the pair moved on, waiting until the sound of their voices, their footsteps grew distant.

“Fili!”

He let out a moan as he heard the call, leaning his forehead against the roots, curling his fingers around the twisted wood, staring outwards. It felt to him like a cell, keeping him locked close to the earth. Fili had to get out. He fought and twisted and struggled until he was finally free from the cold, mossy prison, sinking to his hands and knees in the leaf litter, filling his lungs with deep gasps of air. After a long time, he looked upwards, the huge grey tree-trunks, bowed and crooked, leaning over in their age. This was an old, old forest. He sat with his legs before him, looking down at his bloodied and dirty hands. _What was he going to do?_

He couldn’t go back to them. He couldn’t bear to think about it. He knew it would never be the same. Dwalin, Balin and Thorin, they surely thought of him as an animal. One they couldn’t control. Dori and Nori wanted to hurt him and he was sure Bofur would too, after his heavy blow to the ribs. Ori would have been more afraid of him than ever. He closed his eyes and remembered the way they all looked at him, that shock and horror, their faced distorted and eyes wide. 

No. He couldn’t go back. Fili looked down at his bare feet. He couldn’t go back and he couldn’t run from them, couldn’t hide in these woods. They would keep searching for him, searching until they found him. Until they dragged him back, kicking and screaming to his uncle, ready to face judgement for what he had done. Until they found Fili, or until the dark creatures of the wood found _them._ There was only one thing he could do. Only one way out of this.

Fili reached inside his trousers. The knife looked pale in this heavy dull light. His fingers shook and his vision blurred and he was gasping for air as he looked at it in his hand. He was sick with fear and horror at what he had done. What he was going to do to himself. _Oh Kili I need you more than ever._ Fili took in a deep breath, he steeled himself and tried to stop his eyes from stinging. He was going to do this with his head held high. Although it was a condemnable act of humiliation, he was not going to cry while he did it. Oh _Mahal_ how did it come to this?

But there was only one thing he could do. Fili shook his head. He could not run from them and he could not reunite with them. There was only one way out.


	24. Knife Edge

Fili ran the blade slowly over the skin of his upper lip. It was difficult, he could not stop his hands from trembling and he came very close to cutting himself twice. But in a minute, his hand was filled with braided hair, the skin beneath his nose covered only in short golden stubble. Fili let the hair fall to the ground, fingering freshly-shaved skin. It felt so _cold._ So cold and so light, without that familiar tug at his lips. Fili closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, fighting back a sob. That was the worst of it, the only bits of hair that remained in braids. In reality, he wasn’t physically losing much. Fili had always kept his beard short, out of respect and loyalty to his uncle. A symbol of mourning for a lost kingdom that he had never seen, for murdered ancestors that never looked upon his face. It would take only a year or so for the hair to completely regrow. He wasn’t shaving a magnificent beard that trailed to his waist; Fili had never been old enough or worthy of that.

He lifted his bowed head, placing the knife against the curve of the jaw. He didn’t shave the beard completely – the risk of cutting his own skin was too great, the knife wasn’t sharp enough for that sort of work and there was no soap and water. But it was enough, the bristles of hair catching on his tunic and falling to the ground without a breeze to carry them off. Fili pulled the skin tight with his shaking hand, the rasp of the knife cold against his skin. He couldn’t do it with dry eyes. He had to stop to wipe at them with his sleeve, taking a long breath as he pressed the edge of his blade against his forehead.

But finally it was gone. The knife slipped from his fingers to the ground, Fili running his fingers slowly over his new face. There was still a faint edge of stubble, coarse and bristly against his hands. They poked his palms, hundreds of blunt little needles and he lowered his hands, jaw set and firm. After what felt an age, he slowly opened his dark blue eyes, looking down at the hair which scattered the ground before him. The silver clasps glistened up at him through the dirt and leaves, ornately carved with love by Thorin’s own hand. It hurt Fili terribly to look at them; he covered them with a handful of blackened leaves, burying them beneath a rotted carpet. 

Something slowly settled over Fili, something strange and surprising. Calm. There was an old calmness to the deathly silence around him, one that hardened his resolve, slowed his pounding heart. It was done. He had the shaved beard of an ashamed exile. There was another half to the agonising process, but as he ran his hands through his tangled mess of golden curls, Fili knew that he could never do it. He couldn’t touch his hair. It was too soft, too precious and close to him. He had too many memories, of lying in bed with Kili while his deft little hands stroked his golden mane, worked it into braids, murmuring with light-hearted jealousy. He couldn’t ever cut it off.

He picked up the knife, wiping the last of the bristly hairs away on his sleeve and tucking it back into the leather sheath hidden in his waistband. His face felt so _cold._ Fili sat in the dirt for a long time, thinking. He had a half-formed plan in his head, vague and tenuous. He would find his way back. If Dori had marked this tree, then there would be others. A trail, back to the path. He would find it and make his way back to the campfire. He only hoped that there would be nobody there to meet him. He hoped that they were all out in the woods, searching for him. Everything hinged on that hope. He would return to the lonely camp, would take his clothes and weapons, a little food. He would leave a note for his uncle. And he would retrace his footsteps along the gloomy track, westwards, back to the wilderland.

After that however, Fili did not know. He licked his lips and looked up at Dori’s rune, the trail it cut for him. His heart started to pound again, his palms were sweaty. It was a rash, passionate decision, one that anybody else would have condemned as nonsense. But Fili was turbulent and distorted when he ran the blade over his face. He had the violent desperation of somebody bound by mistakes that could never be undone. He was punishing himself, with a severity that Thorin would never equal, but a severity he was so sure that he deserved. Fili rose to his feet, giving his bare face one last rub with his palm, feeling the sandpaper-scrape along his hand. He approached the tree, tracing the rune with a trembling finger. He smeared dirt over the mark, stepping backwards and turning to his right. The direction Dori and his brother came from.

Fili began to walk slowly, limping from the cut on his foot. It became hard to move his fingers; they were stiff and cold. He still shivered, freezing from kneeling barefoot and lightly-clothed in the dirt, trapped in a gloomy world where sunlight had never pierced through the thick leaves.

* * *

“Kili.”

The dwarf didn’t raise his head as he watched Azog sit down before him. He remained cross-legged on the stone, head bowed and hands clasped in his lap. There were no more tears to come from him, his breathing had slowed and his hands had stopped shaking, but Azog knew that Kili was still suffering inwardly. He fought with himself, trying to comprehend how his uncle and brother could have left him to die in Azog’s grasp. Kili had told Azog that he meant everything to Thorin, and Azog could plainly see that the young dwarf was starting to doubt his own words.

“Kili. Look at me.” Azog watched as Kili slowly lifted his head. He didn’t look at Azog, he kept his eyes lowered but he straightened his back and held up his head. He looked ragged and hollow. His soft brown eyes were so very dark in his pale face. Azog had to tread _so_ carefully. He realised how precarious this situation was. Although physically better than he had been in weeks, Kili was more emotionally vulnerable than ever before. He was beaten down. The last light of hope had died within him. His will was _completely_ gone. It was almost frightening to see how hollow and cold Kili had become in just a few short hours. “Look at me.” Azog repeated, watching as Kili slowly raised his gaze, meeting Azog’s eyes. Azog could either draw Kili in, offer consolation or comfort, open himself up, allow Kili to trust him. Or he could break his heart completely. Two weeks ago he would have done the latter without a moment’s thought. He would have snarled that it showed how worthless he was to Thorin. That his brother was a coward for abandoning him to this awful fate. He would have made crushed Kili’s heart in his hands and left him entirely broken.

But he looked at Kili now, and he saw this as an opportunity. Not to break Kili further, not to leave him sobbing cold and lonely into the stone floor. No, it was an opportunity for Azog to get inside Kili’s head. To touch his heart and leave a black stain upon it. To withdraw and let the poison take root, to spread and leave Kili rotting away. The seeds of doubt had been planted in Kili days before, but now they grew, they tangled in Kili’s head. He didn’t know what to believe in. Azog could see Kili had spend the last hour sitting alone, rethinking everything he knew about his family, his people, struggling to comprehend what had happened through a thick haze of grief and torment.

“Do you want anything?” Kili blinked at the words. “Are you cold? Hungry? Thirsty?” Azog met Kili’s stare, his eyes impossibly wide. He thought at first he got the words wrong. It didn’t make sense. Why would Azog offer him _food?_ He opened his mouth to speak, finding the words completely stuck in his throat. He shook his head and swallowed, clearing his throat.

“I want...” His voice was a rasp, a low whisper. Kili lowered his gaze, staring down at his hands. He didn’t want anything, especially if Azog offered it to him. He wanted to be left alone, left to wrestle with his head in silence. He wanted to be free. He wanted to be home, lying in bed and listening to the sound of his mother making breakfast. He wanted to lie in the grass and listen to the insects chirp and smell the earth. He wanted to listen to the sound of laughter, wanted to hear music and song. The broken pieces of his old life were falling through his fingers, he scrabbled about, but couldn’t grab on to any of them. He wanted innocence and warmth and sunlight. The last at least, he could have. “I want to go outside. I want to feel the sun.” Azog drew his head back, looking at him in surprise. “Not for long.” Kili added. He still didn’t know how to say _please._ Azog grunted, and for a moment it looked as though he was going to say something incredibly spiteful to the dwarf. But he stood up after his quick thought, crouching down and taking Kili by the wrist.

Both the orc and the dwarf blinked as they stepped into the bright sunlight. It was close to noon, the sun was already hot and the cicadas were out. Azog stepped back into the shade, lingering at the cave entrance and watching. Kili bent down, fingers on the fastenings of his boots. He kicked them aside and walked across the soft grass in bare feet, taking maybe ten steps before sinking to the ground with his legs splayed out before him. The daisies and dandelions wavered softly in a gentle breeze, their faces thrust proudly towards the sky. A bee floated past. Kili closed his eyes and lifted his face, feeling the warmth of the sun and the cool breath of air rustling through his tangled brown locks.

But it wasn’t the same. Kili opened his eyes and realised that he still felt cold inside. He reached for a dandelion, lifting the flower to his nose and inhaling deeply. But it didn’t smell quite the same. The magic was gone. He let it slip through his lax fingers, bowing his head away from the sun, letting it sink into his hands. Something had changed. This didn’t feel right, this sunny meadow. Kili didn’t understand – why was it so different? How was this so unlike the pastures he crossed through this time last year, watching and listening with a childlike wonder?

It wasn’t the meadow which had changed. It wasn’t the sunshine or the flowers. It was _him._ Kili had changed. He curled his toes in the grass. It felt too bright, too garish and loud. The cicadas and birds deafened him. The yellow flowers hurt his eyes. Bitter with disappointment, Kili drew his legs close, winding his arms about his knees. He rested his chin on his trousers, looking out with a half-hearted mild interest as a butterfly rested on a flower, less than a foot from him. A month ago, he would have tried to catch it. But now, he just watched as it flew away, in broad, lazy circles in the sunlight. Kili squeezed his eyes tightly closed, trying to push down the panic that welled up in his chest.

 _They left him to die._ It still throbbed within Kili, a bitter revelation that clawed at his soul. He would never forget it. He couldn’t. He was abandoned by the two people he thought loved him more than anybody else in the world. It still hurt badly to think on his brother and uncle, but Kili could not stop. He didn’t understand. He would _never_ have given up in his search for Fili. He would have done everything he could. He would never have simply given him up for dead, and left a memorial hidden beneath the stone. _How could Fili do this to him?_ Where was their proof? How did they know he was dead? They didn’t have a body. They didn’t even have the pieces of a body. There was _no_ _way_ they could have known for sure. All they knew was that Azog had him, Azog had offered him up to be collected for a price.

A price that Kili now saw must have been too great. Thorin must have decided that Kili wasn’t worth his own life, wasn’t worth the life of any member in his company. Thorin must have accepted his loss and moved on. The betrayal cut through Kili’s heart. He would have _died_ for Thorin. He would have died for him without a moment’s thought. Thorin and Fili too. He would give his life for them with no thought of the consequence.

They did not feel the same way. Kili felt sick at the thought. He wasn’t worth them risking their own lives. He was nothing. The spare. The younger. The screw-up. He gritted his teeth and shook his head. Why would Thorin ever risk his own life, or the life of his heir, for a failure like Kili? If he had to choose between Fili and Kili, he would have always chosen Fili. He always _did._ Thorin tried to have a place for the younger sibling, tried to have his own private moments with Kili. They were some of his most precious memories, the ones he carried closest to his heart. When he received Thorin’s knife. When he had a nightmare and Fili wouldn’t wake, and he asked for Thorin to read him a story. When Thorin came to watch him practice his archery. When he gave him private training with his sword. When Kili almost drowned and Thorin held on to him all night. There were times when Thorin would look at Kili and smile, and Kili would feel as though he was the most important person in the world. They were there, they existed.

But they seemed pale and hollow when Kili thought about how Thorin looked at Fili. When Fili came back from the Iron Hills with his new golden braids and Thorin declared he looked a fine prince. When Fili showed them all his new swords. When Fili disarmed Dwalin in practise for the first time. When Fili turned eighty and he and Thorin stood like equals in the front of the feast-hall. There was something in his blue eyes that gleamed, something Kili never saw directed towards him. Pride. Pride and love, they were not the same thing. Thorin was protective of Kili. He loved him. But he was proud of Fili. He looked on him as the hope of his line. There was no comparison between the two.

Kili had tried not to be jealous of Fili. He knew, better than anybody, that Fili earned his honour and glory. He saw how desperately Fili fought to be considered a true prince. It consumed him. Only Kili had seen the rage and anguish that flooded his brother when he thought he failed. When he would drop his swords in practice or when he got into trouble with Thorin for breaking something in the smithy, for a rude comment or for sneaking out at night. He would withdraw, bitter and silent, and only when he thought he was alone, Fili would cry and swear at himself, distorted in self-loathing. When he was thirty-two, he punched a stone wall and almost broke his hand and Kili knew he had to do something. Kili didn’t know why his brother took his duties as a king-in-waiting with such a passionate fierceness. He didn’t understand why Fili was so afraid of failure. But he realised that it sickened him, Fili’s heart became dark and he couldn’t cope. It was why Kili started taking the blame for Fili’s indiscretions; because he could bounce back. He could hold his head high after a scolding and remind himself that Thorin still loved him, that he and Fili knew the truth and that was all that mattered. And as Fili whispered his gratitude to Kili in the morning as he carefully braided his brother’s hair, Kili would smile and know that he would always be there to break Fili’s fall.

Would things be different if Thorin knew the truth? If he knew just how much his image of Fili and Kili were fabrications, lies the both of them slowly built up to protect Fili from his terrible fears? If Thorin knew that Kili claimed responsibility for all of Fili’s failures as well as his own, would he have been so quick to abandon him to Azog? If he knew how much of Fili’s confidence and bravery and perfection was a hollow facade, covering an angry,  scared and insecure little boy, would he be so proud of his eldest nephew then? They were dark, angry thoughts. They frightened Kili – he shook his head and opened his eyes and refused to dwell on them. It was not about that at all. Thorin and Fili loved him very much, but they would not risk their own lives for him. They would not be expected to. _He_ should not expect them to. It was selfishness, pure arrogance, to think for a moment that the king and his heir would risk their lives for one who was never going to sit upon the throne.

He laid these sane, reasonable thoughts out in his mind. But they seemed so false, so shallow and rehearsed and he could not believe them. Kili ran his fingers through the grass, realising that he had been sitting for a long time and his knees were starting to grow stiff. He squinted through the bright, garish sun. He felt so very tired. The shock of finding his own tomb had left him completely wrung out and drained. Kili just wanted to sleep. He had tried to sift through his terror and shock and grief, had tried to rationalise their abandonment, but Kili realised that he was a long way off making sense of what Thorin and Fili had done to him.

“Kili!” He lifted his head, turning around at the voice. Azog stood at the very threshold of the cave, as close as to the dwarf as he could without touching the sunlight. His lips were curled, he jerked his head to his side. “Come.” His order was quick and sharp. Kili lowered his head and looked down at the grass, tracing the shape of the flowers with his fingers. “Kili!” But Kili ignored him, locked in his own head. His limbs were tired and weak. He thought of returning back to that awful dark cave, with the chilling reminder of his own fate, and his stomach turned. He didn’t want to look on his own tomb. He couldn’t think of anything more awful.

With a low growl in his throat, Azog stepped from the mouth of the cave, and into the hot sunlight. He snarled and drew back almost immediately, the sun blinding, searing into his skin. Azog wasted no time, stuffing the boots under his arm and approaching the dwarf, sitting in the grass with his head bowed. Azog crouched down and snaked his arm around Kili’s chest, under his shoulder, to try and coax him into rising. But as he began to stand, Kili slumped, knees buckling as he pitched forward on his unsteady legs. Azog caught him, the boots thudding to the ground as he threw his amputated arm around Kili’s middle, the other across his shoulders, pinning him close to his chest. Azog was _holding_ him, holding him close, with his arms around him. Kili was trembling. Azog looked down, feeling the little dwarf shake in his hold.

Kili didn’t fight or struggle in the accidental embrace. His hands came up and gripped Azog’s good arm, his mace, but he didn’t try to push himself away. He held on, limply, _clinging_ to Azog as he leaned on him, wavering on unsteady feet. He was so tired. There was no ember of hope burning in Kili’s chest; it had gone cold and nothing, it seemed, could blow the life back into it. He’d been pulled and pushed and stretched too far and he could not go on. He was lost, abandoned and utterly alone, left to die by those he had suffered so deeply for. It was a heartbreaking rejection that rocked him to the bottom of his soul.

“Kili.” It wasn’t a growl. It wasn’t a coaxing murmur, but it was no angry snarl either. Azog softened his voice, as much as he dared, still speaking with an edge of iron. “Come inside.” He thought of the times when he had seen Kili at his most defeated. When he was strung up before the fire, bleeding and beaten, waiting for death. When he lay sick in the grass, clutching his broken arm and begging for help. When he held his branded wrist and sank to his knees. This limp quietness was something very, very different. It was a pain that Azog could not physically inflict on him. He could not flay Kili’s heart, or put a brand upon his soul.

He looked down into his arms and saw how Kili held onto him. And he realised that he had won. Kili was his. He had given up on his brother and his uncle. And while Azog was sure that Kili still hated him, he did not fight back or beat himself free. He merely held on.

“Inside.” Azog commanded. He pulled Kili free, cupping a hand under his chin and looking the dwarf in the eye. He looked dazed. Perhaps he would realise who he really was, would scream and fight back. But for now, Azog had him. Kili was soft and malleable, and Azog could shape him any way he pleased. “Come.” He bent down to pick up the boots, holding them out to Kili. He took them in silence, holding them by the laces as Azog urged him forward with a hand on his back.

The orc king let out a sigh of relief as he stepped into the shadow. It was such a welcome respite, so cool and dark after the harsh sunlight. Azog peered through the gloom but even his sharp eyes struggled to distinguish shapes in the dim cave. Kili was almost entirely blind. Azog stepped forward, his eyes adjusting after a few moments, but Kili still stumbled, groping about unseeing. He had to hold on to Azog’s elbow, pressing close to him to avoid crashing into the walls of the narrow passage. He seemed to cope better when they entered the firelight of the small chamber. Kili released his hold and rubbed at his face, wavering a little, his eyes and ears still filled with the sunlight, the sounds of birds which had been replaced with low muttering in Black Speech, the crackling of a fire. The alien smell of dirt and nectar was gone; the cave was acrid and smoky, from burning off the fat to cure the animal hide, boiling down the bones to make a hearty broth.

Kili didn’t need further direction. His pack had been cast down in the stone, a little way back from the fire, and this is where he sank to the ground. There were many things he could have busied his hands with, but Kili simply sat in silence and Azog let him, turning away from the dwarf and towards the goblins diving up the rest of the deer, snapping at each other and quarrelling for the choice bits. He cast a final look over at Kili before berating the little cluster of foul, odious creatures.

He sat with his head in his hands, shoulders slumped and hair falling over his arms. He was tired of trying to understand why they would do this. He was tired of trying to rationalise their abandonment. He was tired of trying to figure out what could have prevented them from coming at all. He was tired of making excuses for them. This was not something that anybody could simply explain their way out of. This was a life or death situation. Kili’s _life_ had been on the line, it still was on the line, and Thorin and Fili had failed to save him. They let him down when he needed them most of all.

And it would be a long, _long_ time before Kili could even begin to forgive them for that.


	25. An Echo

Ori sat alone before the fire.

Fili remained crouched behind the low bush, unsure if it was a blessing or a curse to see the young dwarf, sitting before the fire with his head bowed. He couldn’t see that Ori was holding the hand of somebody, was speaking softly to him in his low, timid voice. He swallowed, voice sticking in his throat. He told himself that it was best option really; Ori was never going to stand up to Fili, not after what he had done to him. Guilt flooded his insides, it cramped his stomach and left him tight with pain. At least now, he would have the opportunity to apologise to Ori face-to-face. He looked at Ori’s broken nose, wincing. Even he knew he had gone much too far.

Fili took in a deep breath. He ran his hand over the raspy stubble on his face, he closed his eyes for a moment and tried to gather his remaining strength. He wasn’t going to scream and shout. He was going to be calm and level-headed as he told Ori that he was leaving them all forever. Even if it felt like he was breaking apart inside, even though all he wanted to do was kneel in the dirt and scream, Fili was going to try to do what he had done for years. He didn’t know if he could do it, without the mask cracking, without his heart leaking through for Ori to see, black and twisted and throbbing with anger. But he had to try.

Fili jumped over the bush and into the path, biting back a cry of pain as he landed on his bloodied foot. Ori looked up at the sound, gasping as his grip on Thorin’s hand tightened painfully. Fili took a single step towards Ori before he noticed the prone figure, lying stretched out across the ground.

_Mahal no._

Fili uttered a choked cry, heart seizing in his chest. Thorin was half-conscious, eyes cracked open and glazed in the firelight. His breathing was slow and laboured, in obvious pain. Fili clapped his hands over his mouth, shaking his head as his vision blurred. _No no no Thorin what have I done to you._ He didn’t realise he was so violent. He didn’t know he had hurt his uncle so badly. Ori got up on his knees, Fili taking a step back from the awful sight.

“Fili.” Ori breathed. Thorin’s bleary eyes snapped wide open at the voice. His breathing quickened, he slowly hoisted himself up on his elbow, groaning in pain. Fili took another step backwards, all pretence of composure utterly broken. “Fili – no!” Ori jumped to his feet as he realised what the blonde was going to do. Fili turned and ran, he ran along the path, where he thought he would be fast enough to get away. But he limped on his bare feet, his breath tearing out of his throat in a gasp. Ori didn’t know what he was doing. He couldn’t take Fili in a fight. He didn’t have any sort of weapon, nothing to restrain him with. The heavy running bumped and jolted his broken nose, and it hurt badly. But he ploughed on, he was on Fili’s heels, and before he could let the blonde get away, he leaped forward, wrapping his arms around the blonde’s waist and tackling him to the ground. Ori coughed, winded as he fell heavily. Fili writhed and struggled beneath him, trying to wriggle out of Ori’s hold, but his thin little hands clutched the blonde tightly, refusing to let go.  “Stop – Fili _please_ –”

“Let me _go!_ ” His elbows dug into Ori’s ribs. Fili was twisting in his hold, a wet snake, but he couldn’t loosen the tight hold around him. “Ori!” He got onto his knees, but Ori wound his fingers in the fabric of Fili’s tunic, and would not loosen his grasp. He could hear the dwarf breathe heavily in his ear, too afraid, it seemed, to speak. Fili couldn’t get out; Ori had latched on too tightly, determined to keep Fili pinned closely to the earth.

“Fili!” Thorin had pulled himself into a sitting position. He leaned forward heavily on his hands, face grey with the effort of speaking. “Fili _calm down!”_ He called across the dirt, but his words were ineffective. Thorin could tell that it only hurt Fili more, to hear his strained, breaking voice. He curled his fingers into the earth, shoulders slumping as he struggled to remain upright. “Fili.” It was a whisper, one that didn’t carry across the dirt.

“S-Stop it Fili!” Ori spat out a mouthful of golden hair, biting back a cry as Fili’s shoulder came into contact with his nose. He gritted his teeth but did not release his hold, screwing up his eyes as white stars flashed before him. “I’m not letting you go!” His fingers twisted deep within Fili’s tunic, Ori tried to kick his feet out from beneath him and force Fili to lie prone in the dirt. But Fili was broader and stronger than Ori, and he would not go down. “Not you too!” He had already let Kili walk away from him, never to return. He was _not_ making the same mistake twice. The realisation seemed to have hit Fili. He sank forward into the ground, hands and knees in the dirt as he breathed heavily, head bowed. Dirty blonde curls fell over his face as he shook his head slowly.

Ori knelt on the earth beside Fili, his arms still around him. He was _so cold._ Ori slowly unwound his fingers from Fili’s clothing, resting a hand on his forearm. It was icy to the touch. Fili jerked his arm away, pulling back from Ori. He ran his fingers through his hair, tugging the wild mane back from his face. Ori remained silent beside him, a hand rising to his mouth as his eyes landed on Fili’s beardless jaw. The blonde kept his eyes lowered, not looking at him. Ori forgot himself, reaching out with a tentative shaking hand, daring to believe what he saw. Fili looked thirty years younger. Almost entirely different. Ori’s fingertips brushed Fili’s face, the blonde starting at the touch, not seeing Ori’s hands with his lowered gaze. His dark blue eyes snapped up. He grabbed Ori’s hands, fingers circling tightly around thin bony wrists. A short cry broke from Ori’s mouth, heart skipping a beat. Why did he do that? Why in Mahal’s name did he touch Fili, when the blonde _knew_ about him? He knew plainly how it would have looked to him. To Thorin.

“Don’t _touch_ me.” Fili’s chest heaved for air. A roaring pulse deafened him. Ori’s eyes locked with Fili, wide in fear. He tried to pull himself free as a crease wrinkled Fili’s brow. Fili looked at the broken nose, guilt swelling in his chest. But it was smothered a burning fit of rage, instigated by Ori’s shaking hands on his face. A gesture that only had one possible meaning for Fili, one that made his insides wither in disgust. His face hot in anger, he gritted his teeth. “How _dare you_.” Ori closed his eyes and flinched away, tugging uselessly, arms bound by Fili’s fingers. “Is my brother not enough for you Ori?” Ori was hyperventilating, mouth half-open.

“No- n-no I didn’t mean-”

“Now he’s dead you thought you would try somebody else?” Ori shook his head, feeling his eyes sting as Fili’s fingers dug into the tendons and veins of his wrists. “Who else then? Who else have you had your _sick_ eyes on?”

“Fili!” Thorin was on his knees. “Let him go!” He lurched forward, trying to stand up on his weak legs. His chest throbbing in pain, Thorin managed to take several shaky steps across the dirt before falling to the ground. He bowed his head, clutching at his lungs. “Fili!” He shouted into the earth, the effort of screaming terribly hard on his lungs. His head as heavy as stone, Thorin slowly lifted his neck. Ori was fighting to break free, face turned away from Fili. The blonde spoke, low words that Thorin could not hear. He could not see Fili’s face from this angle, just a curtain of blonde tangles. Ori was shaking his head. Thorin’s heart sank when he saw the young dwarf was crying. “ _Fili!”_ Something flared up in Thorin’s chest at the sight of Ori’s tears, a rushing anger that drowned out the pain that crackled with every breath. He forced himself to his feet, staggering towards the kneeling pair.

“How dare you try to drag _anyone_ down with your – your depravity.” Fili spat, his face very close to Ori. It was such an awful, awful shock to feel that hand on his face. It jolted his heart and the horrible jarring in his chest sent Fili into anger. The last, wounded howl of a monster that was dying inside of him. He could see the tears very plainly, shining in the firelight as they trailed into his fluffy scrap of a beard. Ori’s shoulders slumped, he knelt before Fili with his head bowed, shaking his head slowly.

“No!” Thorin collapsed on the ground at Fili’s knees, knocking Ori out of his hands, pushing down on Fili and pinning him to the earth, gasping in pain. Ori scuttled backwards, drying his eyes with the fraying wool of his mittens. “Fili what are you _doing?”_ He hissed. Fili’s hair was a tangled mess across his face, turned to the side. “Look at me!” Fili didn’t fight beneath Thorin’s hold. He was cold and limp. Thorin pulled aside the curtain of hair himself, face contorted in anger as he took in a breath, ready to give Fili the scolding of his life.

His breath died in his throat when he saw Fili’s naked face. He withdrew, trying to stop the awful rolling of the earth, shaking his head slowly, eyes fixed on Fili’s childlike jaw. The blonde kept his face turned away, cheeks reddening with humiliation as the anger started to turn cold inside of him. Thorin’s hands loosened on Fili, his mouth unable to form words. Now he knew why Fili wanted to run away. Why he didn’t look at Thorin. He could feel his throat clench tightly around a swelling lump. _Oh Fili why would you do this to yourself._ Horror clawed at his soul. He had no idea that Fili was so overcome with guilt for what he had done. He had mutilated himself.

Tears pricked at Thorin’s eyes. It was such a rare sensation; one he had only felt perhaps a dozen times over his life, half of those in the last few weeks. Thorin blinked, his vision starting to blur as he stared at his nephew. His little lion-cub. He looked almost like a dwarrow, but his nose was bigger, his jaw harder. It was sharp and distorted and it agonised Thorin to look Fili. With the last ounce of strength in his fading limbs, Thorin grabbed the front of Fili’s tunic. He crushed that cold body close to him, fingers tangled in Fili’s hair, their cheeks touching. The pinpricks of stubble scraped Thorin’s jaw, piercing through the soft hair of his own beard. Thorin put Ori out of his mind; he would pull it out of Fili later, when he had straightened all the tangled pieces his nephew and laid them out.

“You fool.” Thorin finally found his voice, a broken rasp cracking through the lump in his throat. “You – you _fool_ – Oh Fili.” He could feel Fili’s broad frame stiff and tense beneath his hold, and it broke his heart. _Please Fili_ , he screamed inwardly. _Let me in. Open your heart to me._ He was terrified now, that he really had lost his nephew forever.  He never dreamed that Fili would nurse such a crippling guilt. He never, ever ever would have thought for a single moment of punishing Fili by casting him away. The penance Fili committed reached beyond anything Thorin thought possible. “Fili,” Thorin repeated, his lips brushing the curve of Fili’s ear. “It’s all right.” He whispered soothingly, as he would to a child. “It’s going to be all right.” He held Fili as tightly as he physically could, desperate to break the cracking walls Fili had built around his heart. _Oh Fili please._ He wanted a scream. A sob. _Something._

Fili felt the hot cheek pressed closely to his own, Thorin’s pulse thudding in his temple, against his, throbbing deep within his head. His arms were at his sides, hands clenched into fists. Fili couldn’t stop the violent whirling in his head. Ori’s shaking hand on his face. Those wide dark eyes staring at him in shock and pain and fear. Thorin’s teeth bared in a snarl of anger. The images ran together, bright flashes and Fili couldn’t disentangle them. But he could feel the thick beard against his jaw, the deep voice in his ear and the fur-lined cloak brushing against his chin and he knew he was in Thorin’s arms. _Thorin was holding him._ His face was wet, but Fili wasn’t crying. He pulled back, struggling to look at Thorin’s face in the gloom. His blue eyes shone, a single tear rolling down his cheek. His lips were quivering. _How was this happening._ Fili didn’t deserve this. Not after what he had done. He deserved to be spat on and cursed. He blinked, a film covering his eyes, Thorin wobbling before him. Fili gasped as his uncle cupped his face, pressing their foreheads together.

“It’s all right.” Thorin repeated, his voice barely above a whisper. He beat his fists and screamed against Fili’s stone heart, but the walls would not break. “Fili I am here – _please_.” His thumbs brushed Fili’s cheeks, willing the moisture to appear on his skin, for the tears that glimmered in Fili’s eyes to fall. “Kili is gone but I will _never_ leave you.” It was cruel, so cruel of him to invoke the name of Fili’s dead brother. But Thorin didn’t know what else to do. He didn’t have anything else to break Fili down.

But it _worked._

The body, so stiff and tight and rigid against him as it had been for weeks, fell lax with a moan. Fili slumped against Thorin. His head was slack in Thorin’s hands and he let the blonde curls fall to his shoulder. He wrapped his arms around Fili, fingers combing through a maze of tangles. Fili collapsed in his uncle’s embrace, overwhelmed by pain, grief, humiliation. He grabbed handfuls of the thick furs draped over Thorin’s exhausted body, clinging to his uncle as the moisture leaked from his eyes, the sobs that strained and heaved in his mouth gave out, spilling from trembling lips crushed against Thorin’s heart.

“You’ll be all right.” Thorin mumbled against Fili’s hair, one arm rubbing wide circles across Fili’s back as he cried. He blinked swallowing down the embers in his own throat, reassuming his unshakeable bearing. He started rocking gently, side to side as though Fili was a restless infant. He gently placed his chin on Fili’s head. Mahal, he was in pain. His eyes drooped, he wanted nothing more than to lie down and close his eyes. But he remained sitting. Even though it was agony to have Fili crushed against him so tightly, even though the effort of sitting up left him grey-faced and breathless, Thorin would never let Fili go and sink to the earth.

* * *

“Kili... Kili wake up.” Nazarg kept his head bent low, shaking the dwarf urgently, keeping one eye on the great white orc. For whatever reasons; mistrust of Kili, of the goblins, or both, Azog always slept with the dwarf close to him now. Close enough to almost reach out with a long pale arm and touch his hair. “Kili.” Nazarg whispered into his hair. “C’mon.” He listened to the thin figure shuffle and groan. The orc gentle clapped a hand over Kili’s mouth, raising the other to his lips. Kili’s eyes snapped open, staring wide awake at Nazarg in the firelight, shushing him, and he gave a single nod to show that he understood. “Good.” Nazarg breathed, gesturing silently as he withdrew from the bed, eyeing the huge sleeping figure stretched out on the ground.

 Kili sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes. He was disorientated for a moment, sitting on the ground with his head bowed as he blinked away the last remnants of sleep. He didn’t feel refreshed or well-rested from his few hours of rest; he felt the tiredness in his bones and he knew it had nothing to do with how much he had slept. It was the exhaustion of someone who had lost his hope. Kili rolled his aching shoulders, feeling the paper crackle beneath the thick hide of his vest, folded close to his skin. He placed his hand over the drawing, unable to feel it through his clothing. But it lay over his beating heart, an image of a sacred memory. Kili gritted his teeth, shaking his head as the increasingly familiar anguish of betrayal rose freshly in his chest.

“ _Kili.”_

The tangled mop of brown hair jerked at the sound, and Kili rose slowly to his feet. He picked his way through a maze of goblin-limbs, the creatures strewn across the ground and snoring loudly in their sleep. Kili sank to his knees beside the fire, stretching his hands towards the beckoning flames, fearing the heat sear his fingertips. He stared into it, watching the orange and yellow dance over red-hot embers until a hand on his shoulder jerked him out of his torpor. Nazarg was holding out a bowl of _food._ Kili’s dirty fingers closed around the misshapen earthenware, eyes meeting the orc.

“It’s just some of the soup.” Nazarg whispered. “Hurry up and eat it, the others will rise soon.” Kili raised the bowl to his lips, closing his eyes as the thin broth poured down his throat. Venison was one of his favourite meats, if caught and killed and cleaned properly. This deer was a little too gamey for Kili’s taste, there was a bitter edge to it that made the dwarf think it could be tainted with something else. But it was food that he knew, it was familiar, and he couldn’t drink it down quickly enough.

“Thank you.” Nazarg nodded silently at the reply. Kili set the empty bowl on the stone, wiping at his mouth. “Is... Is there a word in your tongue for ‘thank you’? Azog hasn’t taught it to me yet.” The orc gave Kili a sidelong glance, smirking.

“Not with the same meaning as Westron.” He poked at the fire with a stick, watching the embers roll about. “ _Narnûlubat_ is probably the closest. It means "I will not hurt you'.” His fingers tightened over the stick. “You use it to people above your station, not below. Anyone below you, you don’t thank them. They’re not deserving of it.”

“Thank you.” Kili nodded, watching Nazarg poke at the fire. “Or should I say, _narnûlubat._ " He heard an intake of breath beside him, as though Nazarg were about to say something. But the orc remained silent, poking rather morosely at the fire.

“Don’t use it with the goblins.” Nazarg advised after a few thoughtful moments. He looked at the young dwarf and he knew that he had to say something. He didn’t know when he would have another opportunity for this complete silence. He thought that perhaps Kili would be all right, that he would pull through, but his breakdown at the base of his own tomb had filed away the edges of his iron will and he was worn smooth and thin. He knew that Kili wouldn’t survive if he continued on the way that he did. The goblins wouldn’t let him. Azog wouldn’t let him, in the end. And so he set aside his anger, his frustration at his powerlessness and he turned his head to look at Kili. “Don’t let them assert their dominance over you. You’re Azog’s favourite and he is our leader here.”

“I’m not one of them.” Kili muttered, crossing his legs as his feet started to tingle. “I’m beneath them by default.” At his side, the orc snorted.

“ _Them?_ Kili, you’re a prince.” Kili ducked his head. It was not often the word was cast in his direction. “Don’t listen to them. Insult them. Give them orders. They’re pliable. They _need_ to be dominated.” Kili was shaking his head.

“I can’t.” He brushed his hair back from his shoulders. “I _can’t_ be that sort of person. I’ve never been angry at any of my own people, let alone to – to them.” Kili’s lips tightened, he stared into the firelight, feeling the heat of it wash over his tired limbs. “I don’t want to play any power games. I... I just want to go home.” His voice was thin and pathetic. “I can’t do this. I wasn’t made to stand up to all of this – this pain and darkness.”

“Well, you’re here now.” Nazarg’s voice was harder than he liked, but he refused to let Kili feel as though he were a creature to be pitied. “And if you – Kili, don’t you dare cry,” he warned, watching as Kili rubbed at his eyes. “No more crying. They will only laugh at you if they see you cry. _Listen_ to me. That stunt they pulled with Nardur, do you think that was an accident? The poor creature’s thick as anything, but he is not that stupid. They pushed him. They wanted to scare you, and you let them.” Kili’s head was bowed. “And they’ll keep doing it. You have to show you’re not going to be bullied. Not by them.”

“I’m so tired.” Kili whispered. “I just – just want to sleep.” His eyes were half-lidded. He struggled to listen. He knew the orc was trying to have a rousing effect on him, but Kili was too broken-down and exhausted to pay heed to his words. Nazarg closed his eyes and let out a long sigh, the sound plain in Kili’s ears. “I’m sorry.”

“No.” Nazarg set down the blackened stick. “Don’t be _sorry._ Don’t be sorry for anyone or anything here, especially yourself. I know you’re hurting. They told me what’s written on that tomb. So – you’re dead to them. So you have no hope of rescue.” He turned towards Kili, taking his arm and drawing Kili’s gaze away from the firelight. “What are you going to do?” The wide brown eyes looked up at him, shining in a thin face. “Are you going to give up?”

“I’m tired of fighting.” Kili’s gaze fell to the ground, shoulders slumped. “I’ve fought – for _weeks_ and all I have are scars and broken bones.” He drew the iron cast close to his chest, cradling it against himself. “I can’t – I can’t keep doing this.” He breathed. “The beating – I can’t.”

“I’m not telling you to fight. I’m not telling you to rebel.” Nazarg kept his voice very low, growing painfully aware of time passing. “Kili, I have seen many prisoners in my time, elves and men and dwarves. Even other orcs. Listen to me. When your hope dies, _you_ die. When you roll over and wait for whatever cruel fate to take you, that is when your body gives in. I’m not telling you to disobey Azog. _Please_ , never do something that stupid. I am telling you to remain strong.” Kili’s gaze slowly lifted from the ground. “Don’t let the goblins push you around. Stop crying. Keep your mouth shut and head down and do whatever it is Azog tells you to do. You’re going to have to become something you hate but you _need to do it._ This is the last time I’m going to talk to you in Westron. You need to pick up the language faster. You need to learn how to curse them in their own tongue. You need to pack your heart away and forget that it exists. You need to be cruel, like them.” Kili was shaking his head. “ _Yes._ ” Nazarg cast his eye over to Azog. He was still sleeping soundly. They all were; he _hoped._ “They only respond to hatred and anger and darkness. Deaden yourself inside. Stop thinking about your brother and uncle. It will only hurt you.” His voice was a rushed whisper, tumbling from his lips. Kili placed a hand over his heart, feeling the paper crackle.

“I...” Kili was shaking his head. “Nazarg I can’t just forget everything I know and wear another creature’s skin.” His hand tightened over his chest. “I... You said so yourself – I’m a _prince._ I can’t walk and talk and act and eat like an orc. If Thror was alive-”

“But he’s _not.”_  Nazarg cut over them. He wasn’t going to hear any excuses about Kili’s line or ancestry or sense of honour. “Nobody is here Kili. Nobody is going to come for you. They left you to die.” It was a knife in Kili’s heart, and Nazarg hated sticking it into him, but he had to make Kili understand. “And you _will_ if you don’t change. You’re not healing fast enough. I shouldn’t need to re-bandage you daily, not after this long. You’re wasting away, I can see it. And I know that’s because you’re not eating enough. So sneak some. I’ll give you a spare plate when I’m on watch but that won’t happen often.” Kili was watching him, his hands still holding onto the picture beneath his shirt. “Do you understand me?”

“I – yes.” Kili let out a long breath. “I... I do.” But his eyes were dull. He was dazed and Nazarg knew that he was struggling to take in everything that he had said. He was tired. “I don’t want to die.” He spoke simply. “I know I should favour death before dishonour but –” Kili shook his head. “I don’t want to die.”

“Nobody wants to die.” Nazarg muttered grimly. “Are the morals of your people really so set in stone, so black-and-white, that they wouldn’t forgive this?” He heard a murmur across the cave – someone was starting to stir. “Kili you have to go back to your bed. Pretend to be asleep. Act hungry if Azog offers you food.” Kili nodded silently, getting up onto his knees. He made to stand, but paused, biting his lip as he reached inside his shirt. “What? Hurry up.”

“Take this for me.” Kili extracted the drawing, pressing it into Nazarg’s hand. “Keep it safe for me. I-I can’t keep looking at it but please keep it safe.” Nazarg’s fingers clenched the parchment as Kili rose to his feet. “Please –” He turned and picked his way across the cave as quickly as he dared. Nazarg’s eyes lowered to the cream-coloured sheet in his hand, unfolding it slowly. He let out a sigh when he saw it, the image of Kili braiding his brother’s hair. It must have been his brother. He refolded the page, reaching for his pack.

Kili closed his eyes and tried to regulate his breathing. But his fingers shook and a heavy pulse thudded in his ears and he was convinced that he couldn’t feign sleep. He remained still, already feeling the heavy loss of his picture. The orc’s words turned over and over in his head and he couldn’t disentangle them. It was an impossible task. Kili could _never_ forsake his own people. He could not turn his back on his heart. His heart was what defined him. He pressed his face into the ground and fought back a rush of panic. How could he even _think_ to commit something to awful? Not only was it shameful and dishonourable, not only would it stain his soul, but Kili knew he physically _could not do it._ He could bring himself to wear the grey skin of an orc and he knew that he would crumble and fall.

He listened to the snores, the sighs and mutterings of the bodies around him beginning to wake. Kili heard someone curse loudly. They had slept on a sharp stone and it left a red mark in their side. He breathed into the stone and felt his heart beat against it, growing louder and faster as Kili realised that Nazarg was right. _Are the morals of your people really so set in stone?_ Kili swallowed as he remembered the words uttered in his ear just a few moments before. They came back to him, echoes in a cave, but they grew in volume, louder and louder.

_Mahal, I hope not._


	26. Loose Bindings

“Kili.”

He pretended not to hear Azog’s voice behind him. Kili stood in front of the tomb, rereading the inscription for what had to be the sixth or seventh time. But it wasn’t the names which interested him, the hasty lineage stretching back to the kingdom which had slipped away from their people. He traced a dirty finger over the last line carved into the stone.

_Earthly belongings laid to rest on the seventeenth day of the month of Motsognír_

It wasn’t adding up.

Kili counted on his fingers, shaking his head. _It wasn’t making sense._ He must have had the dates wrong. It was the only explanation. He knew he wasn’t misreading the rune for seven; the tomb claimed he died at seventy-seven. Perhaps the days slipped through his fingers – now he was entirely nocturnal, Kili must have lost his grasp on time.

Because he left on the morning of the fifteenth. And if he left on the fifteenth then Thorin had only waited _two days_ before erecting the stone and declaring his nephew dead. After two days, he gave up. After two days he took whatever leftover pieces of clothing they had, sealing it beneath the stone. Kili ran his fingers along the edge of the smooth marker, knowing he could never tear it apart. The pale stone met the dark granite of the cave wall almost seamlessly – there was no crack he could prise open, no crooked lip of stone to wedge the marker free. It was closed, and Kili knew he did not have the strength to break the thick stone.

 _Two days._ Two days was not long enough. It was nowhere near long enough. They would not have searched more than a tiny corner of the wilderland. Kili felt the hot, sick anger rise within him, beating at his throat. They wouldn’t have even tried looking for him, after receiving the ransom note. They would have gotten it on the night of the sixteenth and then set out in the morning to lay this stone, less than five miles south of Beorn’s Hall. Kili pressed his forehead against the stone and tried not to cry.

They gave him up so quickly. It took Kili a lot of nerve to approach the stone once more, to read over the writing as the retinue of goblins readied themselves for the night ahead. He knew he would never see it again and he would regret not memorising it. He wanted to see what Thorin said about him. But it was plain and simple. It bore his name, his age, his lineage, and when and how he died. Nothing more. No ancient proverb, no blessing for the dead.

Was his death really so meaningless for Thorin? Kili dug his fingers into the carved markings, gritting his teeth. It was so cold, so plain and hard. There was nothing there that suggested Kili meant anything to them. He felt cheated. Kili didn’t expect a grand monument – but surely he deserved more than _this._

“Kili.” The voice behind him was very cold. Kili tensed, his breath hitching. “Get up. Now.”

“Not yet.” Kili muttered in response. The realisation that Thorin gave up so quickly had sickened him. He was too tired and angry, and he didn’t really understand just what he’d said until a low growl sounded at his ear, Azog grabbing a fistful of Kili’s hair and dragging him away from the stone.

“ _What?”_ Kili’s eyes widened, realising he had just made a terrible, terrible mistake. He kicked out and struggled, but Azog held firm. “What did you say?”

“No – I didn’t –” Kili cried out as Azog took the front of his vest. _What have I done?_ His heart seized with fear, the sick terror flooding his chest. “No Azog –” His pleading turned into a scream as Azog slammed his trembling frame into the rough, jagged walls of the cave. _Hard._

Nazarg started at the sound, along with half of the goblins. Kili’s feet hung a foot from the ground, panting for air, eyes clouded with pain. His hands curled around Azog’s wrist, his grasp loose and weak. There was a very ugly snarl on Azog’s scarred lips.

“ _Never_ disobey me Kili.” Azog spat the words out, leaning in very closely to the dwarf. Kili fought down tears of pain, the very familiar sensation of blood oozing from his torn back. Just as they were beginning to finally heal. “Understand?”

“Y-Yes.” Kili gasped. Azog still pressed him into the cave wall, dragging him slowly upwards, purposefully prolonging his pain. “Yes I understand – _stop –”_ He gritted his teeth but couldn’t fight back another cry. While it stopped the rocks from cutting into his skin, the leather vest did nothing to shield his battered body from the force of Azog’s crushing blow against the stone. A smirk twitched on the orc’s face as he watched Kili swallow down his tears of agony.

“Good.” He let Kili fall, stepping back and watching as the dwarf sank onto his knees, trying to breathe, balling his hands into fists and screwing up his face as his back throbbed. “Get up.” He repeated.

“Yes.” Kili dug his hands into his eyes, trying to claw the salty water out as he rose to his feet. He tried to smooth his features, tried to act as though he wasn’t in pain as he walked away from his tombstone. Azog smirked, slapping Kili in the back, between the shoulder-blades. To anybody else it would have been a loose gesture of camaraderie, but to Kili it was a deliberate threat. _Don’t dare try that again._ Kili returned to the place where he slept, knowing Azog still had an eye on him. He slung the quiver across his back, and shouldered his pack with an impassive face, and dull, dark eyes.

“Kili, what did you-”

“I’m fine.” Kili pulled himself free of slate-grey hand on his arm. “I’m fine Nazarg. Don’t give him the satisfaction.” The dwarf wouldn’t look at him.

“It would have hurt like nothing else – let me look at it and I’ll-”

“We have to go.” Kili kept his face turned away from Nazarg. “Leave it alone.” He wasn’t going to let Azog have the satisfaction of seeing his back, and he wasn’t getting Nazarg in trouble for his sake. He only hoped the bandages on his back would stop the blood from seeping through onto the leather vest.

“Kili-”

“I _said_ , leave me alone.” Kili snapped. His eyes met Nazarg for a moment, the orc closing his mouth when he saw the wide brown eyes glistening. He took a step back, raising his hands in a gesture of peace.

“All right.” He relented. “If you need me-”

“I don’t.” Kili turned away from him, very abruptly, making his way to the mouth of the cave. He pushed past the others, elbowing one sharply in the ribs and receiving a punch in the shoulder for that, but didn’t stop. He didn’t feel it. He felt hot and angry and humiliated. Angry at Thorin and Azog. Humiliated at himself. Kili refused to let another tear fall, he blinked and hardened his jaw, pushing down the familiar rising tightness in his throat.

He didn’t mean anything to anybody. Kili couldn’t even feel _sad_ about it anymore. It wasn’t sadness or misery that made his heart throb so painfully inside of him. Kili was _done_ with feeling sad. His last attempt at a private moment of grief had earned him a horrible crushing blow. Azog wasn’t going to give an inch; his word was law. He wasn’t going to sit back and sigh and roll his eyes impatiently. Not now. Nazarg was wrong; Kili wasn’t a favourite. He was a prisoner, a piece of property. Thorin had released his claim on Kili when he erected this simple, insulting tombstone. He was worthless. He lived only to torment his uncle with an agonizing, humiliating death. He existed in pieces, carried about to be shown with glee to the one who dropped him. _Why did Azog even bother?_

He didn’t know of Azog’s sick plans to take those pieces and rebuild them into something mutilated, corrupted and terrifying. Kili still thought that he was being paraded about as something spoiled and broken. Nobody, except Azog himself, knew what was in store for the dwarf.

And as Azog watched Kili turn away from the only sympathy and compassion he was ever going to get from this black retinue, curdled with anger and pain, he knew it was only a matter of days before he would be taking that small figure in his arms and listening to bitter curses against the name of Thorin Oakenshield. Curses the dwarf king put on Kili’s lips himself, when he built that modest tomb.

* * *

“Let me help you.”

Fili’s head lifted at the soft voice. Ori knelt in the dirt beside Thorin, taking the king’s arm and draping it across his shoulders. He had watched Fili try and fail to lift his uncle under his own steam, after spending a very long time in Thorin’s arms, growing softer and quieter until the pair were entirely silent. They didn’t say anything; nothing needed to be said. Not yet. They simply sat in the ground, Thorin weak and in pain, Fili trembling from the cold. It was when Thorin went lax, when he rested his head on Fili’s shoulder that the blonde remembered with a heartsick rush that his uncle was so very unwell.

Ori didn’t look at Fili. He didn’t look at Thorin, either. He kept his eyes firmly downcast, waiting for Fili to adjust the weight on his shoulders before rising to his feet. He fought down the physical urge to be sick; after what happened, after what Fili had said to him, there was no way that Thorin could _not_ know exactly what it was that ignited such a fire within his nephew. Ori knew what happened to dwarves like him. There weren’t many cases – they were hushed up, old and dusty and fading from memory, but his brother remembered them. Dori had warned him months ago, when Ori first confessed, mumbling underneath the ragged wool of his scarf, that he should wish for death, expect exile, anticipate gruesome punishment. And Dori would be unable to save him.

Fili sighed heavily as they set Thorin down at his spot before the fire. The dark head of hair slumped; he struggled to sit up by himself but he couldn’t lie down. Ori kept his eyes down, face white, refusing to look in Fili’s direction. After some scuffling, he found a hollow tree-log, wide enough for two people to lean against. He rolled it towards his uncle, carefully helping him to lean against the damp wood. Ori withdrew, pulling his scarf over his mouth to mask the trembling, hands hidden in his mittens.

“Is there anything else you need?” The shadow of a smile crossed Thorin’s lips as he listened to his nephew fuss over him. “I-I can make you some tea or if you want something to eat-”

“I’m fine Fili.” Thorin sat with his eyes closed, breathing long and slow. “Sit.” He listened to the rasp of shifting clothing as Fili pulled on his furs before sitting on the ground beside him. He felt a broad arm wrap around his shoulders, Fili’s bare hand tightening on his arm as he coaxed Thorin to lean into him. He took the offer of warmth and comfort willingly. It had been an achingly long time since Thorin rested against the warm body of another soul. He opened his eyes as Fili wrapped his other arm around him, feeling for a moment that strange, alien skin, smooth yet marked with needlepoint stubble, scrape his forehead. “Not too tight.” He winced in Fili’s crushing embrace. His nephew mumbled a soft apology, arms loosening.

“I’m so sorry.” Fili’s voice was very small in his ear. “For everything – I can’t even begin-”

“Hush Fili.” Thorin breathed, silencing the blonde with hand on his leg. “It is I who should be sorry.” He paused, taking a breath. “I’ve failed you.” He spoke softly, Fili straining to hear him. “I saw this coming a week ago and...” His hand clenched the cold limb. “I did nothing. I let you suffer.” Thorin bit his lip. “I let you suffer for _years_.”

“Uncle-”

“No Fili. Let me finish.” He cut over the young prince, his grip painfully tight. “I tried to pretend that you were ours, completely.” Thorin paused for air. “I tried to forget where you were born. I ignored your anger, your cries for help, for _decades_. I thought you were too young, you had no memories of your father’s people – Mahal I was so wrong.” Fili had gone very still and quiet, his arms stiff around his uncle. “As you got older – I saw more and more of him and I became scared. “ He gritted his teeth, stopping for a moment as his breath hitched, pain crackling through his lungs.

“He never released his hold on you.” Fili couldn’t breathe. Thorin had _never_ spoken of his father to him. “I thought it was too late to bring those memories to the surface. I thought – I thought I could stamp that darkness and anger out of you but – I treated you like a prince, when –” Thorin’s voice cracked at the last syllable. “When I should have treated you like a _son._ ” Fili looked up at the sky, hidden in a canopy of dark, spreading tree-branches. He looked up at the sky so the tears would fall into the hair at his temples, and Thorin wouldn’t feel them on his face. “The both of you – I failed terribly. I let Kili – I let Kili fall by the wayside. I let you draw your strength from darkness.” Thorin shook his head. “I was deaf and blind to your pain and I can never undo that.” Fili kept his mouth closed, afraid to part his lips and let a sound give him away. He wasn’t expecting this. He assumed years ago the subject was closed, that Fili would never have his chance to speak. He thought that the silence meant that he was _supposed_ to bear the darkness and anger and bitter memories on his own. “I didn’t know Fili – _please_ , you have to understand that I didn’t know.” Thorin struggled a little, straightening himself, turning to look at Fili. “I’m not asking for forgiveness. I don’t deserve it. But – I’m here now, I will listen to anything you say. I’ll take any blow, any insult, any curse from you Fili. But please, in Durin’s name I am begging you – never shut me out.” He rested his hand on Fili’s shoulder, feeling the sharp angular collarbone beneath his trembling hand. Fili stared at his uncle, wide-eyed, his chest rising and falling in quick gasps. Blonde curls fell over his face as he shook his head. “Anything Fili. Anything at all.”

“I...” Fili’s arms were tight around Thorin. Too tight, although his uncle held his tongue this time. “Thorin – I...” He shook his head once more, as he realised the words were utterly beyond him. There was no way he could simply open his mouth, and let eighty years of darkness and anger pour out. What was Thorin _expecting?_ How could he ask this of Fili, after a lifetime of respect and restraint? How could he expect Fili to simply open the darkest parts of his soul to Thorin? The hinges had rusted closed, decades before. “I’ve never told _anyone.”_ He whispered, voice shaking. “N-Not even Kili.” Thorin pressed his forehead against Fili’s curls as his nephew sought refuge in the thick collar of his furs. “I _can’t.”_ He whimpered plaintively, voice muffled in the grand cloak. “Not now – I can’t.”

“All right.” Thorin was bitterly, bitterly disappointed. But he quickly tightened his sagging features, fingers gently stroking through Fili’s long tangles of golden hair. “Whenever you feel ready – I’m always listening. I promise you. No matter how small, you can tell me.”

 _No I can’t._ Fili started to panic at the thought. He forced the air out of his lungs in long, slow breaths, trying to steady his racing heart. He couldn’t tell Thorin everything. Because if he did, if he was _truly_ honest about just how much he had covered up, Fili knew that he wouldn’t ever be trusted as an heir to the throne. How could they expect him to lead a race of people, when he was unable to control himself? He wanted to let Thorin in, to tell him everything. He wanted to be honest about why he let Kili take the blame. He wanted to tell him about how he used to physically hurt himself in violent fits of rage. He wanted tell him about the horrible nightmares that still plagued his sleep. He wanted to admit that he was insecure, that he was jealous of Thorin’s ability to hold his head high and remain so unshakeable, that he never thought he could be so strong. But Mahal, would Thorin _ever_ look at him the same way again, if he did?

* * *

They looked even worse in the moonlight. The silver glistening of their fur, their gleaming eyes and teeth shining white, it made the wargs look worse than ever. The shadows brought out a darkness in the beasts. Even now, after five nights of riding, Kili couldn’t dissolve the tight knot that cramped his stomach.

Perhaps it was because he received his warg-bite at night.

The association in his mind, his dreams, was of a vast creature that moved through the darkness, catching soft glints of moonlight, a pair of glowing eyes and a looming shadow that struck with no warning, crunching bones and tearing through skin and cloth and splattering blood on the grass.

“But you wouldn’t do that, would you?” Kili murmured down at his warg, scratching between the pricked-up ears. He rode patiently; the wargs had been nosing about for hours, trying to catch a lingering trace of dwarf-scent from a trail which was rapidly growing cold. Kili lingered behind on instruction, told that his own smell was too distracting for the wargs to get a nose on his kin. He was not alone in the rear. Azog also waited behind, infuriated; he realised very early on that Kili’s scent was all over him, his warg rendered useless for tracking while he rode her, confusing her nose with his tainted skin.

They rode in silence, keeping to their own thoughts. His back still throbbing, jolted with every footfall upon the ground, Kili tried desperately to distract himself, tried to keep the thoughts of his uncle and brother out of his head. But what else was he to think on? There were no happy thoughts, no memories of warmth and light that he could conjure up, that didn’t involve his kin. They were always there for him. Always. And to be torn away from them, to be left abandoned by them – Kili couldn’t see how he could go on, alone. The only memories he had without his family, his people, were the ones that began when slipped out of Beorn’s Hall, on that cool summer night. And Kili could not think on them without feeling sick and hot. The image of his tomb stared at him, mocking him.

 _Maybe Nazarg is right._ Kili looked down at his hands clinging to the horn of the battered leather saddle. His stomach twisted as he remembered how rude he had been, in his anger and pain, how he’d turned away from the closest thing he had to a friend. He regretted it now, feeling the bandages sticky and cold, bound close to his skin with congealed blood but he knew he couldn’t grovel to the orc for forgiveness, not now. It would be seen as weak. He realised how right Nazarg was as he rode across the moonlight. Kili really did need to harden up. He did need to grow tough and mean and cruel, like them. Kili saw the jeers and scowls and snarls cast in his direction, he knew how little they thought of him. And he tried not to care, on a personal level, what a pack of dirty goblins thought; Kili had developed a very thick skin after a lifetime of teasing, of bullying and sidelong glances and pranks and whispered gossip. He learned a long time ago to accept who he was and simply try to make his family proud in his own way, rather than to pretend to be somebody he so obviously wasn’t. Nothing the wretched creatures said could hurt him - it was only Azog’s remark that he was not a dwarf which left him red with embarrassment.

Whenever he was mocked or bullied as a young dwarrow, Kili had a shoulder to cry on, someone to fight back for him and send his tormentors howling with black eyes and bloodied noses. But Fili wasn’t here. He didn’t have his older brother here to fight his battles. Kili had to stick up for himself. He had nobody else to depend on. Was that why it seemed so hard for him? Kili tried to remember a time when he’d ever hit back. He only had a few scattered memories, where his blows were weak an ineffectual, and they only ever laughed at brushed aside his pathetic attempts to defend himself. But that was _years_ ago. He was bigger and stronger. He was one of the best fighters in the company. He knew how to throw a punch.

 _So why in Durin’s name don’t you stick up for yourself?_ Kili swallowed, looking out at the moonlit pasture, the smattering of wargs spread out across the gentle, sloping grass. Why did he let the stupid beasts make snide comments about him? Why did he let them push his warg over the side of a cliff? His gaze lowered and Kili felt uncomfortable. Was it a question of honour? There was no concept of honour when it came to orcs and goblins. Battles between them and his people were vicious and bloody, making monsters of both sides. Nobody, least of all his uncle, would think less of him for showing brutality towards them. It wasn’t being cruel and violent that scared him (at least, that was what he tried to _think_ ), it was the concept of adopting traits and habits of the tribe that imprisoned him, of shirking his identity as a dwarf and becoming like _them._ The price of survival was set and Kili didn’t know if he could pay it.

 _Because you made such a heroic name for yourself as a dwarf._ The nasty idea wormed into his head. Kili’s head snapped up, feeling cold. _You were a joke. You couldn’t do anything right. What of your skill with an axe? Could you temper a blade? Ever been down a mine? How is the beard coming along?_ Kili gritted his teeth, knuckles white on the horn of his saddle. He refused to let his own bitterness get to him. He was angry at Thorin and Fili, and their abandonment of him. He was hurt at how they appeared to care so little. That was all. His thoughts were meaningless and he refused to listen to them. Kili could fight. He had more kills to his name than any other on the quest (except maybe Thorin), thanks to his bow. He was smart. He was fast. He couldn’t work with raw metal but he was skilled with leather, designing and carving vambraces for himself and his kin. The only people who really mattered to him, his closest friends and his family, they refused to accept Kili as a failure.

_If they loved you so much, then why did they leave you to die?_

“Shut up.” Kili whispered aloud. Azog turned his head at the sound, watching how tightly Kili grasped his saddle, his tense, strained face and tight lips. And he smiled, the expression going unnoticed. Kili was suffering. He still felt helpless and abandoned. He was growing sick and bitter and angry under the weight of his grief.

Azog’s head lifted at the sound of the horn, coming from the east. He squinted at the silvered grass in the distance, seeing one of the wretched goblins waving his arms and shouting. He bit back a growl – did the _stupid_ creatures realise just how close they were to Beorn’s domain? Did they _want_ to become scattered limbs and entrails in the dirt?

“They have a scent.” Azog’s voice sliced through Kili’s brain, making him wince. He nodded silently, not raising his head. He let Nardur follow the orc king, his grip lax on the saddle as the warg picked up pace. He didn’t feel the way he ought to at the revelation that he grew closer to his uncle. It wasn’t excitement or anticipation. It was a throbbing dread. Dread at his own looming death, at standing before Thorin and Fili and watching their overwhelming guilt and horror. He wasn’t going to take any joy from watching them suffer. He was dark and angry but his soul had not soured in hatred against them.

Not yet.


	27. An Apology

“You lost! Hand it over Grush.”

“No. You cheated. I _saw_ – you slimy bastard.”

“ _flâgît hau_!”

“What did you call me?”

Kili didn’t raise his eyes as the goblins descended into fighting. He kept his head down, focused intently on his work. He was crafting an arrow-shaft, and it had to be perfectly straight. The goblins all sat in clusters, pressed tightly for space beneath the shade of the spreading tree-branches, sheltering from the morning sun. Kili tried to sit by himself, but he was on the edge of a tight ring of goblins engaged in a game involving a bone die.

“Grush! Dhaka! Both of you _stop!”_ Kili listened, the notched blade of his new knife gently scraping the thin shaft of wood. “ _Maukûrz_ idiots.” The leader, the _maugrat,_ Kili reminded himself, stepped in, he heard the distant knock of fists against skulls. “Grush give him your flask. You lost.”

“I’m not giving him a thing.”

“You _darûk!”_

“Dhaka! Hold your _tongue_ and sit down! _Dalgum_ , both of you!” They were curses and insults obviously, and Kili did not know them. He didn’t need to – he could imagine their meaning. The bitter goblin sat down with a snarl, throwing his half-empty flask to the winner of the game. Kili’s glance flickered upwards; for just a moment, he caught the eye of Grush and he rapidly dropped his star, looking down at his hands with an obvious intent, desperate to be ignored. The goblin smirked.

“Kili.” The dwarf kept his mouth closed and eyes lowered. “Kili. _Lobûrz dikum._ ” There was a snort beside him.

“He called you womanly.” A goblin muttered at Kili’s elbow in Westron. That got his attention. Kili’s eyes snapped up, teeth gritted, fingers tightening around his blade.

“What.” Kili spoke shortly. He didn’t want to sink down to their level but the insult stung him. “What do you want.”

“Azog was talking about you.” Grush leaned back on his hands. The game was forgotten; they all looked at Kili, watching as his knuckles whitened around the handle of his small knife. “Shruk was nosy, he asked him how long it took before you _lag_.”

“Before I what?” Kili set down the arrow-shaft but his hold on the knife did not loosen.

“Before you broke.” Somebody muttered beside him. Kili swallowed, the pulse in his throat quickening. _What did Azog say about that?_

“And?” Kili tried to sound as though he didn’t care, but his voice was tense. They all heard it.

“He said you broke in mere moments.” Kili slowly felt his face grow hot as several goblins snickered around him. “He barely had to touch you.” The dwarf could feel something sticking in his throat. “The only time you kept quiet was when they asked about your _krank._ ”

“My what?” Kili tried to keep himself calm and hands still. He wasn’t going to rise to their bait. They were teasing him, he knew it and he knew he would be playing right into their hands if he got angry.

“Your father.” Dhaka chimed in. Kili knew his face was reddening with embarrassment. He clung to the knife and imagined sticking it between Grush’s ribs and letting the blood flow black and sticky all over his hands, staining his clothes.

“And y’know why he kept quiet?” _Oh no. No no no._ Kili’s hand shook around the knife. Azog didn’t tell them. He _couldn’t_. That cruel, sadistic beast _._ Their eyes were locked together and Kili bit down on his lip to mask the trembling. _Why would he tell them?_ “Because Kili doesn’t know.”

“You’re a bastard?” One of the foul creatures crowed. Kili stiffened, feeling his heart thud in his ears.

“I am _not_ a bastard.” Kili’s voice shook and Grush smirked, knowing he had managed to get to him. “I’m a prince.” But it was a weak, plaintive response. It wasn’t assertive, it was trembling and pathetic.

“Only bastards don’t know their fathers.” Kili made a noise in the base of his throat, furious. “The line of Durin must be in tatters, to have a _kruflûk_ prince.”

“A _what?_ ” Kili’s breath started coming out in a shallow gasp. Grush was smirking at him. It took every ounce of will and restraint for Kili to stay kneeling in the dirt, for the knife to remain at his side.

“A whore’s son.” Grush didn’t let anybody else translate for him. Kili let out a cry, as though he had been physically hit with the goblin’s accusation. The insult drove him out of the ground; he leaped up and in a heartbeat, Kili was on Grush, the knife flashing.

“You – how _dare you!”_ Kili vision went red as he landed on the goblin, knocking him into the dirt. The others leaped up, but they weren’t fast enough. Kili sank the knife into the bundle of arteries and tendons just above the collarbone, the handle ripped from his shaking fingers as several pairs of hands seized him, pulling him back as Grush sank backwards, the blood flowing in black rivulets as he coughed and gurgled, writhing in the dirt. “Let me _go!”_ The commotion had caught everybody’s attention; they all rose to their feet, Azog pushing his way through the crowd at the sound of Kili’s screams.

“You little _thrug_.” Orug, a goblin holding his arm, spat in his ear. Kili’s arms were twisted painfully behind him, the dwarf forced on his knees. Kili lashed out and struggled and tried to bite the hands that grasped him so tightly, but the goblins held fast.

“What is this?” Azog stood before the dying goblin. Nazarg was already on his knees beside the twitching figure, pulling out the knife and holding the wound apart with long bony fingers. He couldn’t restitch severed arteries. The kindest thing he could do was help the dying creature bleed out faster. “Kili – _what did you do?”_ The orc king kicked at the goblin, face etched in a deep snarl. He stepped over Grush’s body, seizing a handful of Kili’s hair and pulling hard, forcing the dwarf to look up at him. Kili’s frantic struggling stilled, he looked up at Azog with dark eyes, flecks of black blood on his cheeks.

“He asked for it.” Kili’s voice was low and rough, issuing through clenched teeth. His heart still pounded madly, a violent rushing in his ears. “He – he called my mother a _whore_.” There was no fear in his eyes as Azog looked down on him. “No one insults _Amad_. And no one insults me!” Azog stepped back from the dark creature, dragging his fingers free from the tangled locks of brown hair.

“You killed him over a _fîgû_.” Azog snarled at him. He was furious. He wanted Kili to be angry and violent. He wanted to nurture the darkness within him. Grush was an annoying little worm and he was not sad to watch him bleed to death in the dirt – but this was _not_ how his retinue behaved. He detested in-fighting and he exacted brutal punishment for disobedience. Nazarg wiped the blood from his hands onto the dead goblin’s trousers. He stood up slowly, watching Azog with a growing unease written in his eyes. “You had no right!”

“I’m _not_ a bastard!” Kili shouted in response. “And you – you told them!” He let out a shaking breath, Azog watching as a new emotion shone in his eyes. He felt betrayed and humiliated for what Azog had done. “Why did you-” A sharp blow across the face cut Kili off, the dwarf biting down on his tongue as his temple throbbed with pain.

“Shut. Up.” Azog snarled. He stood in silence before Kili for a moment, wondering what to do. This could not escape punishment. Grush’s kinsmen would seek their own retribution, if Azog did not make Kili suffer for what he had done. “I’ve killed my soldiers for less.” His stare with Kili was cold and level. Kili’s eyes were almost black, his face pale. A snarl flickered across the orc’s face as he slowly shook his head.

“I’m not going to apologize.” Kili’s voice shook. His hands were cold and clammy and sweat was gathering on his brow. He had never killed outside the battlefield. The blind anger that drove his hand, the fury at Grush’s insult against his mother, it was an alien sensation to him and as his heart slowed and his vision cleared and he saw the body on the ground, it left him feeling _scared_. Horror rose within him, at what he had done. But he kept his chin tilted upwards, eyes fixed on Azog. Kili knew contrition would completely undo him. “I won’t.” He watched the muscles twitch in Azog’s face. The cold in his hands spread up his limbs and Kili could feel a cold trickle of sweat ooze down his temple.

“You will.” His teeth bared, Azog leaned in to Kili. Venom dripped from his voice. “I do not tolerate this behaviour. From _anybody.”_ He straightened, turning away from the dwarf. “Perhaps a _thup_ will change his mind.” Azog watched the goblins break into snickers and jeers. Kili swallowed. He didn’t know what the word meant, but as he watched Nazarg step forward, wide-eyed, his stomach began to tighten.

“Azog you can’t-”

“Don’t.” The orc’s eyes flashed, instantly shutting Nazarg down. “It’s a _light_ punishment, for his crime.” Azog turned his head, giving Kili a glance. “Perhaps he won’t be so unapologetic.”

“Kili, just say sorry.” Nazarg tried to take another step, but Azog grabbed his arm, pulling him back. “Just _apolgize_.” Azog opened his mouth to speak, but as he caught Kili’s face, the orc kept his lips closed. Kili’s chin was still tilted upwards, eyes dark and defiant. There was no need for Azog to deny Nazarg his attempt to spare Kili. Not when the dwarf was going to do it for him.

“No.” The single, level word issued quietly from Kili’s tight lips. He knew now that he could never say sorry for what he had done. “I’m not apologising.” Kili made _sure_ his voice didn’t tremble. He kept his composure. The stupid goblin deserved what he got. He deserved it and Kili had no choice but to attack him. He could never let an insult against his mother rest. He had to draw a line; he had to show them all that he was not going to be pushed around anymore. Even though he felt sick with what he had done, even though the smell of goblin blood made his hands shake and stomach heave, even though his ears were still filled with that awful gurgling sound, Kili knew that he could not bow his head and apologize for what he had done. _But it put him in defiance of Azog._ And he couldn’t ignore the crushing horror behind that thought. He looked into Azog’s eyes and knew that he had sinned against him and he was going to suffer.

But if he apologized, if he admitted that he had done wrong in killing Grush, that made him indeterminably weak. The goblins would think Kili at their mercy. They would insult him, his mother, his kin, knowing he would do nothing to defend himself. Nazarg said their respect lay in blood. It had a twofold meaning, Kili realised, on his knees in the grass. Their blood if he spilled it. And his own if he bled for refusing to succumb to contrition. They wouldn’t laugh at him again, for crumbling so quickly.

Nazarg’s shoulders slumped, he shook his head and looked absolutely miserable. Kili obviously didn’t know what a _thup_ was. Perhaps, if he had, he would have been quicker to apologize for his crime. 

* * *

Dori’s heart seized when he saw the golden-haired figure leaning against his uncle. Fili sat with his nose in Thorin’s shoulder, the tangles brushed back from his face and smoothed down by Thorin’s hand. His eyes were dull and lowered and his beardless face shone plainly in the light. Ori crouched before the fire, warming his hands. He looked apart from the pair, cold and lonely and Dori ached simply to hold him. Behind him, Nori crashed into the forest path, muttering under his breath and swearing. His brother’s clumsy entrance made the three look up, Ori breaking into a smile when he saw his siblings approaching the firelight. Fili’s eyes widened, he pulled away from Thorin and fumbled nervously with his cloak.

“Dori.” Ori picked his way across the haphazard camp, winding his arms about his brother. He was careful about pressing his nose into Dori’s shoulder, his embrace soft and tentative. “You’re not lost.”

“’Course we’re not lost.” Nori clapped Ori on the shoulder as he pulled back, giving him a rare affectionate squeeze. “Who found him?” He jerked his head in Fili’s direction. “Looks like we’re the first back.”

“He came back himself.” Thorin sat up against the log, straightening the furs across his shoulders.

“I found your marks.” Fili licked his lips, Nori’s previous words echoing in his head. He’d made an enemy of both brothers, after what he had done to Ori and he didn’t know what to say that would earn grace with him. He never would have accepted an apology if Nori had broken Kili’s nose – not for a long, long time. “Dori, Nori – I’m sorry.” But he had to try. “I really am – I just got angry and I lost my head.”

“That is no excuse.” Nori spoke flatly. He didn’t understand what Ori had done to provoke Fili. He had no idea of his brother’s secret. “How would you like it if-”

“Hush, brother.” Dori tugged on his arm, and all three siblings sat across from Thorin and Fili, staring at the pair over the little fire. “He said he’s sorry.” His eyes met Fili’s and Dori inclined his head in a tiny nod. Fili’s throat tightened. He knew. Dori knew about Ori and he knew that Fili was in on it. He didn’t know whether to be angry or relieved. It was like a conspiracy, a disgusting conspiracy against his brother and it made his blood boil.

“I don’t want animosity.” It was not Thorin’s place to get involved in the petty squabbles of the other dwarves – and there had been a fair few already, on the first leg of their journey – and he was a firm believer in keeping the peace and leaving them to hash it out themselves. But this was different. This involved his nephew. And whatever happened between Fili and Ori, it went beyond a filched slice of bread or a missing sock. Ori’s nose was broken, Fili had threatened him in his fit of anger and made him cry. He played the role of mediator, refusing to take sides. “Fili has apologised and it cannot go any further.” Thorin hoped that Ori’s brothers had the grace to accept it.

“Of course.” Dori found Ori’s hand, squeezing the thin fingers tightly. At his side, Ori nodded in silence. “It’s all right Fili.” He forced a smile, an outward show of forgiveness even though his stomach churned, seeing Ori’s nose out of the corner of his eye. But really, what else would he expect? What would he have done, if he knew someone felt something so dark and unnatural towards Ori? He’d knock them down in a heartbeat. Even though he considered fighting beneath him, Dori wouldn’t hesitate to raise his fists against anyone. Not when Ori was involved.

“You’ve got to be joking.” Nori’s voice was rough and it made Fili tense. “He says sorry and we’re supposed to forget about it?” Ori stared at his brother, wide-eyed. “He never even explained _why_ and you want me to accept some half-hearted apology?”

“Nori it’s fine.” Ori’s voice was very small and Thorin had to strain his ears to hear it. “I don’t want to make a fuss – he’s said he’s sorry and I believe him.” He mumbled his words, not looking at anybody as his face went red. He saw Nori in his periphery, trying to pick him apart and decipher his nervousness. He felt Dori’s hand tighten around his own and it made him feel worse. He knew they were all staring at him and he felt hot and tight under their collective gaze. The terror that he would be exposed began to rise inside of him.

“Look me in the eye and say that.” Dori tried to silence his brother with side-long glances but Nori ignored him. Ori pulled his scarf over his mouth, eyes firmly downcast. “What did you say to him? Look at him, he’s shaking.” His gaze snapped up to Thorin and Fili. “Before, when you were alone. What did you say?”

“Nothing I swear.” Fili realised why Ori was so nervous; it was the agonising prospect of having his dark secret revealed which terrified him. Something that would turn them all against him, would cast him out. He touched the naked skin on his jaw and Fili realised that he carried a lot of the same fears. “We didn’t talk about it I – I’m sorry Nori I don’t know what to say. Ori’s just being quiet, he’s always quiet.” Ori had buried himself up to the nose in his scarf.

“Fili didn’t say anything.” Thorin stepped in to defend his nephew. But his own interest was piqued at Nori’s observation. He hadn’t forgotten the second confrontation between Ori and Fili, the one Ori’s brothers didn’t know about. He hadn’t forgotten the way his nephew gripped Ori by the wrists and growled in his face, voice low and deadly. Something was very wrong between the pair. “Ori – you don’t need to be nervous.” Thorin forced a smile. He could see it now, the way Ori acted, so removed and quiet and unobtrusive. The little light Thorin saw in him, when he told stories to him of his brothers, it was gone. Ori was too afraid to come near him, with Fili at his side. He could tell there was something there, something lurking within, trying not to come out. Something that involved Fili.

“Then why did you do it.” Nori was like a dog with a bone and it exasperated Dori. But he didn’t blame him for it. If he didn’t know what it was that made Ori so nervous, if he didn’t know what drove Fili to attack him, he too would have been demanding answers. He wouldn’t rest until he had the full story. And nothing would arouse Thorin’s suspicions more than Dori pulling his brother away and whispering into his ear. “Tell me why you did it Fili, and I’ll drop it.”

 “It was nothing. I was just so tired and angry at everything – I overreacted.” Fili kept a quiver out of his voice. “Ori just – he made a stupid joke.” Their eyes met. Ori watched the blonde speak, biting on his scarf. “About Kili. And I just – I got defensive. I could never stand anybody speaking ill about him.” Fili gave Nori an apologetic shrug. “I lost my head.”

“Over a joke? You broke his nose over a joke?” Nori was incensed.

“ _Nadad_ please-”

“Leave off Dori.” The thief snatched his arm away. “How could you – over nothing?” Fili was growing anxious under Nori’s glare. Thorin watched his nephew very carefully. “Durin’s beard, what’s _wrong_ with you?”

“Nori you have _no_ right to say that-”

“I’ll say what I damn well please! He’s been a brat and I’m not going to-”

“Stop it!” Ori’s voice rose over his brothers. He was on his knees, the scarf pulled down below his chin. His lips trembled and his eyes were very bright. “There’s nothing wrong with Fili.” Thorin stared at him with a furrowed brow. Nori sat frozen, mouth half-open and Dori was reaching for his hand, trying to pull him back down. “It’s _me.”_ He crumbled, sick with himself, bruised and battered from a vile self-loathing that beat at his insides and roared in his skull. Ori’s head sank into his hands with a low moan, trembling fingers twisting through his tousled auburn hair.

Fili looked at the hunched figure across the tiny fire and he ached with pity. Even though his insides had curled with disgust when he thought about how unnatural the young dwarf was, as Fili looked at Ori now, his heart ached for him. Ori fought his own monster, deep within himself. One that would never, ever go away, would never die, only sleep, lying in wait, coiled and ready to strike. Like him. Fili knew. He felt the same beast, within his own heart.

“Stop this.” There was an edge of iron to Dori’s voice, his fear very obvious. “Nori, no more. Leave it alone. Look at what you’ve done.” He put his hand on Ori’s shoulder, but the young dwarf shrugged his brother away. “Please Thorin, he’s tired and in pain.”

“Ori.” And he looked up at Thorin’s voice, wiping at his wet cheeks. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Everything.” His voice was a trembling murmur. Ori felt wrung out and exhausted. He looked up at Thorin and couldn’t fight his blurring vision. “ _Everything is wrong with me.”_ Ori was sick of the frustration, the grief and self-loathing and crippling loneliness. Why did he have to be so _different?_ He felt so lost and desolate and solitary. He reached out for just a _chance_ at understanding and acceptance. Even a chance was better than this secrecy, the lies and downward glances and tears at night. Dori’s warnings had left his ears; Ori had stopped listening to him and he pulled away from him now, when he tried to embrace him and get him to shut up. “Fili – he hit me because-”

“Ori _no-”_

“Thorin, I love your nephew.” There. It was said. It was out. Ori was panting, his head swam and his mouth was dry. He didn’t look at Fili or his brothers. He looked only at Thorin, with his eyes wet and hands shaking. He was out. Ori watched as Thorin slowly tried to comprehend his words. His frown deepened, bright blue eyes lowering to the ground as his jaw tightened into stone.

“Thorin please don’t listen to Ori, he’s just upset he’s never said or done anything I _swear-_ ”

“Quiet.” Thorin’s voice was very low but it made Dori shut up in an instant. He knelt on the dirt, winding an arm around Ori. And this time, Ori let him, shuffling closer to his brother. Thorin still stared at the ground, obviously trying to get his head around what Ori had said. After several endless moments, a handful of seconds that stretched into eternity for Ori, kneeling in the earth beside the fire as Thorin judged his fate silently, the exiled king lifted his eyes. They were very, very dark. His mouth was a thin, hard line.

“You have unnatural feelings for Fili.” He refused to say the word _love._ Ori’s heart sank, he shook his head rapidly and Fili’s head darted towards his uncle, in obvious distress at the misunderstanding.

“Not me.” He cut in before Ori could speak, voice rushed. “Not me uncle. Kili.” Thorin’s head turned to stare at him, mouth falling half-open as his eyes glimmered with shock and confusion. Thorin shook his head slowly and Ori knew in an instant that he was doomed.

“Did you...” Thorin couldn’t finish his sentence. He couldn’t look at Ori. He felt _sick_ with horror. It was utterly alien. He had heard rumours of unnatural dwarves in other tribes, whispered in secrecy, but Thorin had never had one of his own people admit to it. And to have that first dwarf Ori, to have the affection towards his _dead nephew_ ; it left him reeling, bile rising in his throat.

“Never.” Ori’s voice trembled. He shrank in Dori’s embrace, shying away from Thorin as though expecting a blow across the fire. Perhaps he would. “I-I never said or did anything. He never knew, I promise you Thorin. He never knew a thing.” Surely they could not punish him for thinking. Surely Thorin would show discretion towards him.

“You slept beside him.” Thorin stared at the young dwarf, hands clenched into fists to mask the trembling. “For weeks.” Ori nodded silently. “Did he ever give – give an indication?” He spat the words out, as though they disgusted him. Ori shook his head.

“Never.” He murmured, realising that Thorin had paused to allow him time to speak. “I-I know he wasn’t like – wasn’t like me.” It was still so very hard to talk about Kili in the past tense. It broke his heart. _No one_ was like Ori. “Nothing ever happened – it won’t – it can’t.” He couldn’t stand Thorin’s awful, level stare. “A-And it never will so – I haven’t _done_ anything.” His last words were high and pitiful and Fili’s heart twisted to hear them.

“I cannot imagine a bigger insult to Kili’s memory.” Thorin couldn’t mask the trembling in his voice. “I could not imagine a bigger insult to anybody in this company, to have their names entangled in such a vile scandal.” Ori burst into tears, tears that he had been holding back and forcing down. They came now, Ori’s heart in pieces at Thorin’s damning words. His confession was met with anger and hatred and prejudice, just as Dori said it would. He was going to be sent away, he was going to be cast out and shamed and exiled from his people. His king thought him a monster. He was _not vile_. Dori held on to him very tightly, Ori stemming his tears with the unravelling wool of his mittens. “Who knows of this. Outside of this circle, who knows?”

“Nobody.” Dori spoke up for his crying brother, giving Nori a sidelong look. The thief gaped at him, still in shock. Dori wanted to hit him. _How could he not know?_ Was he really so dense, so distant from his younger brother, that he didn’t see this? Dori had known for years, he knew before Ori even did, that he wasn’t normal. “Not a soul Thorin. Not here or in Ered Luin. Ori – he never felt... that way for anybody else. It was only ever Ki-”

“All right.” Thorin silenced him with a lifted hand. He was not going to hear the end of that phrase, was not going to have his nephews name uttered in the same sentence as such an act. He didn't want to hear about it any longer - he _couldn't._ In Thorin's eyes, there was only one thing that he could do. He looked at Ori, crying helplessly in his brother's arms. He looked at Fili, staring at the ground with his hands clenched into fists. _Mahal._ He knew what Dori expected. He saw him ready to accept losing his brother. Ori too, had completely given up hope. Thorin closed his eyes, letting out a long, slow breath, that left his chest crackling in pain. He thought of the brave little dwarf that held his hand, who he had to pull back on the slopes near the Bruinen waters. So bright and naive and eager to please. And Thorin knew what would happen to him, to be sent away, _alone_ , in the wild. It was a death sentence. And he knew the rumours. Without Kili to protest his own innocence, there was no defence against the claim that well, _surely he must have done something to provoke it._ It felt like an eternity before Thorin finally opened his eyes, looking at the tear-stained face beneath a tousled mop of poorly-cut auburn hair. He knew what was expected of him. But _Thorin couldn't do it._ It didn't make sense to him. Those rules, they couldn't _work_ out here. This wasn't Ered Luin. And this wasn't Erebor either. It would cause a massive rift, if he passed judgement fit for a king. It would break the company apart and he knew it would kill Ori.  
  
“As I said – the shame of having one’s name associated with – with that...” Thorin pursed his lips. “Is unbearable.” Dori looked at Thorin, daring for a single moment to hope.

“You’re not sending him away.” Ori’s head lifted at his brother’s words, he wiped at his eyes, pleading silently with his king for grace and mercy. Dori watched Thorin shake his head, relief coursing through his veins.

“This goes no further.” Thorin was still obviously upset. “Am I clear?” He stared at his nephew, at the three siblings, in turn. They all nodded at him, silent. “This is never mentioned again. This is your _only chance_ Ori.” His cheek twitched as he locked eyes with the young dwarf. “If I hear a whisper that you have said or done or _thought_ anything I will not be so merciful.” Ori nodded, sniffling. Thorin felt cold. He didn't know if he was doing the right thing or not. “Our people do not tolerate your... unnaturalness. If it is found out that I let you go unpunished for this, I would be humiliated. Do you understand?”

“Yes Thorin.” Ori whispered with an inclination of the head. “I understand.” He pulled the scarf back over his mouth as Dori ruffled his hear, whispering a thankful prayer, eyes cast upwards. Ori didn’t feel relieved. He didn’t feel like celebrating. He felt like he was going to be sick. This wasn’t what he wanted. This was _worse._ He still had the secrets and lies, the red-faced embarrassment when others talked about lasses (the others didn’t like talking about their own few wives, finding it too personal and painful, but that didn’t restrain conversation on the opposite sex), the horrible awkwardness when they bathed. They wouldn’t go away. And Thorin was disgusted with him. He remembered their quiet morning together, with Ori looking after him, keeping him awake and entertained with stories. He remembered how Thorin smiled at him and said he wished that there were more dwarves like Ori in his company.

He looked at his king now, at the cold shock and anger and disgust, and he knew that Thorin would never smile in his direction again.  


	28. Pledge

“ _Krimp_ him to that tree over there.” Azog pointed. “Arms _kurn_ , _hon-drû_. _”_ Kili was silent as the goblins pulled him to his feet, snickering. Nazarg watched in silence. Powerless.

“You’re in it now, Kili _._ ” Orug hissed in his ear as they marched him across the grass. Kili kept his face impassive, but his heart began to race. “Azog’s going to make you suffer.”

“I don’t know what he said.” Kili whispered. His voice was shaking once more. The goblin laughed, fingers digging tightly into Kili’s arm.

“You will.” They stopped, Orug unbuckling the belt at Kili’s waist. Kili winced as they dragged the vest from his back, casting it onto the grass. He remained silent as they took his arms, he didn’t fight as they wound them about the tree and bound his wrists together with the belt. His cheek was pressed close to the bark of the tree, rasping against his skin. Kili could feel a gentle breeze against the bandages on his back, sticky from his congealed blood. He had an idea now, with his back turned outwards and arms fixed so tightly, what Azog was going to do. Horror exploded in Kili’s chest, he bit down hard on his lip and hoped to Mahal that no one could see how his jaw shook.

“Azog.” There was serious desperation in Nazarg’s voice as the orc king rifled through his things. “You’ll take the skin from his back. After what you did yesterday – he won’t be able to handle it.” Azog found what he was looking for, his long rawhide whip, letting it hang loose from his hand and trail down to the grass. It was a common punishment, one he had given out to several creatures already on this quest – albeit for smaller crimes. “Don’t give him the full forty. Show a little mercy and-”

“Mercy?” The sun had disappeared behind a cloud, the morning turning grey and pale. Azog paused, turning back towards the orc healer, face twisted in scorn. “Shall I show Kili the same mercy he gave to the gobin he killed?” Nazarg stood very still. “I have given Kili mercy constantly since I laid eyes on him. I spared his life after I wrung my answers from his lips. I let him off with a warning after he attempted to kill me. I carried him up the side of the Misty Mountains when he was too sick and injured to walk. He disobeys me Nazarg. He tries to rebel and he must be _punished_ for it.” Azog glared at the other. “I own him. He is mine. I am in complete control and I will not tolerate an ounce of defiance.” He received only a silent, level stare in response. “Kili is nothing, _nothing_ without me.” Azog turned his face away from him, beginning to take long, loping strides across the grass.

 _You arrogant bastard._ He didn’t say it. He didn’t dare. Nazarg spoke the damning words only in his mind, watching the orc king make his way through the grass, to the three where Kili stood, bound. Waiting for him.

Kili couldn’t see, with his face turned away from the pack and pressed so tightly against the bark, but he heard the heavy footfalls across the grass, and knew it could be no one else. Azog’s breath was slow and even as he approached the dwarf, utterly silent. Kili tried to turn his head, just a little more, but there was no give in the belt, he was pinned to the tree and he could not move his arms or neck. The skin on his back was stretched painfully tight, the open wounds throbbing with his heart. This was going to _hurt_ him. Kili bit back a gasp as he felt Azog’s fingers brush the bloodied bandages on his back, plastered to his skin. The orc king grabbed a corner of the thin cloth, and with the strength of his massive weight behind him, pulled.

A small grunt made its way from behind Kili’s gritted teeth, but the dwarf allowed no other sound to escape. It was _agony_ , to have the cloth torn from his skin, fused in place from the drying blood. His eyes already stung. The bandages were thin, coarse things, made from a flimsy material that tore easily in Azog’s hand. He let the bloodied fragments of cloth fall to the ground, Kili breathing very heavily through his iron jaw. He bit down hard on his lip, curling his fingers into the bark as he tried to steady himself. Azog’s hand was on his shoulder. Kili’s eyes flew open, breath dying in his throat. Azog grabbed Kili’s hair, trailing six or seven inches down his back, tangled and unbound and desperately in need of a comb. He swept it aside, tucking the handful of hair inside Kili’s neck, pressed so closely to the tree. He didn’t do it roughly. There was an odd gentleness to it, one Kili thought he may have even been imagining. Azog missed a lock. It hung on his shoulder, too short to reach across his neck and he combed it into place with his fingers, brushing Kili’s back to sweep aside any remaining stray hairs. Kili choked back a cry. _What was he doing?_ It was precise and deliberate. He was taking his time, it almost seemed. Was he stalling?

 _Did Azog not want to do this?_ Kili’s hands tightened on the bark and he pressed his cheek against the tree, breathing in the wild scent of moss and wood and tree-gum. This was different. This was a calculated, measured punishment for a crime. This wasn’t an interrogation, a threat, a spontaneous act of violent retribution. Azog hadn’t hurt Kili like this before and he seemed almost reluctant to do it. But his hand vanished, Azog withdrew, and Kili heard the rasp of leather and skin as the orc king pulled the long whip from his belt. He had to remain calm. Think on something else. _Oh Mahal what if I said sorry now?_ He screwed up his eyes and tried not to think about who would be watching as the first blow landed on his back.

A sharp intake of breath, a tensing of the shoulders. But no more. Azog saw and heard it. Kili was going to act as though this didn’t hurt. He wasn’t going to scream and cry, as he did before. And it _angered_ him. Azog raised his arm, nose wrinkling in a snarl. Another jerk, almost imperceptible. And another. After the fifth blow, Azog stepped back, the cruel whip lowering to his side, watching. Kili was trembling.

 _It can’t be over. Not yet._ Kili refused to believe it. He clung to the tree, knees weak as he drew blood from his bitten lip. He had forgotten in the last two weeks just how much it _hurt_ to have the skin break beneath the touch of leather. He had forgotten why it was such a favoured punishment. It was already very difficult to keep his voice silent and dead in his throat, to keep his limbs still, to restrain himself and maintain his composure. It was a mask that was cracking and he was terrified that he was going to scream and cry out and beg for mercy. He would _never_ live it down, if that happened. They would see him as a weak child and they would never stop hounding him, insulting him and hurting him. _I can’t let that happen._ He kept his eyes closed against the pale morning light, clouded and grey. He tasted blood in his mouth and could smell it in the air, heavy and metallic. Kili braced himself, keeping every muscle in his body tense, waiting for the punishment to continue.

A single, low sound escaped from Kili’s lips at the sixth strike. Deeper than a whimper, but not quite a moan. His fingers shook, entwined in the bark. Sweat poured down the side of his face as he bit back the screams of agony, rising in his lungs and beating at his throat. Kili curled his toes in his boots and kept his voice absolutely dead at the seventh, the eighth, the ninth. But his breath came out in short gasps, in time with the sound of leather on skin and he knew Azog could hear them. There was no counteracting the pain of the tenth strike, Kili could not bite down harder, could not grip the tree with more force. Azog didn’t want to hit the same place twice. He didn’t want to dig any further into Kili’s skin. He preferred shallow marks that would heal quicker, that hurt more at that moment. Kili’s legs had stopped supporting himself; he hung by his arms, bound tightly to the tree.

The sound of footfalls on grass made Kili open his eyes. Azog walked around the tree, to _see_ him. To look him in the eye. Kili made a tiny noise in his throat as the orc thrust the handle of the whip under his chin, forcing his gaze upwards.

“Do you know why this is happening?” He spoke very quietly. Nobody else could hear the exchange between the pair. The dwarf remained silent, still biting down on his lip and feeling the blood flow across his tongue. “ _Kili._ ” Azog’s voice was hard and bitter. “Your little act isn’t fooling me. You can pretend to be tough and cruel but we both know the truth. You’re scared. I can see it. I can smell your fear.” Kili couldn’t breathe. _How was Azog able to get inside his head?_ “You didn’t kill him to prove a point. You did it in a fit of rage.” Kili felt his heart pound madly in his head, his bleeding back throbbing with his pulse. “You can’t pretend. Not with me.” Kili’s eyes had grown very wide and he couldn’t utter a word. “Go on, Kili.” He leaned in, very closely to him. “Go on and cry. Your face is turned away from them – they’ll never see it.” Kili’s bitten lip trembled. “That’s what you always do, isn’t it?” Kili was enraged at Azog, at his cruel, cunning ability to worm his way into Kili’s head and antagonise his deepest fears. He was left white-faced and shaking after what the pale orc had said. He had torn aside Kili’s facade, holding the pieces in his hands and holding them up to Kili, laughing at him.

Kili didn’t say anything. He closed his eyes and lowered his head as much as he could, pressed against the bark of the tree. He was slumped into the wood, lips parted as he gasped for air, blood dripping onto the ground, completely and utterly defeated. His pale attempt at fighting back against Azog had flickered and died. Kili had given up and they both knew it. Azog let the whip in his hand fall to the ground and released the belt around Kili’s wrists. There was a cool breeze in the air as Azog stepped back and turned away from Kili, abandoning him as he slowly sank forward against the tree. Kili dig his fingers into the bark and struggled to remain standing, his legs failing him and arms weak. The fire along his back rose with every breath he took, stretching the broken and bleeding skin. He sank slowly onto his knees, forehead scraping the rough bark as his fingers slipped. Kili sucked the blood from his bitten lip, trying desperately to just breathe, in and out. He was shaking violently, and to his intense shame and humiliation, his eyes stung.

He was brought back to the daylight by a nose in his ear. Kili lowered his hands and lifted his head, closing his eyes to let Nardur lick the moisture from his cheeks. He curled his fingers into the thick grey fur and pressed his forehead against the warg’s neck, breathing in the animal scent growing increasingly familiar to him.

“You are _such_ a _flâgît_.” Kili’s head jerked at the sound. “Don’t move. Sit still.” Kili swallowed as Nazarg grabbed his hair, roughly throwing it over his shoulders.

“A what?”

“An idiot.” The orc growled, wringing the soft cloth in his hands. “This is going to sting.” He felt Kili jump beneath his hands as he pressed the wet fabric against his back, sponging gently at the blood. “At least you saw sense and said sorry.”

“No I didn’t.” Kili’s voice shook. Nazarg’s tone was dark and angry and it frightened him. _Why_ was he so angry? What did he expect Kili to do?

“You didn’t?” The hand paused on his back and Nazarg frowned. He counted – it was only ten. It was supposed to be forty. But Azog had stopped, stopped to lean in and whisper in Kili’s ear before pulling away, leaving him alone at the tree with no ceremony. Nazarg assumed he had pulled an apology from those bleeding lips. “Then why did he stop?”

“I don’t know.” Kili sounded exhausted, his voice muffled in the warg’s fur. “Maybe he thought he’d done enough.” Nazarg shook his head silently, letting the cloth float in the water for a moment before wringing it out. Perhaps. But he wasn’t going to bet on it.

“Maybe.” Nazarg muttered. Kili lifted his head, eyes half-lidded. “Kili – I said you had to be _like_ them. I didn’t say you had to be worse.” Kili’s throat closed, he couldn’t speak. _Don’t say that._ That was _not_ how it was at all. He wasn’t being worse than them. It was a mistake. It was a terrible mistake, Kili lost his head and he cracked. He regretted it now, after the agony of the punishment, the sick horror of his deeds rushing inside of him. He wished he could go back and undo it.

“Will it shut them up?” Nazarg looked down at Kili’s back, carefully wiping the blood without antagonising the open flesh. “Will they call _Amad_ a – a whore again?”

“I think you made your point,” And that was a tiny victory for Kili. Even if it was false and hollow, Kili still took it. Even if he didn’t believe it himself, Kili could carry on with the lie. He was well-practiced in perpetrating lies. “If you set out to keep them quiet... Well you have done that.”

“Good.” Nazarg looked at the thatch of brown hair, shaking his head slowly. He didn’t want this to happen. He told Kili to stick up for himself but he didn’t expect he would become so hard and cruel. He never, ever thought the dwarf capable of murder. And he couldn’t shake the growing conviction that he had been responsible, with that fireside speech while the rest of the retinue slept.

* * *

The night was heavy and still. There was a quietness across the camp, one that nobody could shake. Thorin leaned against his fallen-tree trunk in brooding silence and not even Dwalin could drag a word from him. Ori was absolutely morose; he refused food, a game of _mohil_ with Bofur, even his regular chamomile tea. He sat alone on his bedroll, refusing to talk to anybody. Most thought he was still sore from being hit by Fili and wanted to lick his wounds in private.

“Perhaps we should call it a night.” Balin’s voice broke through a repressive shroud that settled on the company. They looked up from their half-hearted games and whittling and darning, soft whispers and mutters falling silent. “It’s getting on – we’ll have to leave early to make up for lost time.”

“Nay, we can’t.” Dwalin shook his head. He could hear Thorin breathing beside him, the air in his lungs punctuated and strained. “We’ll need another day, at least, before Thorin is up to the march.” At Thorin’s right, Fili lowered his head, shame reddening his cheeks. He couldn’t look at anybody and he knew Dwalin was giving him a very pointed look.

“I’ll be fine.” Thorin pressed a hand to his ribs, taking in a long breath. “Just need to sleep it off.” His right hand found Fili’s wrist, squeezing tightly. _It’s all right._ “Balin is right. It’s been a long day and we need to get some rest.”

It had been a long afternoon. His company filtered back to him in pairs, awkwardly noticing Fili’s shaved beard, the way Thorin held him, most saying nothing but giving looks, either to Thorin or to each other. He read their hearts through their eyes. Dwalin was ready to scold Fili, but his face had completely fallen when he saw Fili’s naked jawline. He knew the blonde did it himself and his self-mutilation left Dwalin breathless. Balin clucked his tongue, looking more mother-hen than aged warrior as he asked if Fili wanted a cup of tea. Bilbo was completely bewildered; Bofur had to take him aside and explain in his ear, Thorin watching the little hobbit’s face sink downwards, soft lines deepening in pity. Bofur himself simply looked sad. Oin and Gloin muttered something about the rash, compulsive nature of youth, thinking Thorin couldn’t hear them. Bifur looked completely unperturbed, vague and distant as ever. Bombur had the sense to keep quiet but he nevertheless shot his brother a very dark look.

Thorin accepted the help of both Dwalin and Fili, allowing the pair to pull him to his feet. He leaned on them, his face strained as he slowly made his way to the blanket stretched on the outer edge of the camp. Fili gently peeled the furs from Thorin’s shoulders, reaching for his uncle’s vambraces. Thorin pushed his hands away, unbuckling the leather himself. He wasn’t an invalid and he didn’t need taking care of. It was humiliating enough, needing help to walk half a dozen steps, and he wasn’t going to let them pair undress him too.

“I can do this.” He didn’t usually remove so much clothing, but Thorin rationalised that in his state, he would be useless for any fighting, and it was better to sleep in comfort. “Fili,” He licked his lips. “Go and get your things.” Crouched at his side, Fili’s head snapped up.

“Thorin?”

“Your blanket and pack. Bring them over here.” Thorin’s lips twitched in a rare smile. Fili’s breath died in his throat.

“U-Uncle...” Fili’s voice trembled, at the ramifications of Thorin’s words. It was only the veterans, the true warriors of the company, who slept on the outside. Fili wasn’t _ready_ for that. Not yet. “Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure.” Thorin shook his arm free of the leather, working on the other brace. He jerked his head towards the beds in the middle of the camp, a silent order. Fili rose to his feet, head whirling as he made his way to his place on the ground. Ori sat on his bed with his arms around his knees, not looking at anybody and as Fili bent down to take his things, his heart seized in his chest.

 _Ori._ Fili felt sick. Thorin wasn’t putting him on the outside because he thought he deserved it. _He was taking Fili away from Ori_. He didn’t want his nephew lying beside a troubled soul. Ori lifted his head when he saw the rustling of movement from the periphery of his vision. Their eyes met for a moment. And Ori knew too, looking into Fili’s eyes, why the blonde was being dragged away. Fili couldn’t speak, crouched on the earth with the half-rolled blanket in his hands. His lips quivered in shame and pity. The dazzling flash of euphoria died as quick as it came, leaving Fili cold. Thorin was doing this for all the wrong reasons. But Fili could _never_ turn him down. Ori’s eyes glimmered and he gritted his teeth, looking very determinedly down at the ground.

“I’m sorry Ori.” Fili breathed, haphazardly crumpling the blanket in his hands. A corner trailed between his fingers, brushing the dirt. “Thorin just wants to look after me – it’s not-”

“Just go.” Ori murmured bitterly. He hunched further into himself, and Fili heard him sniffle. “Go and be a warrior Fili.” The blonde bit back a hurtful retort and he felt his heart sting at Ori’s words. He made Fili sound like a petulant child, trying to keep up with his elders in an embarrassing play-act. And there was an element of truth in that. The auburn-haired dwarf saw straight through Thorin’s gesture, like Fili did. He knelt in the dirt, feeling his heart clench at the pitiful sight before him. Ori had tried to be a friend to him, a friend and nothing more, and Fili repeatedly spurned his attempts at forging a bond, fraught with anger and disgust. He threatened Ori, he hurt him and hit him and Ori never lifted a finger in retaliation.

Fili rose to his feet in silence, teeth gritted. He turned away from Ori, his pack in one hand and the half-rolled blanket in the other. He picked his way across the campfire, his grip loose on his things as he tried to force Ori’s words out of his head. He didn’t understand, he would _never_ understand because he would never again be thought of as honourable or noble in Thorin’s eyes. He was tarnished and taking his anger out on Fili. But Fili couldn’t entirely believe even his own rationale.

“Fili.” The blonde stopped at the sound of Bilbo’s voice. “You uh... I think this dropped.” Fili turned to see Bilbo holding out a tiny wind-up horse. “Is this...”

“Yes.” He snatched the little horse out of Bilbo’s hand, snatching it roughly in his pocket before he thought anybody saw. But he wasn’t fast enough. From his cross-legged spot on the ground beside Fili, Bofur’s grin stretched from ear to ear.

“Fili – is that _my_ horse?” Fili swallowed, fingers curling into the blanket. “You kept it?”

“Yes.” The blonde muttered stiffly, knowing Thorin and Dwalin probably several others were looking at him. He felt humiliated, being caught with a _toy._ “So what?”

“I just can’t believe it.” Fili looked Bofur in the eye and realised that the dwarf wasn’t making fun of him at all. He looked genuinely pleased to see that Fili held on to his lopsided little gift. “I didn’t realise it was anything special.” He held out his hand. “Can I see it? Does it still work?” Fili paused. He wanted to throw the stupid thing in Bofur’s face and tell him to shove off, to say it was an ugly broken toy and he didn’t know why he bothered keeping it. But he looked at the joy in Bofur’s face, illuminated by the weak little fire, and his throat closed. Fili hadn’t seen him look so happy in a long time.

“It still works.” Fili relented, dropping his things and sinking to his knees before him. He pulled the little horse out of his pocket, feeling his hands close around the familiar metal shape. He turned the tiny key, both watching as the toy took three wonky, lopsided steps before falling over. “Well – as good as it ever did.” He watched as Bofur took the horse, raising it to his eyes to see better in the firelight.

“Why did you keep it?” Bofur turned the key once more, watching the horse stagger and fall. “It’s not much good – I’ve made far better since. You and Kili always got the best toys. Why did you keep this little broken one?”

“Because...” Fili took it in his hand. He settled down, cross-legged, his previous humiliation forgotten. There was nobody else at the moment. No Ori or Thorin or Dwalin. Just Fili, Bofur, and the little toy bound up in memories. “It was the first toy I ever had.” He ran his finger over the carved mane. “Ever.”

Thorin held his breath. Bofur shot his king a sidelong glance, Thorin making frantic motions with shaking hands. _Talk_. He signed in Iglishmêk, knowing Bofur, a former miner, would understand. Bofur gave the slightest inclination of the head, eyes turning back to Fili.

“You didn’t have toys in your first home?” Bofur watched Fili’s eyes, dark in the firelight, trained down on the horse. “In the Orocani Mountains, I mean.” Fili’s hands tensed around the toy, and he saw the mop of blonde curls shake.

“ _Amad_ tried to make some.” Thorin strained to hear Fili’s low voice. “With some wood and a knife... She made a lion and a bear and a dwarf for me.” He swallowed. “When... When _he_ saw them, he threw them on the fire.” Thorin instinctively gripped Dwalin’s wrist. “He said Ironfist princes didn’t play with toys.” Fili’s face was hidden by a curtain of hair. Thorin longed to approach his nephew and brush it back. “He gave me a wooden sword instead.” Vile hatred blossomed in Thorin’s heart, for a soul long dead.

“So... yes Bofur, this was the first.” After a long silence, Fili continued talking, he wound up the horse and let it walk, one last time, before taking the toy and shoving it into his pocket. “Anyway.” He spoke roughly, standing up, trying to cover himself with a familiar, hard veneer. “Nothing wrong with keeping little broken things.” He murmured the last words, too quiet for anybody else except Bofur to hear. He met Bofur’s eyes for a moment, the dwarf’s face creasing in a small, sad smile.

“Aye.” He jerked his head towards Thorin. “Go to sleep lad.” Fili nodded silently, taking his blanket and pack. He didn’t feel victorious as he spread out the blanket and readied himself for sleep. He looked across the camp, over the shuffling mounds of bodies, to where Ori lay. The little heart of the company, the core that they protected, was shrinking. Now only two bodies lay in the middle, with a gap between them because Bilbo couldn’t sleep through Ori’s snores.

And now he was here. Fili pressed his face into the blanket and he could not breathe. It was what he always wanted, right? To be thought of one of those strong and brave and old enough to rest on the outside, to be the shield, rather than the soft, defenceless heart. But this wasn’t a victory for Fili. He didn’t feel _happy_ about it. He felt undeserving of the honour. He was an angry, violent _child._ That was who he was. Thorin wasn’t treating him like a warrior here. He was overcompensating for his previous hardness and ignorance and he was treating Fili as though he was a baby. It was painful and embarrassing. He did this to keep Fili beside him. He did this to keep Fili away from _Ori._ He clenched his teeth and screwed his eyes tightly shut.

And he knew, with the toy in his pocket and his shaved beard, with the anger rushing in his hears and tears of hatred and rage pushing at his eyes, that Fili would _never_ be truly deserving of the place where he now slept.

* * *

It was mid-afternoon when Kili accepted that sleep was not coming to him, not that day. He sat up slowly, curled on his side, splayed hands pressed into the earth as he looked around him. Everybody seemed asleep, save for the watch, sitting on the edge of the tree-shade with his back to Kili. Somewhere, far away, a bird tweeted.

It was a struggle to stand up and pick his way through the huddled mass of bodies without treading on limbs or kicking against ribs, but Kili made it in the end. He shuffled quietly, thinking his movement went unnoticed by all. He left his pack and his weapons, left his warg sleeping, crossing the grass beneath a heavy grey sky scowling with the promise of rain. He wasn’t running away. He knew he wouldn’t make it far before being caught, either by Azog and his company or by some other band or goblins infesting the wilderland, catching the mark on his wrist and delivering him straight back into the orc king’s hands.

That was a lie. An utter lie. He didn’t remain because he couldn’t run away. He remained because _he had nowhere else to go._ He couldn’t go back to his family. If Thorin saw him now, if he saw what had become of his nephew, living alongside a pack of orcs, speaking and eating as though he was _one of them_ , he would never, ever live down the shame. Kili insulted his family name more and more with each passing day, just by surviving.

And it made Kili’s stomach flare up with a white-hot pain, to think on it. He walked for a few minutes, until he found a little clearing, one that looked at least a little sheltered, sinking to his knees in the grass and digging his fingers into his eyes, gritting his teeth as he tried to ride out the anxiety. He didn’t know what he was supposed to _do_. He was no great foe to Azog or the goblins, he couldn’t fight them and win. Perhaps he should have sought an honourable death earlier, before he got sick, before he had his arm broken, when it became clear to him that he was on his own.

How could that be the option? Kili threaded his fingers through his hair, tugging down hard. Needles of pain dug into his scalp. Surely Thorin wouldn’t have ever wanted him to _die._ He cared so much for Kili. Even as a poor second to Fili, Thorin still cared.

_Why did you do this._

Kili didn’t know how or why, but having the goblin die by his hand, having his fingers stained with black and listening to him gasp for air, feeling the chest quiver and limbs jerk beneath him, having the heartsick rush of adrenaline in his chest explode, and ebb away, drenched in cold fear, enduring the pain of Azog’s beating in silence as he bit on his lip until the blood flowed, listening to his taunts, rebuffing the attentions of the only orc who seemed to give a fig for him, it brought all of this anxiety and fear about Thorin back, screaming in his face. He realised that afternoon, lying on his side and biting back whimpers of pain, how he had already changed, without realising it. He was a murderer. An unrepentant murderer.

He was sick with self-loathing. _He didn’t want to do this._ He could feel himself slipping away and he couldn’t hold on. Kili was infected already, a black sickness that rotted him from the inside out. He felt cold and helpless and he knew he couldn’t save himself. He couldn’t be saved.

 _“Damn you Thorin!”_ Kili clenched his hands into fists and fought back sobs. He bowed his head, heart pounding in his throat and making him nauseous. “I _hate_ you!” He couldn’t stop the words from coming out of his mouth and as soon as they broke through his lips he tried to regret them. He tried and failed. Because he _meant_ it, there and then, in the pain and the horror of what he had done that day, as he looked inside himself and realised that he was beyond any ounce of help or salvation. He looked beyond the bitterness and anger and as he imagined Thorin’s face in his mind and his chest constricted in a white-hot pain that ran stronger and deeper than anything he felt before, he knew that he hated Thorin.

“I hate you.” Kili whispered. He clasped his hands in his lap. “I hate you.” It was a cool wet cloth on a searing burn. He felt the boiling rage within him start to dim. How _strange_ , that the acceptance of this hatred somehow managed to quell his anger. “I _hate_ you.” He spat the words out, his voice rising in anger. How could he feel loyalty towards somebody who _left him to die,_ at the hands of such a monster? How could Kili be _expected_ to carry on his kinship and devotion towards those who had doomed him?

He _couldn’t._

It was a terrible thought but at the same time, it poured more cold water on his raging inner fire. It was soothing because he was no longer dashing his brains out on a stone wall. It wasn’t futile ideals that simply got him hurt – it was fighting _back_. It was a way out for him.

_They have given up on me. And I need to give up on them._

Kili rested his forehead on clasped hands. Thorin obviously thought Kili’s life worthless – but Kili would be damned if he _ever_ thought the same. He was worth more than this. He was. He had fought his entire life to prove his strength and honour and he had always fallen short. So why should he value his blood and identity above survival? Why should he try to preserve his humanity at the risk of his own life? How could he be expected to retain his honour, when he lived amongst those who had none?

Why should he hold on, when they had already let go?


	29. Rattling the Cage

Kili dreamed that he was on a ship.

Which was _strange_ , because he had never been on a ship before in his life. But here he was in this dream, standing on the deck of a magnificent ship straight from the pages of Ori’s books. It pitched beneath his feet and the waves heaved and Kili fell onto his knees. There was a horrible howling in the air, the sound of an animal, and he couldn’t stand up at all. The ship was sinking, tilting downwards and Kili felt himself starting to slide along the wood. He couldn’t see anybody else. He was alone, on a ghost ship, and though he screamed and scrabbled about, nobody could hear him. The water rushed, the ship sank and he couldn’t grab a hold of anything. His fingers slid on the damp wood, refusing to yield to his hand. Kili screamed, his voice hoarse in his throat, screaming for help as the water rushed at his feet. The deck tilted even further, he slipped into the rushing water, cold as ice and pitch-black.

As Kili’s head dipped below the surface, he was jerked awake by a hand on his shoulder.

“C’mon. Up.” The goblin bent down to mutter in his ear, before shaking the creature next to Kili awake. “You too.” Kili groaned, rubbing his eyes as he slowly sat up. He blinked against the dim light, trying to shake the dream from his head. It was so _strange_. He tried not to think on it however, as he accepted a bowl of broth pushed into his chest. He’d given up on deciphering his dreams. Kili angled the bowl to his lips, not bothering with a spoon as he tilted his head and let the hot liquid pour down his throat. It was nasty, thin stuff, but it made his stomach burn with a new fire, the rush of heat beading his forehead with sweat. Kili lay back down for some minutes, as though he could reclaim his sleep, but eventually he gave up and rose to his feet.

The camp was filled with life as Kili made his way to the fire. Forty goblins (and their wargs) required a lot of looking after, and it was always a flurry of activity as they readied themselves for the days’ march. Everybody had to be fed, things had to be packed away, weapons tested and sharpened.

“Dhaka.” Kili held out his empty bowl to the goblin beside the fire. “It tasted like piss.” Dhaka glared up at him, snatching the bowl from Kili’s hand with a snarl.

“I’ll season it with your fingers next time, _thrug.”_ He spat on the dirt. Kili grabbed the front of shirt, crouching in the leaves as he clenched his good hand into a fist.

“Or your teeth.” His own were bared in a low growl, looking very white in a face streaked with dirt. Dhaka was silent for a long moment, his yellow eyes burning into Kili as he sneered at him. It was several moments before the snarl broke and Kili shook his head, releasing his hold on Dhaka with a low chuckle. “It is vile though.”

“Oh, I know.” Dhaka snorted. “Seconds?” He held out a half-full bowl to the dwarf. Something pale and greasy and possibly half-rotten floated on the surface.

“Beats nothing.” Kili inclined his head in a short nod, taking the bowl and downing it in a single gulp. “Ugh.” He shuddered. “I take that back. It tastes _worse.”_

“Ah, shut it and help me pack this up.” Dhaka gestured at the scattered remnants of breakfast, abandoned by the band of goblins as they readied themselves for the march.

“Are we riding today or is it a walk?” Kili stacked the empty bowls, thrown in a haphazard pile beside the little fire.

“The wargs didn’t eat today so it’s a walk. Stay away from Snaagbûrz, he tried to take a chunk out of my leg this morning.” He pointed at the dark grey warg, curled in the leaf litter and licking at his front paw. “He’s getting hungry.” Dhaka poked at Kili’s side with a smirk, feeling the ribs beneath his skin. “Not that you’re much of a meal.”

“ _Glob._ ” Kili muttered as he threw the empty bowls into a large sack. “There.” He tied it closed, leaving it on the ground for the goblin.

“ _Narnûlubat_ _.”_ Dhaka stamped out the remains of the fire scattering the embers across the damp earth and kicking the dirt over them. Kili helped, watching the dull red fade to black as the life was snuffed out. He arched his back in a long yawn, still sleepy. “ _Bûth_ tonight?”

“Sure.” Kili nodded before returning to his crude bed. He knelt in the ground, rolling his sleeping furs and tying them to the side of his pack. His bow and quiver, filled with newly-shaped arrows, he slung over his back. There was no sting as they thudded on his back, not now. The wounds were healing quickly.

Mirkwood was darker than Kili envisaged. He’d grown up in forests more than caves, spending his childhood climbing and hiding and playing. But this was so different. There wasn’t that green warmth, that life , that the forests held in his homeland. These were dark, impossibly tall, and completely dead. He heard no birdsong, no chirping insects. No bees. The tree-roots on the edge of the path were clustered with pale fungi and slimy, eyeless slugs. A few goblins tried the unfortunate creatures and declared it was better than starving. There were also the eyes, eyes that stared out at them in the darkness. Eyes that he ignored, marching on boldly, because he knew no creature of Mirkwood could be more fearsome than the orc king he travelled with.

But worse than the dead air or the cobwebs that grew over the path or the eyes was the darkness. It was dim, very dim, and Kili’s eyes took hours to adjust to the looming shadows. The light had been choked out from the spreading branches, entwining overhead and trapping them in. There was no sun, not an inch of it. There was no air to blow on Kili’s face. There was no moon to gauge the time and he lost count of the days. All he knew was walking, walking until they could walk no further, and collapsing into the dirt and leaves, aching with hunger, gambling away the hours and falling into a fitful sleep that brought dark, shadowy dreams.

Kili didn’t realise just how true Nazarg’s words were, until he knelt beneath the tree, his back freshly dressed and the blood staining his fingers like ink, and he heard one of them whisper that the ‘dwarf-scum’ was tougher than he looked. That was one glimmer of hope. Kili wasn’t the lowly _snaga_ to be kicked and snarled at and teased. It had changed entirely, the day he killed the goblin who insulted his mother, and took his punishment without screaming. He had been the last to be served his meal, but Kili noticed it was a bigger portion than before. They shared that awful amber liquid with him, thick as oil and rancid, and he had to drink it. It made his stomach glow and limbs tingle and his cheeks redden beneath the streaks of mud. Two days after his beating, Kili brought down a magnificent hart and his hind in the twilight with his best arrows, leaving the fawn to scamper into the growing darkness. After that, he was served his meals with a group of archers and reckoned he was about thirtieth in the line. His share was larger, the fresh-killed venison a nice slice from the rump. Kili learned quickly that it was an important hierarchy, and to get the best and most food, he had to muscle his way in to the front of the line.

They brought him in on their games of _bûth_ , involving bone dice, a wooden cup, and a lot of luck. It was half chance, half skill, and Kili picked it up quickly. Games of chance were forbidden in Ered Luin; dwarves earned their gold through labour and skill, rather than the luck of a card or a die, and their inherent lust for treasure meant most games with monetary stakes ended in bloodshed. But there were illegal rings all the time, usually set up by Nori, and Kili had learned how to gamble. He played first with the other four archers, his arrows being the only thing worth gambling, and he lost six of them before learning the nuances of the game, winning them back with a few other little treasures besides.

Kili beat Dhaka the cook after a week, and found himself fifteenth in line and the owner of a very nice little knife with a bone handle.

Nazarg was different. He had been different, ever since he knelt in the earth beside Kili and tended to his back and received only cold mutters in response. Kili didn’t want or need a shoulder to cry on, or a protector. He needed people to push around, to dominate and to outwit. Nazarg was none of those things and Kili didn’t know what to say to him when he sat hunched over, feeling Nazarg’s hands on his broken skin. The orc himself had gone quiet; he had a natural affinity towards those who were desperate and broken and ill. Kili had plastered over his weaknesses, wearing a cold, coarse mask of dominance, and Nazarg knew he would never break it.

Kili’s air of cruelty fooled everybody except Azog. The dwarf looked into Azog’s eyes and he saw the lip curl in a smirk, and he knew that Azog still thought him as a weak, pliable creature that was bent entirely towards his will. It infuriated Kili, because he knew he was still under Azog’s thumb. He never drew special attention to himself, he never disobeyed orders and he jumped to attention whenever Azog uttered his name. Kili was desperate to avoid punishment and he was doing a good job of it. Most goblins were the same position; jostling for respect and power amongst themselves, while firmly in Azog’s command. Kili looked the goblins in the eye and spat curses at them when he lost a hand of _bûth_ , he threatened them and allowed his fingers to drift towards the knife tucked into his waistband, and they shrank away from him.

Only at night, when the darkness pressed in on them and Kili couldn’t see his own hand in front of his face, when the camp died down and the goblin at his side had started snoring, the dwarf would sit up, drawing his knees to his chest and wrapping the furs over his shoulders to counteract the cold. He would sit up and he would think, in that deep quietness, on his kin, wandering beneath the same forest some eighty miles north, on the elf-path Azog didn’t dare to take.

Kili hoped that as the days wore on and he slowly came to terms with his surroundings that his hatred against Thorin would fade. But it didn’t – it grew, as Kili grew blacker and more corrupted, as he learned more of the Black Speech and how to play _bûth_ and _tail_ , a game of carved sticks and a rough grid drawn in the dirt. He grew dirtier and thinner and the marks began to fade into scars, he stopped whispering a blessing to Mahal before his meals. He grew harsher towards Nardur, kicking at him and snarling when the warg didn’t listen. 

It just seemed _so easy_. It couldn’t be that simple, surely, to drop everything he knew and put on this new skin. To abandon his mother tongue and learn a new language, to hold unspeakable meat in his stomach, to curse and insult, to kill without remorse, to have the dwarvish prayers on his lips fall silent. Kili first thought that it would be completely impossible. That he would rather die than forsake his people. That his identity was shod with iron and would never, ever break.

But it wasn’t.

He sat awake in the darkness and realised that his ties to his people were fading. He tried to whisper to himself in Khuzdul _and he was already forgetting the words._ He was losing himself, he was becoming less of a dwarf with each passing day, and there was nothing he could do about it if he wanted to survive. He wasn’t going to die, he wasn’t going to become a broken, empty husk. He was going to live and he was going to be strong, he was going to endure. And he was enduring. Kili was rough and hard and mean – but he was alive and _nothing_ was more important than that.

That was what he told himself as he set off on the dim forest path, an orc-knife in his belt and a warg at his side.

* * *

“Do you think it’s dawn yet?”

“Ugh, maybe. There’s been a tree-root in my back. Didn’t get a wink of sleep, you know.”

“Let’s just get up. We can get a start on breakfast.”

“Tch. What little there is of it.”

Fili kept his eyes closed as he heard the dwarves mutter around him, feigning sleep. At his side, Thorin rose to his feet and pulled on his cloak. He heard Dwalin fiddling with the iron on his hands. His hands clenched into fists underneath his blanket, and he pulled the fabric half an inch over his nose. The air was thick and damp and there was a chill to it, in the early morning.

“Fili – you awake?”

“Let the lad sleep Dwalin.” Fili’s jaw clenched. “He didn’t sleep well last night.”

“He hasn’t slept well _any_ night.” The dwarf rustled around in his pack, looking for his flint. The fire had completely died in the night and the embers were cooling. “Do you hear him shuffling around?”

“Of course I do.” Fili bit on the edge of the blanket at his uncle’s voice. He didn’t realise that his uncle had noticed his trouble sleeping. It was regular now – Fili had gone almost a month without Kili and he couldn’t remember sleeping through a single night. Whether nightmares or insomnia, something had always disturbed his sleep and he didn’t know what to do about it. He didn’t know if he could even do anything. “He’s restless, we all are.”

“Not me, I’m exhausted.” Dwalin heaved a long sigh as he knelt before the dead remains of the fire. “I didn’t realise he had so many nightmares.”

“I didn’t either.” Thorin’s voice was a very low murmur. “I asked Ori last night – he swears he never noticed anything when they – they slept together, but he couldn’t look me in the eye. I think Fili told him to keep quiet.”

“Pretending it’s not going to happen won’t help.” Fili heard Dwalin blow on the fire. “You make any of it out?”

“Yes.” And his voice was so strained, so tense and quiet. “Most of it’s a mumble of ‘no’ and ‘please’ and ‘stop’.” Fili swallowed very hard. He didn’t remember most of his dreams, but those that lingered on the edge of his memory were dark and violent and he wasn’t surprised to hear that he murmured aloud. “He keeps asking for his _Adad.”_

“Mahal, no.” Fili’s chest tightened. _No I don’t why would I do that._ “He hasn’t used – well, he hasn’t used his _name,_ has he?” Fili tried to stifle the violent thudding of his heart.

“Not that I’ve heard.” Fili’s lip was trembling. “I’d wake him if he did.” Dwalin made an odd noise in his throat, almost a sigh, as he built up the tiny fire to at least heat up a little water to warm their aching stomachs. “I don’t know if I should say anything to him. He could be embarrassed by it.”

“It’s been a week and I don’t think he’s had a solid nights’ sleep since you put him close to us.” Fili was biting on his tongue now, feeling his face grow very hot. “Letting things go unsaid hasn’t worked before and it won’t work again.”

“I asked him Dwalin. I said to him that he could come to me for anything. He could tell me anything, and I wouldn’t think any less of him for it. And he hasn’t said a word.”

“Are you surprised?” There was a sigh, one that didn’t come from Thorin. “He’s trying to be like _you_.” Their voices were very low now, and Fili struggled to hear them over the thudding heartbeat in his ears. “You can tell him it’s okay to blubber about his past and his fears but until you do the same, he’s going to think you’ll consider him weak for doing it.”

“I didn’t say-”

“I _know_ you didn’t.” It was very rude of him to cut over his king, but Dwalin didn’t care. “Tell him about Frerin or Thror. You went to pieces over them.”

“Nobody else knows that Dwalin.” Thorin’s voice was a whisper. “Only you and Balin. Not even Dís. I had dried my eyes by the time we returned to Dunland.”

“Fili should.” The blonde held his breath. “He’s embarrassed about how he reacted to Kili’s death. If he knew you cried for days-”

“ _Enough_ Dwalin.” Thorin’s voice deepened into a growl. “That was different. Very, very different. I _killed_ Frerin, you can’t begin to-”

“Thorin, you didn’t kill him-”

“I _did._ ” And there was a cold finality in his voice. Fili kept his ears tuned very sharply, not wanting to miss a word. He had never heard Thorin speak a single word about his brother. Dís had a few stories, but it hurt her too much to tell them more than once, and whenever Fili or Kili asked about the uncle who had died so long before, Thorin would turn white and look away. Several moments of silence stretched between them, stiff and painful, until Fili heard his uncle’s chest heave in a long, deep sigh. “How’s the water coming along?”

“Getting there.” Balin checked the dented little kettle. “Thorin, I-”

“I have a little black tea left in my pack somewhere.” Thorin’s brusque voice rose a little in the dim grey light. “There should be enough for us all to have one last brew.” Fili knew that there wasn’t going to be anything else passing Thorin’s lips that morning. He waited a few minutes until a few other bodies started moving before he rolled over on to his back, shuffling a little in his blanket as he pretended to slowly and sleepily wake up.

“Morning.” He flashed Dwalin a tentative smile as he scratched at the rasp of stubble on his face, coarse as sandpaper beneath his hand. “I smell something good.”

“Just tea.” Thorin sat beside him, cross-legged, staring into the fire and beyond it, steeped in memories of blood and flashing steel and screams of pain. “Give it a mo’ and we can wash down our breakfast with it.”

“It’ll be a poor breakfast.” Bombur warned, snuffling through his pack. “We’re starting to get low on food. I expected we’d get through this forest faster.”

“So did I.” Balin murmured thoughtfully, combing his fingers through his beard. “If only the dratted elves thought to mark the trees, we could know how far through we are.”

“We must be at the enchanted river soon.” Dwalin muttered, poking at the fire. “How many miles after that? Thirty? Forty?”

“Beorn didn’t say.” Balin’s voice was heavy with regret. “And I didn’t think to ask.” Fili listened to the exchange silently, accepting a half-filled mug of weak tea pushed into his hands. “It’s not more than two hundred miles across, the forest. We must be at least half way.”

“We’re far more than halfway through the food.” Bofur murmured darkly, shooting his brother a look. “If only we could hunt something down. Even those little black squirrels are starting to look tasty.”

“There’s enough of these moths flapping about.” Dwalin swiped at one of the last lingering creatures attracted to their fire in the slowly rising light. “We’ll get through fine, lads. Come on Thorin, drink up.” He pressed the dented little cup into Thorin’s hands. The king closed his hands around it, but maintained his quiet stare with the fire. There was very little that could rouse him from the funk brought on by the memory of his brother.

Fili took a gentle sip of his tea as he watched Thorin brood, his cramped stomach warming. He remembered Thorin’s single outburst, the night they brought back Kili’s clothes, the screaming and the tears. How he had fallen silent so quickly, and now there was only a tensing of the jaw, a downward look, when Kili’s name was mentioned. Fili still had to turn his face away and grit his teeth and fight back a rising pressure in his throat. The weeks had done very little to dull the pain of losing his brother. Fili didn’t think there would _ever_ be enough time. He knew there wouldn’t, as he watched Thorin now, staring into the fire with glimmering eyes. He would carry the pain until his dying breath.

It was a slow, poor breakfast, and nobody seemed eager to finish it. They mumbled and poked at the scraps and crumbs, trying to snatch a few more minutes before continuing on the dark and dreary path cut through the wood. Eventually however, Thorin snapped out of his funk, he barked at the company to put on their boots and shovel the last crumbs into their mouths else they would waste what little light they had. His words were met with groans and sighs – not at their king, but at their desolate predicament. Nobody thought of Erebor that morning, least of all Thorin Oakenshield.

“Thorin.” Fili grabbed his uncle by the elbow before he could rise to his feet. He crouched beside him the firelight, his hair looking very golden and eyes very dark. Thorin turned to him, and Fili could see, plainly, that his soul still ached. He had to say something. Fili wasn’t going to be a coward. He had to admit that he heard at least some of their conversation. He had to let Thorin know that he wanted _in._ And Fili knew that simply asking if he was all right would do nothing. He would only be met with a low mutter of ‘fine’ before Thorin turned away. It was exactly what Fili would have done, were he in the same situation. “I heard you and Dwalin this morning.” He swallowed. “Talking.”

“What?” There was a deep frown etched in his forehead. “About what?” He watched Fili’s eyes lower, too stiff and awkward to look him in the eye.

“About Frerin.” He murmured, on the edge of his breath. He felt and heard Thorin tense, rather than seeing it. A sharp intake of breath issued from the figure beside him. “Thorin – you can’t expect me to talk about Kili if you don’t... If you don’t talk to me.” He slowly raised his gaze, their eyes meeting. “It’s not fair.” This was a bond that fell outside of uncle and nephew, of king and heir. Fili was reaching out to him as a kindred soul, one that suffered from an identical pain.

“Fili.” Thorin was slowly shaking his head. “It’s different-”

“It’s _not.”_ Fili hissed, leaning in so nobody else could hear them. “Thorin, you – I – _we_ did this to him. We killed him and it is _exactly_ the same.”

“It is not the same.” Thorin was so firm in this, he was as hard as stone and Fili didn’t know why, he was desperate to understand how things could have been so different to Thorin. All Fili knew was that Frerin was killed by Azog in the battlefield. Nothing more. And short of pushing Frerin in front of the orc king, Fili didn’t know how it could possibly be Thorin’s fault. “It will never be the same.” But he found Fili’s hand and squeezed it. “Not now – I just told everybody that we have to go.” He rose to his feet, turning away from his nephew. They both knew that Fili wasn’t going to let it lie. He was tough and stubborn. Thorin had raised him well – at least in that regard.

“When then?” Fili stood up beside Thorin, wishing desperately that he was just an inch or two taller. “Tonight? Tomorrow? Tuesday? A week from now? You have to tell me  – If Dwalin knows then I have every right.”

“Tonight.” Thorin murmured very softly. At least that gave him the day to think things over. “Tonight Fili, I will tell you everything. And you will understand why it’s so very different. You won’t like me when I’m finished. But you will understand.” Fili was frowning at him.

“I wouldn’t dislike you Thorin.” He argued. “Not ever.”

“I did a terrible thing.” Thorin glanced at Dwalin out of the corner of his eye, aware that everybody else was now ready for the march, and waiting for Thorin and Fili to finish their private conversation. “I just – tonight. I will tell you all tonight.” He broke away from Fili and he wouldn’t look at his nephew again as he stuffed the blanket into his painfully light pack. His hands were shaking and his throat burned with bile. _Mahal_ he didn’t want to do this. He didn’t want to admit his guilt to Fili. He saw already, what would happen. Fili would call him a monster. He wouldn’t understand how Thorin could have done it. Thorin didn’t understand why, either. Not now, as he lingered in black, rotting memory. He had the day to consider how to word it, to shift the guilt from himself. But Thorin knew that there was no absolution from Fili, or anyone, over what he had done.

He had killed his little brother. And Fili would be the last one to forgive him for it.


	30. Corrupt

 “The... The battle was waged in... little-sun? Is that right?”

“Yes. Early in the day.” Azog prodded the dirt with his bone-white finger. “Keep going.”

“Early in the day.” Kili squinted in the dull gloomy light. “Upon the... the slopes of the... mountain?”

“Yes.” Azog watched Kili trace his fingers along the scratching in the dirt. Kili was doing well. He leaned back as little, only half-listening to Kili slowly recite the simple story he had scratched into the dirt, a short exercise in the written form. It was a dull little retelling of some old battle. Azog wasn’t a particularly creative story-teller, and the most gruesome and bloody tales he knew all involved Kili’s family in some way; he knew where to draw the line.

Azog didn’t know whether to be impressed or disgusted with the relative ease Kii seemed to adopt the ways of his people. He thought at first that he could never do it, that it would take weeks to break Kili down to the point where he would give up completely. He thought that he might not even do it, with the time allowed to him. But it had happened, and it almost seemed to happen with very little encouragement from Azog. He had a very, very strong suspicion that somebody else had a hand in it. But when he threatened Nazarg some days ago about Kili’s sudden change in behaviour, the orc pleaded ignorance. Kili didn’t even talk to him anymore, he didn’t know anything. All he did was make sure everybody was fit and healthy enough to ride and march across the wildlands. He didn’t involve himself in orcish politics. He kept to himself. Azog was no fool, he could smell a lie ten leagues off, but Nazarg was one of those crafty orcs who knew how to save his own skin. He wouldn’t admit to anything, and he wouldn’t break under pressure.

It was the death of that vile little goblin that brought this on. Something had snapped inside Kili, and Azog didn’t know what it was. He tried to pick the dwarf apart, but Kili was holding up to him. He met Azog’s gaze firmly, ignored his jeers and asides, pretending at times he didn’t know what the orc king meant. Kili knew Azog was trying to see into his heart and he was doing his best to conceal it. He saw plainly that Kili was still weak and afraid, he knew that the dwarf was his, completely. There was no attempt on Kili’s part to break free from Azog – but he had obviously realised – _or been told_ – that he could be as cruel and cold as he liked to the goblins of their retinue.

And he let it happen. Azog let it happen _because it worked so perfectly_.  He knew he could take Kili’s heart and blacken it, he knew he could turn Kili into a creature of darkness – but he never thought Kili would earn their respect, especially in such a violent, bloody manner. Sometimes, when he watched Kili argue a game or hash out a bad bet, he found it almost impossible to believe that it was the same creature he saw several weeks ago, shaking with terror on the floor of his cave. Kili was almost unrecognisable, both inside and out. And if Azog had noticed the stark change, what would Thorin Oakenshield think of his nephew, when he saw him now? When he saw his little Kili, thin and dirty and scarred, dressed in untreated animal skins with a warg at his side, cursing him in Black Speech?

“And the dead were... left, to the ca-carrion birds.” Kili raised his dark eyes, looking up at Azog for some sort of approval. “Did I get it right?”

“Yes, you were _sriz._ ” Kili tilted his head to one side. “You weren’t bad.” The orc clarified, realising he had never used the word _good_ in front of him before. “No mistakes.” Something glinted in those wide brown eyes. Kili looked almost happy. The beginnings of a smile twitched at his lips and Azog knew that encouraging the dwarf would draw him in closer than ever before. Along with his identity and pride and honour, Kili had lost his uncle, his mentor, his father-figure. There was no Thorin to guide him; there was a hole in his heart and Azog could see so very plainly, in the way Kili looked at him for approval, the way his eyes shone when Azog complimented him, that _he could possibly fill it._ “You’re not as stupid as I thought.”

“Oh. _Narnûlubat._ ” Kili swallowed, watching Azog’s lips twist in a smile. “Did you want anything else?” He sat with his legs crossed, arms loose and relaxed, resting his broken arm resting on his knee. Azog was drawing circles in the dirt with his sharp little stick, thinking for several moments. “Azog?”

“Your father.” Kili sat very still, eyes fixated on Azog as he let the stick fall to the earth, looking up. “You _really_ don’t know anything about him?”

“I – What does that have to do with anything?” Kili sounded sharp. Defensive. His shoulders tensed and Azog watched his eyes flick to the side, looking out for eavesdroppers. But they were alone, out of earshot, and nobody looked their way in the dim light.

“So you don’t.” Azog gave him a measured, level stare. “Your brother doesn’t look much like you.” Kili’s face had gone very pale beneath the dirt.

“I’m not a bastard.” Kili’s voice was low and trembling “I know you’re trying to say I am – I’m _not_.” Azog watched his knuckles whiten, clenched on the fabric of his tattered pants. “ _Amad_ was married, he... just died before I was born.”

“What was his name?” Something flinched in Kili’s face, he looked away and bit down very hard on his lip. “It should be on her _naakh_.”

“There was an accident.” He muttered stiffly, eyes fixed on his hands. “It’s gone.”

“An accident.” Azog repeated flatly, not believing it for a single moment. “And no one will give you his name.” He shook his head, slowly. Azog watched Kili’s throat tighten as he swallowed. He wanted to drag Kili’s insecurities out of him, wanted to make the dwarf feel bitter and angry after a lifetime of lies and secrets. “What about your brother. Does he know the truth?”

“He won’t tell me anything.” Azog watched the dwarf lift his gaze, pushing a handful of ratty, tangled hair out of his dark eyes. The thought of his brother soured Kili. Fili knew so much more than he _ever_ let on. Kili had sat up at night and listened to the nightmares, had held his older brother down in bed as he kicked and lashed out and screamed as a child, biting and tearing at his hair in violent dream-memories that he never seemed to remember when he awoke in the dawn.  The night terrors faded with age, dying away into soft murmurs and the twitching of closed eyelids but Kili still slept with his head on his brother’s shoulder. Kili’s presence seemed to keep the nightmares at bay. “No one will.” Kili’s face was drawn and tight, shoulders hunched over as he leaned ever so slightly forward. Curling in on himself. The secrets and memories were bound tightly, locked away hidden from view and Kili would never see them. “But I’m _not_ a bastard.” Kili closed his mind to the possibility. He was never treated as an illegitimate child. He had all the rights Fili had – at least, he _thought_ he did. 

“And who swears this? The ones who lied to you and left you to die?” Kili’s head snapped up, eyes wide. “Surely you can’t trust a single word that comes from their lips. Not now. Not after-”

“ _Stop it.”_ Kili shook his head, fingers tangled in his hair. “Stop – trying to make me _hate_ them.” Azog watched the dwarf, still and very silent. Kili’s teeth were gritted, voice low and trembling. “I won’t – I can’t – not ever.” The words came out in a broken jumble. But they were weak and false and there wasn’t an ounce of conviction in them. Kili’s eyes glistened. He was cold and helpless.

“You’re very loyal.” Azog sneered, leaning in. “Most would have given up hope by now. They’re _never_ coming for you Kili. Your brother isn’t going to save you. Thorin isn’t going to burst through the trees and rescue you. You’re completely alone. _Why_ do you waste your breath defending them, after what they have done to you?”

“I said _stop!”_ Kili’s good arm flew through the air, but Azog caught it easily, his bone-white fingers closing tightly around Kili’s skinny wrist. The breath died in his throat, terror freezing his chest as Kili slowly realised what he had done. What he tried to do to him. He tried to prise Azog’s hand away with the trembling fingers of his broken arm. “Let me go.” Kili hissed, humiliated. He was humiliated because he _already_ gave up on them. He hated Thorin, he had for a long time now, as they ventured deeper and deeper into the dark wood. His heart grew cold towards Fili. The one who let go of him. He didn’t think on his brother with any degree of warmth and light – not now. And he _couldn’t_ let Azog know that.

But he did know. Kili looked up at Azog, watching his lips twitch, not in a scowl of anger, but in a smirk of amusement. The colour drained from Kili’s face and he swallowed back a cry as he realised that Azog read Kili’s bleeding heart like an open book. Azog was _baiting_ him, with his sneers and jibes and insinuations. He was trying to get inside Kili’s head and Kili had thrown the door and invited him inside. Azog knew how to control him. His head slumped forward, his forehead pressed against Azog’s fingers as his hands shook.

“You know I hate them.” Kili’s voice was muffled and Azog knew the dwarf was crying. Azog’s hand, binding Kili’s wrist so tightly, began to grow slack. “You know I’ve given up.” A trail of salt water began to make its way down Azog’s forearm, leaking into the crook of his elbow. _“Why –_ why do you make me pretend-” Kili struggled to speak. The hand bound in black iron began to slip, the hammered metal cold against Azog’s skin as Kili’s arm sank to the ground. “What do you want from me?” He whispered, _clinging_ to the orc-king with his good hand.

Azog didn’t speak at first. He disentangled his hand slowly from Kili’s trembling grasp, the dwarf’s fingers slick from his own tears. This index finger lingered on Kili’s wrist for a moment, feeling the raised bump of scarred skin quiver at his touch. Kili screwed up his face, expecting some sort of blow, for speaking out of line, for addressing Azog so rudely. But his eyes opened in surprise as Azog took his bony jaw in his monstrous hand, easily grasping his dirty cheeks between thumb and forefinger. His wide eyes reflected a glimmer of distant firelight, tear-tracks shining through the smears of earth. Kili never had a chance.

“What would you do?” Kili’s breath was ragged and shallow, through parted lips. “If I let you walk free, right now, what would you do?” Azog watched as Kili’s chest began to heave and he knew Kili would never lie to him, would never hide his heart. Not from Azog. His grip around Kili’s heart was as cold and unyielding as stone. “Would you go back to them?” He watched Kili’s eyes welled up; he blinked and the silver tracks down his face brightened.

“I can never go back.” The words were a whisper, punctuated with keening gasps for air. Kili’s words were his own condemnation. They tore at his heart, they left him dizzy and sick and he couldn’t stop the earth spinning beneath him. It was _true_. Kili knew he was beyond any redemption, any salvation that his kin could offer him. He was too blackened, too dark and corrupt, to be saved. He had murdered. He had eaten of his own people. He had learned the black tongue. “I can’t – I can’t _ever_ see them.” Kili would exile himself before showing Thorin and Fili what had become of him. He would rather they kept a pure memory of their nephew and broher. He couldn’t tarnish it with this new black, poisonous picture. But that wasn’t what Azog had in mind. He kept him alive for a reason and with each passing day, as they grew closer and closer to the edge of the forest, as they covered more ground on their monstrous beasts while Thorin’s company would have stumbled on their weary feet, as Kili curdled like a cup of old milk, as the goblin’s grew hungrier and more desperate, Azog’s lust after his prize grew. He would have Thorin’s heart and he would crush it in his hand.

“Surely they deserve to see what they have done?” Their faces were so close. Kili closed his eyes as the stale breath washed over his face, stomach turning within him. “Don’t you want them to _suffer,_ Kili?” His hand tightened on the dwarf’s angular jaw; Kili was forced to open his eyes and look on the one who held him so tightly. Azog’s face was blank and controlled, refusing to crack in either a smile or a leer. Azog watched Kili’s own expression tighten, watched him slowly digest Azog’s cruel proposition. He was tired, cold, hungry, and so _very_ angry. Kili blinked again, leaking bitter tears that oozed along the healing scar on his cheek. Because he _did_. He wanted them to suffer. He wanted to see Thorin’s face contort in anguish, he wanted to hear Fili screaming in pain and it made him sick, to hunger after something so dark and violent. Because for a fleeting moment, he thought it was worth it to destroy his name and his memory, to see the pain that Kili had endured reflected in his brother’s eyes.

“Yes.” Kili was limp. Azog was holding him up by the jaw and as he let him go, Kili slumped forward, the orc-king resting a hand on his collarbone to support him. His fingers closed over Kili’s shoulder, squeezing in a tight mock-embrace. He kept the smile hidden as Kili held onto his arm and refused to let go. He clung to the bond Azog had fostered between them, terrified of loneliness.

“You don’t have to share their fate.” He felt the dwarf tense, heard the breath hitch in Kili’s throat and saw him slowly lift his head. “You’re a good shot Kili. You get along with the others. You have a place here.” Because that was what it was all about, wasn’t it? It was instinct which had driven him so far along. The will to survive, to endure everything that befell him, it had battled with his integrity and pride and it won. Kili fought to return to the love and kinship of his kind. But now, there was nothing left. The ropes were severed, only fraying threads remained, that tied Kili to his people. Azog knew him, inside and out. And he knew that what Kili craved above all else, above any sense of honour, was to truly _belong_ somewhere. The skinny beardless archer who had no father, who was so obviously unlike any other dwarf Azog had the displeasure to come across, battled a life-long fear of being alone. And if Azog was going to take his family away from him, was going to have Kili declare blood against his uncle, then he had to offer him something else.  

“I don’t –” Kili fell silent as he looked Azog in the eye. He expected a cold, mocking stare, but he looked completely serious. He refused to nurture the hope. He had been living under a death sentence for so long. His impending doom, it lingered in the back of his mind, dark and rotten, cramping his heart with fear. He was never anything more than a puppet, a toy. Something for Azog to play with and manipulate. _He couldn’t mean it._

_Could he?_

Kili scoured his blank white face, searching for a crack in the smooth marble. Distrust coiled inside of him and he didn’t dare to believe it. His hand around Azog’s wrist was tighter than ever. It had to be a lie. _It couldn’t be true_.

“I thought for a long time you were weak and stupid.” Kili watched him speak, the words almost drowned out by the thrum of his heart beating in his head. “I thought you were dead weight.” Azog’s lip curled, upwards. “But it was only fear and pain holding you back.” He was lying _he had to be lying_. Kili wanted so desperately to believe it. “You’re smarter than most of those brutes and you’re certainly the best with a bow. Nobody doubts you have guts Kili. You’ve scared the rest into respecting you.” Kili swallowed hard, trying to fight the nausea in his chest. _Azog wasn’t saying this he wasn’t._ “You don’t have to die alongside those who abandoned you. You can stay Kili. With us.” Kili screwed up his eyes and gritted his teeth, feeling as though he was going to be sick. It was so _cruel_ of Azog, to force such an awful, awful decision upon him, to sit back and watch him wrestle with his soul, to expect an answer beneath the trees. Evening was coming on, the air darkened slowly and Azog started to fade before Kili, a white ghost in the gloom, who sat in silence, not trusting himself to speak. And Azog waited patiently, not letting go of his shoulder.

“What choice do I have?” They both knew what Kili would do. They always knew. As soon as Azog mentioned that he didn’t have to die, they both knew that Kili would choose them. He had fought for too long, had endured too much, to simply give up on his life, tattered and dirty and corrupted as it was. Kili tried to believe Azog. He _wanted_ to.

And for a moment there, in the dying, grey light, with the orc-king holding on to him as a smile twitched at his lip, Kili believed every word of it.

* * *

“Hear that?”

Ori was at the back of the pack, with Bilbo and Bofur. They walked a little ways behind the rest – Ori had fallen behind, isolating himself from his kin, and Bilbo, thinking the young dwarf tired, fell into step beside him. Bofur could tell his misery from a mile away, doing his best to bring the shadow of a smile to Ori’s slack lips. But while the other two kept up a low, forced chatter between themselves, Ori remained glum and silent. He didn’t have anything to say to anybody, hungry and tired and humiliated. It had been a week and Nori was yet to say a word to him.

“Hm?” Bofur broke off mid-sentence, noticing that Ori had stopped short in his stumbling walk, head cocked. “Ori? What is it?” The back half of the company paused at Bofur’s tone.

“Water.” Ori was frowning. The others hadn’t heard it over their soft patter of speech, but Ori did, in his silence. Thorin stopped. Ori held his breath and screwed up his eyes, listening for the sound of gushing water. It was the faintest whisper, and he wasn’t surprised the older dwarves couldn’t hear it, slowly deafening from age, and decades in the mines and forges. “The stream!” Fili ran on ahead, jogging lightly through the gloom. The others saw the golden mop of hair, looking very dark in the gloom, grow smaller and fainter until it almost disappeared altogether, and only Bilbo could make out his figure.

“It’s here!” Fili cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, but he wasn’t sure if anybody could even hear him. He crouched at the edge of the stream, and waited. It was narrow, but very, very fast-moving. The water looked black and there was no bridge, only rotting posts. Fili leaned over and tried to make out the dim shadow on the other side.

“What do you see?” Coming up to his side, Thorin squinted, but could make nothing out in this light. “Of course there’s no bridge. More’s the pity.”

“Bilbo, come here.” Fili grasped the edge of the bank tightly, leaning dangerously far over the water. “Your eyes are sharper than ours. See that?” He pointed, tilting forward, and Thorin grabbed the back of his cloak, reeling him in.

“Ye-es.” Bilbo leaned forward, hands on his knees as he screwed up his eyes. “It’s a boat!” He brightened, turning to the others with a smile. “What luck.”

“It would be luckier if it were on this side.” Thorin muttered. “How are we going to get it back? We can’t swim across and none of us are long-limbed enough to jump those posts.”

“How is attached to the side?” Ori peered through the gloom, brushing his hair out of his eyes. “Perhaps we could fish it out.”

“Actually,” Bilbo peered at the dim shape, wondering. “That could work. We just need something to fashion into a hook.”

“I know what will work.” Bofur threw his pack on the ground, fiddling with the strap. It was fixed together with a large iron hook. “Give me a bit of rope.” He bound the rope to the hook from his pack, handing it over to Thorin. “Should hold fine. It’s good rope that Beorn gave us.”

“Fili, you’ve got the best sight next to Bilbo.” Thorin handed his nephew the hook. “I can’t even see this blasted boat. You try.”

“All right.” Fili crouched on the edge of the bank, gauging the direction and distance. “How far do you think Bilbo? Twenty yards?”

“More like twelve.” Bilbo knelt on the dirt beside him. “Don’t throw it too far – yes! Pull slowly and hopefully it will catch.” The iron hook caught on the edge of the boat, and Fili pulled. The boat moved slowly across the water, impeded by the heavy current, but soon Fili dragged the damp wood out of the stream, the dwarves crowding around the tiny boat and knocking on the planks, testing its strength.

“Looks like it’s made for two or three elves, but four of us should fit in a pinch.” Thorin didn’t want to linger at the enchanted stream; the black waters rushed below him, cold and threatening. “We need a guide rope to get across – Fili, throw that hook into the trees.” The blonde obeyed, pulling on the rope with all the strength he could muster.

“It’s tight.” He panted. “Must have caught on a branch.”

“Good.” Thorin fished another rope from his pack, tying it around an iron ring on the prow of the tiny craft. “This will do nicely. Fili, you go with Bilbo and Balin and Dwalin. Then Oin, Gloin, Bifur and Bofur, then Dori Nori and Ori, then I’ll come across with Bombur.”

“Are you sure you want to go last?” Dwalin asked. “I can go, or Balin.”

“No.” Thorin shook his head. “You all need to get across first.” In the same way he had been the last to disappear into the caves in Bruinen, Thorin was going to be the last in the boat, to see his company cross the river safely.

It was a shaky little craft, bobbing dangerously low in the water under the weight of four dwarves and their packs, thin and light though they were. But eventually the entire company, save Bombur and Thorin, made their slow way across the stream. Bombur grumbled as he clambered into the boat about always being the last, Thorin shouldering his pack and grasping the edge of the little boat very, very tightly. He took the rope, pulling slowly, hand over hand, as he made his way across the stream. He was almost to the other side when the worst happened.

The rope gave out. Whether the knot was not properly tied, or the branch bearing the hook snapped, it was never known. But the taut rope in Thorin’s hands suddenly went slack, he pitched forward under the sudden lack of pressure, the boat bobbing up and down in the strong current. The others shouted and threw a rope towards them, Bombur grasping the rope and heaving the boat to a standstill. It lurched horribly, and while Bombur was secure enough in the boat under his immense weight, the unsteady pitching of the boat threw Thorin off his feet, and into the rushing waters.

“ _No!”_ Fili almost threw himself into the stream, Dwalin and Dori having to pull him back and receiving a good number of bites and scratches for their efforts. “ _Thorin no!”_ With the rope around his wrist, Bombur reached out and managed to snag the edge of Thorin’s pack. A dark head bobbed in the water, and as Bombur hauled Thorin half into the boat one-handed while the company pulled, they could all see their king still and unmoving. Fili was fighting against Dori and Dwalin, screaming, but they didn’t let him go as the boat was dragged to shore, Balin and Bofur swarming the little craft, carrying Thorin up the bank while Bombur clung to dry land, shaking with panic. The pair finally released their hold when Balin stretched Thorin out on the dirt, peeling a wet curtain of hair from his face.

“ _No!”_ Fili threw himself at the ground beside his uncle, pressing his hand to Thorin’s cheek. “No _please-”_

“He’s gone.” Balin’s voice trembled. Thorin’s face was still, chest rising and falling in long, slow breaths. Fili was shaking Thorin’s shoulder desperately, calling into his face as though he could rouse the dwarf from his enchanted sleep. “Leave off lad.” He took Fili’s elbow, pulling him gently back. “You’re not going to wake him.”

“No...” Fili whispered. “Thorin _no you can’t leave me._ ” His breath was a panicked gasp. Dwalin crouched beside him, grasping his shoulders.

“He’s not dead Fili. He’ll wake up soon enough.” But he shot his older brother a dark look. None knew how long the enchantment would last. Balin only gave an almost imperceptible shrug of his shoulders, a small, sad smile that Fili didn’t see. “Come now, we’ll get a litter lashed together.” Dwalin’s mouth was a thin, hard line and his tone very grim. Of all the people to fall into the river, to be lost to an enchanted sleep – to have it their _king_ , it left a very bitter taste in Dwalin’s mouth and he inwardly cursed their horrible luck. “We can take turns carrying him, two at a time, and share the packs.” Fili pulled free from both of them, kneeling beside his uncle in the earth, winding his shaking fingers into Thorin’s hair.

“He will wake.” Balin was peeling off Thorin’s soaking clothes, leaving him in his tunic. He took off his own brown robe, pulling the weather-stained cloth up to his king’s chin. “It’s not going to last forever.” At his side, Dwalin wrung out Thorin’s sopping furs while Fili clung to his uncle, dumb in shock and unable to mask the trembling of his mouth. “We’ll manage without him for a little while.”

“No I _can’t._ ” Fili whispered, pulling on Thorin’s hair, as though he could wake him. “Uncle please–”

“Easy, Fili.” Balin took the blonde’s hands, carefully disentangling them from Thorin’s soaked tangles. _It’s not it’s not_ – how could they say that to him? Fili gritted his teeth and closed his eyes as the familiar sting welled within him. This was as far from all right as they could _possibly_ be. But the blonde held his tongue as Balin look his hands, fingers closing around his palms. Fili’s gaze slowly rose, from that slumbering face on the grass on the grass, to Balin’s faded blue eyes, slowly crinkling in a smile. “Deep breaths, lad.” Balin instructed, squeezing Fili’s hands, trying to comfort him. But it wasn’t working. Fili couldn’t breathe, the sick panic and fear was rising and he was going to scream at them all, in a moment. _This was not all right._  He lost Kili, he lost Kili and he completely fell apart and now he had lost Thorin too. _He was alone_ and Mahal he couldn’t do it, he couldn’t be alone.

“Thorin said he would never leave me.” It was the lowest possible whisper, almost silent from his trembling lips. Fili bit down hard and shook his head. Balin watched in silence, gaze flickering to his brother, crouched behind Fili. Dwalin shrugged at him. He looked helpless.

“Fili.” The only way to do this, the only way to have Fili respond to him, was to be firm. Balin ached to do it but leaving it alone, leaving Fili to withdraw inwards and sicken himself, it would only lead to bitter darkness and hate, another fight, another exhausting search that nobody had the energy for. “Look at me.” Their eyes met and Balin wasn’t smiling anymore. His voice was very low. “Hold yourself together. You can do this.”

“Balin-”

“With the king unable to act, it falls to the prince to lead us out of this cursed forest.” Balin cut over him. Fili’s eyes widened in slow realisation, the blood draining from his face.  “Yes Fili.”

“No.” The words stumbled over his quivering lips. “Balin you’re the second in command – it’s your job-”

“It is _my_ job to advise.” Beside them, Dwalin slowly lifted the still form onto a litter of branches and knotted rags. “It is _yours_ to lead.” Fili turned quickly, gold hair flying as he grabbed Dwalin’s elbow.

“It’s not – Dwalin he’s being ridiculous. _Tell_ him that he’s second I can’t-”

“Keep your voice down, Fili.” Dwalin shot his brother a dark look, carefully tucking the cloak under Thorin’s still limbs. Fili withdrew, trying to clear his head. This wasn’t making sense. _How could anybody think him fit to lead, after what he had done?_ He had proven, so obviously and painfully, that he wasn’t ready for this. He had proven that he was too young, too angry and violent and dependent on his brother. He had torn off the paper-thin facade of courage and pride and strength, had shown to them all the frightened child that lingered beneath. But Balin and Dwalin, they both looked at him with blank, even expressions. They had pulled themselves together so quickly, had absorbed the shock of Thorin’s enchantment in _seconds_ , while Fili’s eyes were still wet and his hands would not stop shaking. How could they for one moment think that Fili was a better fit?

“You’ve talked about this.” Fili whispered, feeling oddly dull as the revelation slowly crept up on him. “You’ve talked about what would happen if – if Thorin _goes._ ”

“Of course we have.” Balin took Thorin’s damp clothes, idly wondering how he could spread them out to dry. It would have to wait until tonight, by the warmth of their little fire. He emptied out his own pack, not wanting to wet his own things, and began stuffing it with Thorin’s damp robes and furs. “We’ll look out for you Fili, but we’re not going to fill your shoes.”

“But what has he said since... since we lost Kili?” Fili’s eyes were pulled downwards, to his shaking hands. “Look at what’s happened – I went to pieces.”

“He hasn’t said a word about succession since Bag End.” Dwalin said shortly, clapping Fili on the shoulder. “Which means nothing has changed.” _That’s not true._ Fili’s stomach clenched. _Everything_ had changed _._ Thorin had stopped seeing him a warrior and an heir. He was treating Fili like a child, a roaring fire contained in a film of glass. His overbearing attempts to father Fili and make up for decades of that poor contact, they bordered on condescending. “Stand up Fili. We’re all waiting.”

“Waiting for what?” But Fili rose to his feet, he turned and with a start saw the rest of the company before them, some sitting or kneeling in the dirt, but most standing, shouldering their packs and waiting with little shuffles of the feet. Looking at _him._ Fili couldn’t breathe, he felt himself drying out and withering beneath the collective stare of his friends – no, his _subjects_ – waiting for him to speak, to break that awful tense silence with an order or command. And with the blood roaring in his ears, Fili clenched his hands into fists to hide the shaking he cleared his throat and opened his mouth and felt his heart sink further with each word dragged from his reluctant, quivering lips.

“Let’s go then.”


	31. Grey Skin

“Any life left in the fire?”

Dhaka looked up, shaking his head as Kili sank to his knees beside the dead ashes. Breakfast this morning was cold leftovers; there was no need to relight the dead embers and bring those blasted moths back, flapping wildly about their heads.

“ _Urk_ , I’m freezing.” Kili muttered, drawing his arms around folded legs as he poked at the ashes, staining his finger grey. The sleeping-skins were draped over his shoulders, but the skinny limbs that poked out beneath were shivering.

“What are you doing up so early?” For the goblin-cook had taken the last watch that night, the last few hours as absolute darkness finally waned into a grey dawn. It was the vague ending of night, when shadows loomed at them out of the black gloom and it was _worse_ to him, than the empty nothingness that pressed down on his eyes in the middle of the night. Although he wasn’t scared of darkness and the black creatures it hid, after a lifetime of scurrying about in the deep places of earth where light had never touched the stone, these beasts were foreign to him. The goblin took comfort in the fact that the trees had lightened into beeches several days before, and a marker carved into a gnarled old tree suggested there were only thirty miles left.

“Can’t sleep.” Kili pressed his hand into the ashes. It was still warm, doing some good to his ice-cold fingers. “How can it be so cold beneath all of these trees? I don’t understand it.”

“It’s not cold.” Dhaka protested, laying a hand on Kili’s arm. The skin was freezing beneath his hand. “ _Znag,_ Kili. Here.” He handed the dwarf his own tattered blanket, draped loosely over his lap. “I don’t need it.” Kili nodded a silent thanks, wrapping the poorly-woven fabric over his limbs. “We missed you last night. Where did you go? You missed a good round. Moz bet his blade and got twos; he tried to win it back and he lost _everything_ , even the shirt on his back. Shatûl let him have it all back if Moz promised to marry his _skessa_ sister when we return home.” The goblin snickered in remembrance. “Moz said he’d need more than his own things to marry that troll, but he’d have her for a night in return for his clothes. There was almost a fight.”

“When you return home...” Kili murmured, resting his chin on his knees. Dhaka’s quiet laughter fell silent, and he looked over at the dark-haired figure shivering beside him.

“ _Ishi_ I forgot.” The goblin made a face. “You’re not going home.” He didn’t apologise. There was no word for _sorry_ in his mother tongue. But it hung unsaid between them and Kili knew he meant it.

“No.” Kili was staring at the dead remains of the fire. “Do you think he’ll really kill me?” He shifted his gaze slowly, staring out at the dark face in the gloom. “If he’s only using me, if all I am is a tool to get at my uncle, then when he’s won, and he doesn’t need me anymore, what would stop him?”

“I don’t know Kili. _Znag_ don’t ask me that.” There was a hard edge to Dhaka’s voice. “I don’t know. This is _weird_. We haven’t had a dwarf-prisoner run amongst us before. Not like this. I know some of the distant tribes in the Orocani’s used to form alliances with the dwarves to fight the wildmen but that was centuries ago.” He gave a shrug. “I don’t know. I don’t know how he thinks. You’re the one that talks to him the most.”

“I guess I am.” Kili curled in tighter on himself, feeling very, very small. “But – Dhaka if your life was in danger, what would you do to save yourself?”

“In danger how?” He could see Kili a little more clearly as the light slowly grew, the dawn creeping up on them. “Like you?” The dwarf nodded. Dhaka sucked in a breath of air, deep in thought. “Well... I guess I’d do anything. You only get one life and it’s not long enough.”

“Anything is a _lot._ ” Kili couldn’t keep the cold cramp out of his bones, but he had the feeling it wasn’t the chilly morning air that left him shivering. “Azog said he would spare me.” He felt the gobin shift quite suddenly at his side. “That I can stay with him, when everything is over.”

“Well – what are you worried about then?” And Dhaka’s tone was so much lighter. Kili slowly raised his head.

“Do you think he was telling the truth?” Kili watched him pause, mulling the question over before turning to look Kili in the eye.

“Kili – you’re more useful to us alive than dead and nobody would say differently. You’re the only one that can bring down the squirrels. They taste like crap but it certainly beats starving. You wouldn’t be much good to us dead.” He poked at Kili’s side, his sharp little nail digging into the hollow of his ribs. “I couldn’t make a meal fit for more than maybe three or four people with what’s left of you. Besides,” Dhaka shrugged. “He likes you. You’re his _brogbûrzum_.” Kili tilted his head, not understanding. “His favourite.” The goblin clarified.

“I’m not. He only likes me because it amuses him to see how far I’ve fallen.” Kili muttered, the bridge of his nose wrinkling. “Because he’s _so_ damn proud of how he’s managed to turn a son of Durin into... into _this.”_ It was light enough now, to see the scar on his wrist. He turned his arm inward, as though he could hide it. “What happens when he gets bored of me? The...” Kili paused, trying to construct the word. “The new-feeling will wear off and then what will happen to me?”

“If you’re worried about boring him, then keep him interested.” Dhaka suggested. “He’s bored of _us._ We’re not as big and strong as _his_ tribe. We piss him off. As long as he’s with us, you’re fine. He might get bored when he has his own orcs to boss around but so what? Come with us to Goblin-town when it’s all over.”

“I’ve seen what they do to dwarves there, Dhaka.” Kili spoke softly, eyes turned back towards the warm ashes.

“There’s not much dwarf left.” Dhaka said bluntly. “The only thing that’s still the same is the smell.” He groaned, beginning to stand. It was light enough now to start rousing the rest of the retinue from their uneasy sleep. “In my pack, there’s some _bughnrakh-mûz_. Have some.”

“I’ll wait.” A smile stretched across Kili’s lips at the obvious effort to placate him. He wanted desperately to say thank you and it pained him that he couldn’t. Dhaka grunted and turned away from him, approaching the rows of sleeping goblins. Kili sighed and closed his eyes, feeling so very tired. Azog’s words had kept him awake all night, he tossed and turned as he picked them apart, weighed and judged them and tried to distinguish truth from lies. _Did he really mean it?_  Was it possible that he really thought there was a place for Kili, when everything was over?

Did he want to go on, after his brother had died?

 _He’s living without you._ Kili reminded himself. He had packed up and moved on, had abandoned Kili and accepted his loss. Why should Kili be any different?

He was different. He was _so_ different and he knew that he would never be able to sever the cords that bound Fili to his heart. Even though it hurt, it hurt _so much_ , to remember how Fili had abandoned him, Kili knew he could never, ever hate him. He could only grow cold and numb with the thought of his brother. But that was different to hate. That was different to the boiling rage that welled within him as he pictured Thorin’s face. He thought about Fili and he only felt sick and so very cold.

 _There’s not much dwarf left_. Kili recalled the goblin’s words, pulling the fur and fabric tighter around his skinny frame. There wasn’t much of _anything_ left. He’d never been this thin before. The bones stuck out of his wrists like the knots of branches. The pale skin of his neck was stretched over gaping sinew and tendons, his collarbone sharp and protruding as a blade. He was so hungry, so tired and cold. Desperation was pushing him to the brink and he knew that if there was a choice, he would live on as one of _them_ before ending his life. There was no grace to be had in his death, not now. The time had well and truly passed, for Kili to protect his honour.

He kneeled forward, his hand drifting back towards the ashes. _Only the smell._ He remembered something his archery instructor had said, so many, many years ago, when he was a bare-faced dwarrow of forty and had gone with the long-limbed Aldin on a hunting trip in the woods. It was his first time with a moving target. They had taken off their clothes and dragged them through the ashes, had taken handfuls of the soft grey powder and smeared it over their arms and legs and faces. Ashes masked smell, Aldin said. They could get close to the deer, close enough for the novice Kili to get a good shot, and they wouldn’t be sniffed out. 

The blanket and skins fell into the dirt as Kili took a handful of ash, smearing it into his arm above the iron cast. It crushed against his skin, leaving the limb very grey. With his bad arm, Kili coated the good, from fingertip to shoulder, his motions slow and methodical. He did it silently, with an odd breaking in his chest. His heart was beating very fast and he didn’t know quite why.

“Kili?” He looked up to see Nazarg crouching before him. The dwarf paused, swallowed. “Kili _what are you doing?”_

“Ashes mask smell.” His voice was low and dead and Nazarg winced to hear it. “I used to do it sometimes to hunt deer.” He held out his arm towards the orc, the bony limb coated entirely in ash and crushed charcoal. “Smell it. Do I still reek of dwarf?”

“ _What_.” Nazarg pushed his hand away, eyes very wide in his head. “How - where is this coming from?”

“It’s the only thing left.” Kili rubbed a handful of ash against his neck. “Everything else is gone but the smell – I can’t get rid of the smell but if I cover it up then maybe it will help.” He closed his eyes as he smeared ashen fingers across his face.

“This has gone too far.” He tried to lay his hand on Kili’s arm, but the dwarf jerked away. “What, are you going to roll around in the fire every morning?” Nazarg was sick with regret. “I shouldn’t have ever said those things to you. I never – I didn’t think it would come to this.”

“You were right.” Kili crushed another handful of ash against his face, spitting out the grey dust. “If I want to live then I have to – I have to show him how much I mean it.” He lifted his head, opening his eyes. Nazarg’s gaze met his in the dull light. Clumps ash clung to Kili’s eyelashes. His eyes seemed darker than ever, ringed in grey, soot-smeared skin. They were dark and dead. His brown hair was streaked with white. The sparse stubble of his beard was almost lost. Kili didn’t look proud or content as he looked at the orc. He was tormented, desperate. He scrabbled about, reaching desperately for help and no one was there to take his hand.

“Kili-”

“You didn’t answer me.” Ash was strewn about the ground. His arms and face and neck were grey, as grey as stone and his expression was blank. Nazarg stared at him, utterly lost for words. “Does it help with the smell?” The orc’s mouth hung open, and it was several moments before he could bring himself to speak.

“Yes... Yes it does help.”

* * *

“Eat lad.”

Fili blinked as Dwalin wrapped his hands around a lump of something. He had already eaten a very scrappy dinner followed by a few mouthfuls of warm, stale water. He parted his fingers, finding half an oatcake in his palm. His blue eyes started upwards, widening.

“Are you – Dwalin aren’t you hungry?”

“I’ll be all right.” Dwalin waved him off. “You look haunted Fili. Eat.” The blonde nibbled, very tentatively at the stale bit of biscuit, eyes down at the dirt. Fili sat on his bed at the outside of the little fire, rejecting the warmth and light that the rest basked in. Thorin lay with his head in his lap, his raven-black hair spread over Fili’s legs. He had been combing his fingers through it absentmindedly, trying to work out the tangles. Fili was steeped in thick, heavy memory and he could feel his own warmth leaking out of his heart. He was _so scared_ that Thorin would never wake. “You did well today.” Dwalin spoke up after a few minutes of soft, chewing silence.

“No I didn’t.” Fili muttered. “Dwalin – I collapsed. I fell to pieces. I _cried_. Leaders are supposed to pull together – and I can’t do that.” He swallowed the last mouthful of crumbled oats. “You don’t understand – you can’t understand.” He screwed up his eyes and with a sinking heart Dwalin realised that he was fighting back tears. “ _I want Kili.”_ Fili wrapped his arms about his middle, as though he was holding himself together, a cracked porcelain figure that was about to shatter.

“I know Fili.” Dwalin shuffled a little closer to him, jerking his head towards his older brother. “I know you miss him.”

“I don’t just miss him.” Fili hung his head so Dwalin wouldn’t see his glistening eyes. “Dwalin I can’t _live_ without him. I’ve been trying but – it’s not getting easier and now with _this_ I just-” His voice broke and he struggled to breathe evenly. “I open my eyes in the morning and look over and he’s not there and it just comes rushing back – he’s _gone_ and I don’t know what to do with myself.” He let out a shuddering gasp of air. “And I feel so _guilty,_ I can’t stop myself from wondering if there was any way, any possible way, that we could have saved him – if – if I’d gotten there early, if Thorin had just let me leave, let me go and look for him, I could have found him. And I blamed Thorin,– because I had to be angry at _someone_ and I didn’t know what else to do.” Balin sank down beside his brother, the rustling of the leaves causing Fili to look up. He started at the intrusion, but continued speaking. “And – it all came out, all that hurt and grief, at _him_ , and I’m... I’m humiliated because it shouldn’t have come out like that. I blew apart and I’m still in these pieces and... How can I be a leader, when I’m such a mess?” Dwalin and Balin looked at each other. “Thorin wouldn’t – he wouldn’t be like this. He wasn’t like this.” Fili looked down at the sleeping figure. “And I can’t – Mahal I’m just so _angry_.” He wound a black curl, streaked with white, around his finger. “I’m still angry. I’m always angry. I’ve always _been_ angry.” Fili swallowed. “Runs in the family.” He muttered darkly.

“He was going to tell you, wasn’t he?” Dwalin spoke lowly. “Thorin was fretting about it to me in the morning.” Fili swallowed, nodding silently. “He... He carries a lot of guilt from Frerin.”

“Dwalin-”

“He needs to know.” Fili watched the pair. “He has every right. Durin’s beard Balin, _listen_ to him. He doesn’t think he’s good enough because all he has no idea.” Balin shot his brother a sidelong glare. “Enough of these damn _secrets.”_ Dwalin’s fist thudded into the earth. “Fili.” He looked at the blonde. “You’re not weak. You’re not failing. You’re acting _exactly_ how Thorin did, when he lost Frerin.”

“I-I am?”

“Yes, lad.” Balin sighed heavily. Hang it all. He had nothing else to lose. “We lost Thrain and of course Thorin was upset over Thror, but it was Frerin he completely went to pieces over. He refused to speak to anybody for days. We were on the enemy’s doorstep, knee-deep in the bodies of our kin, without a king to call upon, and Thorin wasn’t there. I know you like to think that he picked himself up, swallowed his tears, and became king overnight, but it wasn’t like that at all.”

“But you said-”

“I lied, Fili.” Balin said flatly. “Thorin’s been lying for years; he’s gotten quite good at it, really. He pretends that none of it hurt him but he completely broke down. He didn’t eat. He didn’t sleep. He remained beside his brother’s body – nobody could move him. By the time we had buried the rest of the dead, poor Frerin was... Not good.” Balin cringed at the memory. “We had to pull Thorin’s hands free of Frerin’s hair – it came out in handfuls.” Fili looked down at his own hands, the fingers curled in Thorin’s black tangles, revulsion exploding in his stomach. They fell still. “I’ll never forget it. Thorin just knelt in the earth, with his brother’s hair in his hands, while they wrapped up Frerin’s corpse and took him away.”

“Nobody blamed him.” Dwalin took over in the quiet story. “But he blamed himself. He saw Frerin’s death as his fault. Before he beheaded Thror, Azog came across Frerin. He wore the royal crest on his helmet, he never had a chance. He broke Frerin’s fingers first. Snapped them like twigs. You could hear the screaming from half a mile off, I swear.” Dwalin shook his head. “Azog was not merciful to Thrain’s youngest son. He killed him slowly, very slowly.”

“I saw it all.” Balin sounded in pain. “It was horrible. Nobody could do anything. Any who tried to come close were cut down. Thror screamed for an archer but there were none. Halfway through he had enough, he rushed at Azog himself. The foul monster had his head in seconds and – he didn’t stop, what he was doing to Frerin. He let the head fall to the ground and he kept taking Frerin apart. He never delivered the final blow.” Balin pressed a hand over his eyes and let out a choked gasp of air. “I did. I held what was left of his hand while I did it but he didn’t know it was me. His eyes – Azog gouged them out, before leaving him to die.” Fili’s hands were over his mouth. “It was horrific Fili. You must thank Mahal that Kili met his end at the hands of mere goblins. Such brutality... It was beyond comprehension.”

“Where was Thorin?” Fili breathed. “Where was he when this happened? Who held him back?”

“Nobody, save himself.” Dwalin spoke after a short, strained silence. “He didn’t do anything to stop it. Azog left Frerin aside, to bleed to death, when he noticed another young warrior with Durin’s device on his armour and turned towards him. Only then did Thorin move. The rest you know.” Fili’s eyes were locked onto Thorin’s face, the lines around his eyes, the grey streaks in his hair.

“He said I wouldn’t like him.” Fili whispered. “Is that why? Because he thought he left Frerin to die?”

“Not just that.” Balin looked at his brother. “Frerin was... He was special.”

“Special how?” Fili looked up. “Special like Kili?”

“Special _just_ like Kili.” Dwalin muttered. “Frerin was always mucking about and slacking off when there was work to do. He spent all of his time with Dís _,_ while the rest of us were in the mines and forges.”

“Not that he had a choice.” Balin cut in. “He was quite frail and after he broke his wrist, Thror didn’t let him near tools and pick. He had very delicate hands. He used to draw a lot, come up with these cunning little sketches and designs for new inventions. None of them ever saw the light of the day but he would spend hours making them up. Then he always got bored halfway through and turned towards something else. His room was filled with these half-finished ideas. He... he flitted about. Like a thrush, from branch to branch, never settling down.”

“That sounds exactly like Kili.” Fili blinked. “I had no idea.”

“But Kili had you.”

“And Frerin had Thorin.” Fili frowned.

“Ah. Well.” Dwalin shook his head. “He didn’t.”

“What do you mean?”

“He means that Thorin and Frerin didn’t get along.” Balin explained. “Thror and Thrain didn’t think much of Frerin either. Too flighty and tremulous. He wasn’t the way a prince should be at all.” Fili listened, very quiet. “Their mother – she babied him, really. Thorin used to pick on Frerin. He’d tease him a lot and make fun of his bony little hands. Frerin would run off and cry and eventually he just avoided Thorin and spent his time with his mother. So of course when she fell ill and died, he broke down. Thorin was embarrassed by him. Thror and Thrain thought Frerin lacked discipline and he was disgraced.”

“The teasing turned to bullying when they got older.” Dwalin interjected. “Thorin and I would go around together and whenever we came across Frerin, no matter what he was doing, Thorin would hit him and tell him to go away. He hit him a lot actually. You couldn’t call it fighting. Even when Frerin tried to hit back, he was useless. He could barely raise his fists. Dís got between them a lot. She told me Frerin was always coming to visit her in tears. He grew too scared to sleep alone and he stopped eating with everybody else.”

“ _Mahal_.”

“Dwalin’s saying this as though we were innocent.” Balin’s tone was heavy with regret. “We never said anything to Frerin’s face, of course, he was still a prince.” He sighed. “But tongues wagged and ears burned. He knew nobody thought much of him.”

“Exactly. It wasn’t just Thorin. Thrain and Thror were cruel to him, too. Everybody was.” They both looked _sick_ with themselves. “The poor lad never had a friend in the world, except for Dís.”

“I don’t understand – why did Frerin let that happen?” Fili was stricken. “Why didn’t he ever speak out?”

“And who would listen? Thror didn’t pay heed to him at all. He had a son and a grandson, he didn’t need a third heir. Thrain thought he was an embarrassment. Thorin – he was disappointed that Frerin was his brother. He told me once, that he wished Dís was a boy and Frerin a girl, then everybody would finally be happy.” Dwalin shrugged. “It got better when he was older. He tried hard to please everybody and of course it failed, but he tried. He worked hard, nobody could begrudge him for that. He was still far too flighty and nervous and _flimsy_ , but after Smaug desecrated our home, dealing with Frerin was the last thing on anybody’s mind.”

“It probably would have been all right if it wasn’t for the War.” Balin murmured. “He would have grown up and become just another crazy old tinkerer. We’ve plenty, nobody would have given him a spare thought.” His mouth twisted downwards, wrinkled and sad. “But he was called up, of course. A prince must fight alongside his king. Even if that prince can’t hold a sword in his frail little hands.”

“You can’t be serious.” Fili breathed. “If they knew he couldn’t fight – how could they _do_ that to him?” His heart stung. Balin’s words had cut into him and he bled.

“Because a prince must fight alongside his king, Fili.” Balin slowly shook his head. “I told you.” Disgust was on Fili’s face. “Thror – he was traditional. If Frerin couldn’t act the way a prince should, then he didn’t have time for him.”

“But – you said at the end, he rushed at Azog, he tried to save Frerin...”

“We all realise our mistakes after they have been made.” Dwalin muttered. “Thror snapped when Azog hamstrung Frerin.” Fili winced and gripped his own thigh. Azog had also stepped back and watched as Frerin sank to the earth, crippled, screaming in pain and trying to crawl with broken fingers and lame legs, but Fili didn’t need to know that. “Thorin was crying out for Frerin too, but after Thror lost his life, he knew he couldn’t do anything to protect him. He’d had his chance but it was too late for him then.”

“I can’t believe it.” Fili whispered. “I knew Frerin died with Thror but I never had any _idea_...”

“Thorin knows he made a terrible mistake.” Balin’s voice was low and grave.  “Then when Kili came along, when he was so thin and sickly and restless, we all knew we had another Frerin. Thank Mahal we _didn’t_ really, Kili had more backbone and spirit than Frerin ever did, but Thorin knew he had to protect Kili. So he let Kili run free. It drove Dain mad.”

“Dain?”

“He thought Thorin was babying Kili.” Dwalin explained. “He said Kili had no morals, no honour or dignity. It was the only thing they seriously fought over. Surely he said something to you while you lived in the Iron Hills.”

“He said some things.” Fili whispered. “But I ignored them. Lots of people there said bad things about Kili but I ignored all of them.”

“Wise.” Balin murmured. “Thorin should have been so prudent. He was driven to delivering many tersely-worded ravens and not all of them to Dain. Quite a few saw fit to involve themselves in Thorin’s familial affairs. I suppose it wouldn’t have been so bad if Kili wasn’t half Ironfist. They set everybody on edge.” Fili knew that better than all of them. He knew the violence and brutality they were capable of. It flowed through his veins. “He got quite heated in the end, he said Kili was _his_ nephew and no one had the right to question the king of Durin’s Folk.”

“But he can’t undo the past.” Fili breathed. His hands were back in Thorin’s hair. “But he tried – with Kili – to be the protector he never was to Frerin.” Everything made _perfect_ sense now.

“Hindsight’s funny, Fili.” Balin clapped him on the shoulder. “If I knew how it would end, back then, I would have done it all differently. But I didn’t.”

“When I said he killed Kili – Mahal I must have destroyed him.” Fili breathed. “Oh Thorin I’m so _sorry.”_ He leaned in, pressing his face into Thorin’s chest. “What did I _do?”_

“You didn’t know Fili.” Dwalin murmured. “You weren’t to know. But – Thorin cannot ask you, and we cannot ask you, to lead honestly, without  knowing the truth. You are just as brave and as wise and worthy as Thorin was, when he had the crown thrust reluctantly in his hands. You have to see that now.”

“I-I don’t know about worthy.” Fili’s voice was partly muffled as he slowly straightened. “But brave and – I understand that.” He forced a tiny smile. “My flaws are real, they’re nothing to be ashamed of, and I shouldn’t hold myself up to a false image.” He said what he knew Balin and Dwalin wanted to hear, even if he didn’t entirely believe them. He didn’t know if he should be relieved or furious.

“And that’s something Thorin never understood.” Balin’s voice trembled. “I don’t think he ever will understand it.” His eyes met Fili’s. “You don’t dislike him, do you?”

“I’ll never hate him.” Fili declared. “I want to say I can’t believe he lied to me, for so long – but if I ever had a son, and I told him about the time we ventured across the wildlands, in search of our home, I would leave so much out. So much.” He exhaled deeply. He still felt sick with horror, at what he had heard. _Poor Frerin._ He could never imagine the _agony_ of witnessing his brother’s death, his slow brutal death, played out grotesquely before him. He knew he would never recover if he had been forced to watch Kili taken apart, piece by piece. “I just want to know – did he really feel _nothing_ for Frerin, when he was a child? Was he not guilty, when they fought? There must have been love. There had to be love there, somewhere. They were _brothers_.”

“We can tell you almost everything Fili, but we cannot open up Thorin’s heart. It was closed, a long time ago.” Dwalin arched his back in a stretch. “You can ask him yourself, when he wakes.”

“When he wakes.” Fili looked down at the head resting in his lap. He pulled gently at the dark curls, fingering a streak of grey hair. Everything he had known about Thorin, his entire _ideal_ of his perfect, wise, brave uncle had been broken into pieces. He was just as fearful, just as bitter and tearstained as Fili. And Fili was so angry that he had been lied to. But he couldn’t begrudge Thorin’s actions, in the face of such unspeakable grief. Because he tried to imagine his childhood, his _life_ , without Kili’s love, and he couldn’t. Kili _was_ his life.

And he understood now, with Thorin asleep in his lap, how his uncle had choked up so badly in Beorn’s Hall, when Fili had asked if Thorin could think on Frerin without pain. He realised that Thorin would never, ever be able to think on his brother with warmth, because _there wasn’t a happy memory to draw from_. And that thought, that knowledge that Thorin had wasted the purest he would _ever_ have in his life – the unwavering, unconditional love of a younger brother, it was sadder to Fili than anything he could possibly imagine. But _Thorin had recovered._ He had recovered from a hurt than ran deeper than Fili could ever know, because he had the added regret of a wasted lifetime of pain and lost love to the grief of a dead baby brother. It was a light in Fili’s chest. It swelled within him, a growing flame. He lifted his head and his eyes were dry and the sons of Fundin could see a definite change in their young prince.

Because if Thorin could rise up from the grief of losing the brother he never knew, a loss that cut so deep that he let the corpse rot in his arms because he was too afraid to let go, if he could overcome that, and become the king that their people so desperately needed while his heart bled, so raw and open...

_Then Fili could do anything._


	32. Two Halves

“The worst part about all of this,” Bilbo sounded very glum as he walked alongside Fili beneath the grey spread of branches, “Is that I’ll have to turn around and do it all again.”

“You wouldn’t have to.” Fili turned his head to the side, giving the hobbit a small smile. The stubble was growing; it was still bristly to the touch but he no longer looked so shockingly young. “Thorin likes you Bilbo. You can always stay in Erebor, when we take it back.” He received a raised eyebrow, a little curl of the lip in return. “I’m sure there’ll be cosy little holes and fireplaces and books and pantries filled with cheese.” The blonde offered. “It’ll be just like home.”

“With respect Fili, it won’t be like home at all.” Bilbo spoke quite flatly. He utterly refused, even for a moment, to consider abandoning Bag End and taking up residence within the ancient dwarven stronghold. “It’s not just the books and food and my mother’s glory box.” Fili listened to him in silence. “It’s the people. It’s my neighbours and Bill the grocer and the all cousins and second-cousins and Gertie Proudfoot’s apricot turnovers.” The words came out in a babble, and poor Bilbo wasn’t sure if he was quite explaining himself.

“I know exactly what you mean.” Fili was staring ahead, at the tunnel-like elf path, swallowed up in the darkness of the heavy forest. “It’s the people in it who make it home.”

“Exactly.”

“That’s what I used to tell myself.” Fili confessed, looking quickly to see who was in earshot. Nobody of consequence. “I was scared of leaving home. Ered Luin – it’s all I’ve ever really known. When I was trained in the Iron Hills, I just spent the whole time feeling homesick, surrounded by this wealth and luxury that I’d never known. I missed my mother. I missed Thorin. I missed Kili.” His mouth drooped downwards, the train of thought broken as his brother’s name fell from his lips. “Oh, _Kili_ – he was so excited to come. Nobody could tell him no. He wanted to fight a dragon and show everyone what a hero he could be. He wasn’t even excited about settling in Erebor – not really. He was just interested in the quest.” He stared down at the ground now, and Bilbo couldn’t help but feel so very sad for him. “I know you think he was brave – he wasn’t brave Bilbo.” His voice was strained, fading to a whisper.

“He was _stupid_. He didn’t understand how his actions had consequences. He thought he was invincible.” Fili swallowed, shaking his head. “He thought that even if something did happen to him, Thorin or I would just fish him out and it would all be fine.” The breath trembled in his throat. “And – that’s what gets me most of all.” Fili gave him a little sidelong look. “He would have died alone. He would have given up – he would have died thinking we abandoned him and I can’t ever undo that.” He ran a hand through his matted hair, pushing it back from his face. “He must have been so scared – so frightened and alone, at the end.”

“It wasn’t your fault.” Bilbo tried to be comforting. He realised now why Fili had been so quiet and angry, that he was masking such a huge guilt and now Bilbo didn’t really know what to do with himself. His words seemed weak and meaningless. “You didn’t have the _chance_ to save him. You would have, if you could.”

“I would have done anything.” Fili whispered. “ _Anything_.” He repeated the word, as though it were some sort of enchantment that could resurrect the dead and bring Kili back to his side. His eyes lowered, he fell silent, and Bilbo let him, knowing there was nothing that he could say that could even begin to help. He remained quiet, letting his mind drift as he struggled through the dense forest.

In fact, it was almost a full hour before Bilbo realised that Fili had admitted he was just as scared of this journey as he was.

* * *

If nothing else, Kili was enterprising.

Azog stood, leaning against the tall beech tree with his hand on his hip as he watched the dwarf bent over his work. He fashioned a small glove for his good hand, made from the tanned hides of four squirrels that he had shot and treated himself and stitched together with the dried sinews of the hart he had killed, Nardur curled into his side. Kili squinted very hard through the gloom, piercing the bone needle through the black skin and drawing the thread taut.

“You should be pleased, really.” He spoke with a smile playing on his lips. He didn’t speak to Kili or to himself, but to the orc who sat in the dirt, legs crossed, framed by grey tree-roots entwining through the hard earth. “He’s done very well.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Oh, but he did. Nazarg’s voice was tense and strained at it made the smile grow on Azog’s face. He looked down at the figure on the ground, but Nazarg kept staring resolutely forward, eyes fixed on Kili. His face was blank and tight, giving nothing away.

“Well he certainly didn’t get the idea from _me.”_ Kili was picking at a knot with his teeth, the bridge of his grey nose wrinkling in a frown. “I must thank you, really.” Nazarg bowed his head, fingers curling into the fabric of his trousers. “For what you’ve done.”

“Don’t thank me.” The orc spat in disgust. Disgust at himself, rather than at Azog, standing above him. “You have nothing to thank me for.”

“Did you think he would take so well to this?” One of the archers, Krûklak, approached Kili, asking to look at his new glove. They both watched in short silence as the dwarf showed Krûklak the heavy covering on the first two finger and thumb, the clipped leather of the rest, the tie at the wrist, securing it closely to the skin. “You would almost think for a moment that he enjoys it.”

“Maybe he does.” Nazard spoke dully, slowly resting his chin on a folded knee. If he knew, for a _single moment_ , that Kili would have come this far, would have completely scoured out his soul and doused it in an inky blackness, he never would have let a word pass his lips. He thought Kili would assume nothing more than an exterior, a cold mask, and let the bright heart pulse beneath it. _But he couldn’t even hold on to that_.

“I have a theory.” Nazarg didn’t look up at him. He didn’t shift his gaze from Kili, who had started measuring Krûklak’s fingers with a length of sinew. Obviously the goblin had asked for his own glove. “He wasn’t much among his own people. He doesn’t _look_ like a dwarf should, we all know that. Even as a prince I think he spent a very long time trying to prove himself, and always failed.”

“That’s cruel.” Nazarg said flatly. “You don’t know that.” Even so, a thread of discomfort began to wind about his stomach because he knew Azog was most probably right.

“He’s most likely a bastard child.” And that did make Nazarg look up. “He doesn’t know his father. You’re aware of the customs amongst the dwarf people, with the name on the wrist.”

“I am now.” The orc muttered darkly, remembering the screaming, the heat of the forge.

“There’s nothing on his mother’s. Burned away.” He glanced down at Nazarg. “A bastard prince – I don’t have to tell you how _exceptional_ that is.”

“So that was your plan.” Nazarg’s teeth were gritted. “Make him feel like he’s worth something here and hope that he was just so lonely and desperate that he would fall for it.” The edges of his sharp nails dug into his palms.

“It worked, didn’t it?” Azog was smirking as he watched Kili hold Krûklak’s hand against one of the squirrel-hides, gently scoring the leather with a knife. “He’s not pretending anymore. I could tell when he pretended.”

“Of course you could.” Nazarg whispered, low, so he knew Azog couldn’t hear him. _Nothing_ was safe. Kili couldn’t hide his heart from Azog, couldn’t keep it secret and whole within himself. He had to let it go. “You tortured and broke a dwarf barely out of childhood. How proud you must be.” But Azog heard the second half, a growl rumbling in his throat and making Nazarg’s heart race.

“He’s seventy-seven. Older than you think.” Nazarg heard a low rustling, and a brown leather book was dropped unceremoniously at his side. “Look at this.” Tattered, dog-eared and water-stained, the book looked very drab and limp in the dirt. It had been dropped open on a specific page. Kili in his uncle’s lap, waterlogged and exhausted, wrapped in Thorin’s grand furs. Thorin holding on to him very tightly, refusing to let go. Tangled locks of dark hair sprouted between his fingers, his chin resting on Kili’s head. “He is still a child in Thorin’s eyes. He never needed to grow up.” Nazarg took the book slowly, spreading the page out over his lap. “That’s what he wants. Someone to stop him from drowning.”

 _You bastard._ The curse burned on Nazarg’s tongue. He offered his hand to Kili and at the same time, held him under. _You cruel, manipulative bastard._ Something broke inside him; he snapped beneath the intense pressure in his chest, the disquieting rage and anger and he knew there was noway Azog could be right. He had to be wrong – Nazarg _had to prove him wrong._

He stood up very suddenly, grasping the book in one hand and making his way across the little clearing. Azog straightened, eyes narrowed and lip curling in a slow snarl as he realised what the orc was going to try and do. He was going to try and get Kili _back._ He opened his mouth to shout at Nazarg, to call him back and _order_ him to remain at his side, but when he took in a breath, Azog realised that didn’t want to interfere. It was a test. What would Kili do, when confronted with the images of his brother, his uncle, the safety and comfort and love that he had been torn away from? How would he react to the memories being pushed into his face? He remained silent, and in that silence he was confident that Kili wouldn’t fail him. His heart had already been won over, and his soul belonged to Azog. It was there, stained on his wrist, hidden beneath his new black glove.

“Kili.” He was bent over, alone now as he cut the treated squirrel-skin with his little bone knife. Kili looked up, his eyes met Nazarg’s, looking oddly wide in his new grey face. His gaze lowered to the book in Nazarg’s hand, and his eyes dulled. His mouth wavered for a few moments, Kili closed his eyes and he took in a breath. When he opened them again, his lips were in a hard line, his jaw tight. But his eyes were low and dark and he couldn’t mask the pain that lurked beneath the surface.

“What do you want.” Kili’s hands lowered to the leather, and looked at the book out of the corner of his eye, not wanting his gaze caught. He looked at it like a low-slung weapon dangling idly from Nazarg’s hand. Nardur lifted his head at Kili’s tense voice, yellow eyes staring very hard at the orc-healer through the shrouded light. “I’m busy.”

“It can wait.” Kili’s hands remained in their work. Nazarg set down the book, his hands closing over the dwarf’s. Long, bony fingers pressed down over Kili’s, his own hands looking so small and clumsy in comparison. With a sick rushing in his chest, Nazarg realised that their hands were almost exactly the same stone-grey shade. Kili didn’t look up at him, didn’t look at the book. He kept his gaze fixed on his trapped hands, the little bone knife still clasped in his trembling fingers. “Kili, I-”

“I know what you’re going to do.” Kili’s voice was very hard. He didn’t look up at all, he simply kept his gaze pulled down to his hands as he spoke. “You’re going to try and convince me that I’ve gone too far. You’re going to pull out that _stupid_ book and tell me that I need to remember how much they all love me.” He took in a breath, a short, shuddering gasp that rocked his chest. “You’re going to say that I should hold on to people who left me to die.”

“Kili-”

“No.” He _tore_ his hands free, still grasping the knife very tightly. “I don’t want to _listen_ to it.” He spat the words out, Nazarg reeling back at the venom in Kili’s voice. “Isn’t this what you wanted?” He leaned forward, a cold whisper washing over the orc’s face. “Isn’t this how you wanted me to be?”

“No.” He shook his head slowly, horror sickening his stomach. He neverwanted this. “Kili don’t you realise you’re playing straight into his hands? You’re doing exactly what he wants. Azog is manipulating you and you’re _letting him do it.”_

“Shut up.” Kili snatched the book, rising to his feet. Azog clenched his hand into a fist, watching very carefully as Kili turned away. “You want to know what I think of them?” His voice rose, Nazarg kneeling in the dirt, watching as the dwarf approached their tiny little fire. Nardur was on his feet, a growl in the base of his throat. Kili’s loud voice attracted attention; the little clumps of goblins near them looked up from their tools and games, the low thrum of speech fading away.

“Kili...” Nazarg shook his head, feeling utterly helpless. Kili’s face was tight, contorted in anger as he held the book with his broken arm, the soft leather loose in his trembling fingers. “Kili – _no!”_ He started, jerking forward as Kili let the book fall, let it slip through his fingers and tumble onto the fire.

Kili didn’t look down as the flames licked at Ori’s sketchbook. He couldn’t trust himself to remain dry-eyed if he did. He kept his eyes facing forward, fixed on Nazarg, expression as stiff and grey as stone. Even his eyes seemed dull and colourless in his shadowy face. The firelight was reflected in the orc’s eyes; he watched it swell, bursting into life as the flames caught the edge of the ragged parchment, blackening, withering into ashes.

“They can _rot_ in the ground, for all I care.” The words burned like acid; Kili’s eyes flashed and his teeth were bared and everybody could see that he was not pretending to hate the figures drawn in the book. “I don’t have an uncle. I have _nothing!_ ” Azog smiled beneath his tree. “They mean _nothing_ to me!” Kili’s chest heaved with gasps of air, lungs crippled beneath a crushing, heartsick pain. That wasn’t true. He thought of Fili’s dark blue eyes and the agony doubled inside of him. This would be so much easier if the cold ache in his chest just dissolved into hatred. He hated Thorin. He hated all of them, for what they had done, for leaving him to die, for treating him as though he was worthless. All – save one. _Why couldn’t he hate Fili?_  

“Kili-”

“Don’t talk to me.” Kili’s voice cracked in the last word; he swallowed, breathing inward. It was hard to speak through the swelling anger and rage and the horrible breaking pain. He looked out of the corner of his eye and he could see Azog nodding his head in approval. The growling in Nardur’s throat increased.

Nazarg couldn’t speak. There were no words he could say that could placate Kili; he was wild and desperate. He was reminded of a cornered dog, a half-starved, beaten animal in a cage, mad with some disease. He looked at Kili and realised that he could never win. The damage had already been done – it was irreperable. Kili was going to hate them, he already hated them. He’d been played, _so well_ , he had been completely manipulated into believing that this was somehow better than the love he had. He was brainwashed, completely brainwashed and he wouldn’t listen to anybody now, but Azog.

He withdrew, cold and powerless and defeated.

* * *

“Damn damn damn.” Fili picked at the busted seam along his trousers, wrinkling his nose. It had happened two days ago, he’d snagged it somewhere and popped the stitching, and as he crouched down in the evening, the seam split completely along his left thigh; six inches long, it was far too big for him to ignore. Kicking off his boots, Fili unbuckled the thick belt at his waist, pawing beneath the heavy layers of clothing for the fastenings of his trousers.

“Busted seam?” Dwalin sat down beside him rolling his shoulders. “Hate that. Is the thread still in one piece?”

“Think so.” Fili wiggled his hips and pulled the trousers down his legs. “I can’t sew. _Amad_ would fix them. And Kili... He used to do it too. He had the hands for it.” He looked down at his own fingers as he pulled the fabric over his ankles, looking very stubby and thick and clumsy.

“Ori’s probably the best here.” Dwalin scratched at his beard, not noticing how Fili’s jaw tensed and he looked away. “Ori! C’mere for a mo.” He waved the young dwarf over. Fili’s wrists felt too tight in his sleeves, his face reddened and he couldn’t look Ori in the eye as he curiously approached the pair.

“You ca...” Ori’s voice died in his throat when he saw Fili’s trousers spread out over his legs. “What?”

“Busted seam.” Fili grunted uncomfortably, balling up his trousers and tucking his legs beneath him. “Wouldn’t take more than a few minutes... If you could...” He held them out, still not looking Ori in the eye.

“O-Of course.” Something faltered in Ori’s face as he took the clothing, his fingers brushed Fili’s, the blonde starting at the motion. He jerked his hand away, pulling the edge of his cloak further over his folded legs. “I’ll just um, I’ll just go and do them then.” Red-faced and stumbling, Ori began to withdrew, feeling hot, blood rushing in humiliation. Fili wouldn’t even look in his _direction_. Their fingertips touched for a bare moment, and Fili jumped back as though he had caught some sort of disease. _Ori wasn’t some sort of contagious beast._

“Ori – wait.” Fili made a face. Ori stopped still, he turned on his heel, twisting the dirty hem of the trousers around his finger. “Thank you.” His eyes lifted; he looked Ori in the eye and he smiled. It was tiny and Ori knew it was forced, but it was a smile. It was more than he had from anybody, trapped in this nightmarish forest. Fili looked at him very closely, reminded quite suddenly just how small and _flighty_ Ori looked to him, nervously clinging to his trousers. He was so pale and withdrawn and Fili felt a little sick, remembering how horrible he had been to the poor dwarf in his violent rage, and the rush of guilt that came after. But what could he do? Fili couldn’t force back the bitter disgust that still swelled in his chest when he looked at Ori, when he remembered just how Ori felt towards his _brother._ Fili didn’t know how to deal with it; it was so much easier, just to turn away. But Ori deserved a ‘thank you’ – and more. He deserved so much more but Fili opened his mouth to speak, he found his voice was stuck in his throat.

But Ori smiled back and ducked his head, retreating to fix the broken trousers. Fili watched him walk away through the gloom, feeling as though a very heavy weight was settling in his chest. Ori was miserable, completely miserable, and he didn’t know what is could do to help him.

“Why are you _still_ odd with him?” Dwalin’s voice at his side dragged Fili blinking from his uncomfortable thoughts. “It was a good two weeks ago since you... well.”

“Since I beat him up.” Fili muttered dully, toying with the hem of his cloak. “Since I broke his nose.” Dwalin looked over at his prince. Fili was weighted down with some dark guilt and he had an inkling of what had caused it all. “I can’t... _Trust me_ Dwalin, you don’t want to know what’s going on.” Dwalin rolled his eyes, shaking his head as he let out a groan. The sound caused Fili to look over at the aged warrior, brows knitting in confusion.

“If you’re talking about how he’s _unnatural_ ,” And his voice lowered with the word. Fili froze. “I know.”

“Wh- _how_ who told you?”

“Nobody told me.” Mahal, Fili was _dense._ “I would guess half the company knows, or at least suspects.” Fili couldn’t breathe. He grabbed Dwalin’s elbow, fingers digging in, very tightly.

“ _How?”_

“He followed Kili around like a lovesick puppy.” Dwalin snorted. “Always trying to sit next to him, or ride beside him, or trying to help him. And he stared, all the time, at you two.” Fili dipped his head, gasping for breath. “Fili calm _down._ It’s all right, no harm done-”

“No _harm?”_ Fili hissed. “Don’t you understand? Don’t you _get_ it Dwalin? Oh Mahal – they’ll think Kili led him on, that he was _encouraging_ it.” He shook his head, battling the very real urge to be sick. No no no this was _exactly_ what he didn’t want.

“Nobody in their right mind would think that, lad.” Dwalin slowly prised Fili’s shaking hands away from his arm. “Kili had no idea. He was completely blind to all of it. He just thought Ori was being friendly. You know what he’s – what he _was_ like.” He swallowed back a lump in his throat. “He was bright towards everybody.” Fili’s head sank into his hands. “Fili – Balin and I, we don’t care. There are bigger crimes in this world. I think Bofur knew and of course he wouldn’t give a fig. The way Bifur smiled at Ori sometimes I _think_ he caught on but you can never be sure with him. Dori knew of course and it always kept him on edge. He always used to pull Ori aside and hiss in his ear if Ori started getting too friendly.” He clapped Fili on the back, trying so hard to keep the mood light. “The rest wouldn’t be thrilled but they didn’t know then, and they’ll never know now.” They both looked over at Ori, bent over Fili’s trousers with a needle in his hand. “I suspect you’ve known for a long time.”

“Kili was still alive.” Fili whispered. “I threatened him – I said I’d break his fingers if he came near my brother again.” His cheeks flushed red with shame. “I was just trying to protect Kili.”

“Because Ori is such a threat.” Dwalin muttered in disgust. “You don’t remember finding Kili’s clothes, do you?” He looked over at Fili, watching the blonde curls shake from side to side. Dwalin wasn’t surprised to hear that Fili had completely blacked out the memory. “Ori was completely beside himself when he ran into the ruined camp. He grabbed Kili’s clothes and he _screamed_ that it couldn’t be true. He demanded that we keep looking for him, he tried to run off himself. He wouldn’t take the evidence we had. Even though I tried to tell him that Kili was – that the _scum_ who caught him would have had their fill, right down to the bones, Ori refused to believe it. I think a small part of him still doesn’t want to believe it.” Dwalin sighed. “I had to hold the poor lad down and wait until he cried himself out. I didn’t realise until then just how much he loved Kili.”

“Thorin knows.” Fili’s voice was very small. “He wouldn’t leave it alone – he kept picking and picking and Ori collapsed. He told Thorin everything, that day I ran off.” He stared down at his sleeve.

“I knew something had changed.” Dwalin muttered. “The moment I got back. Thorin liked Ori a lot. He used to say he had guts and heart and he’d take that over strength of body any day but after that he wouldn’t go near him.” Fili watched him toy with the knuckle dusters on his hands. “He hates it but wants to keep the peace. Am I right?” Fili nodded, silently. “And what about you? What do you think about Ori now?”

“Honestly?” Fili couldn’t lift his gaze from his sleeve. He was too ashamed. “I feel terrible. I know he doesn’t want it. I know he’s scared and angry and I know it hurts because – because I am too.” He swallowed. “I’m just as scared and angry as he is and I know how powerless and sick it makes you feel.” Fili’s eyes darted to the side a little. “I’ve made him feel _worse_ and I want to say sorry but every time I opened my mouth...” He gave a small, helpless shrug. “I lose the words.” He said plainly.

“Shame.” Dwalin muttered. “He’s such a brave little lad, better than the grief he gets.” He sighed. “Damn shame.”

“He’s not the first.” Fili’s eyes widened in slow realisation. “You’ve met others... others like him.” Dwalin only nodded silently, not looking in his direction. “Do... I know them?”

“I’m not speaking a word of it Fili.” Dwalin was very firm in this. “It’s not my place. The best thing you can do for Ori is to pretend none of it ever happened. Treat him just like you would anybody else. Stop shunning him and start being his friend. Time will wear on and you’ll want more of his sort close to you. Balin and I, we won’t be around forever.”

“But Thorin...” He looked over to where his uncle slept, nose turned towards the treetops. “He’s trying to keep me apart from him. He made me sleep by him so Ori couldn’t get too close to me.” Dwalin watched his growing frustration. “I can’t disobey him.”

“Thorin’s not always right.” Dwalin said flatly. “Look – Fili he’s my king and I love him to bits. I do. I’ll follow him anywhere. He’s the best friend I’ve ever had. But nobody is ever above fault. He’s made mistakes. So have I. Being a king doesn’t make you infallible.” He took Fili’s shoulder, squeezing it. “You’ll never be perfect, Fili.”

“I used to be.” Fili gripped Dwalin’s fingers. “I used to be perfect. Everybody – they all thought I was everything a prince should be. And – it wasn’t true. It was this shameful, hollow lie that I lived. I _hated_ myself, I was never happy, I was always on edge, terrified that I would wreck everything. And when I did – when I broke and hit Thorin and ran away...” Fili breathed out. “I felt _calm._ For the first time in my life that tension inside of me had fallen slack. And I think...” He teetered on the edge of a horrible confession that ripped and tore at his heart. “I think it’s because I knew I couldn’t ever be king and that made me _happy.”_ His fingernails but into Dwalin’s skin. “I didn’t want to be king.” Dwalin shifted, his other hand coming around and gripping Fili’s left shoulder. He held the young prince tightly, feeling his bones shake beneath his hands.

“You’re going to be fine.” Fili’s head was down; he didn’t see Ori’s hands falling idly into his lap, staring at Fili across the dirt with a frown. But Dwalin did. “Fili – don’t _try_ to be Thorin. Even Thorin can’t hold up to his own ideas of himself. You know what makes a good king. You’ve spend eighty years learning.” Fili’s hands were clasped together. “But... It’s not just Thorin that’s eating at you – is it?”

“You have to _promise_ not to tell, Dwalin.” Fili looked up, turning his head. Dark blue eyes flashed in the gloom. “I’ve been trying to think about how to tell Thorin – I was almost ready before he fell into the river.”

“I promise.” Dwalin held his breath, watching as Fili brushed a lock of wild blonde hair back from his face.

“You know the nightmares? The ones I say I don’t remember?” Dwalin nodded, slowly. “I remember some of them. Just some. And one that keeps coming up – it’s getting worse. I dream that I’m... I’m back in the Mountains. Not the Blue Mountains. The other ones.” Dwalin’s hold tightened around Fili. “And... Dwalin they had this ring. They would do all their punishments there.” Fili spoke with his eyes closed now. “They weren’t _nice._ You could get whipped or have your hand cut off or your tongue torn out. And that’s if they let you live. If you were just sentenced to death, they would put your body on this huge stake, right through the chest. And it took such a long time for them to die. Their cries would just get weaker and weaker as the blood oozed across the dust.” Dwalin knew Fili was reliving it, behind closed eyes. He couldn’t breathe.

“ _You were four.”_

“I had my own chair.” Fili whispered. “Beside my grandfather. And... _He_ was on the other side. And _Amad_ sat next to him. I couldn’t see her. I had to look straight ahead and I wasn’t allowed to cry or move about.” His hands were trembling, clasped in his lap. “There were lots of kids there. Everybody went.” Fili drew in a quick, short breath. “That’s what happened. But – in my dream, I’m not in my little chair. I’m on the throne. And there’s a heavy crown, made of stone on my head. And my hair isn’t braided, it’s in dreadlocks and I’m watching these people bleed all over the ground.” Fili’s words came out in a tumbled rush, as though he wanted to fling them away, let them scatter in a wind that was not there.

“You’re not like him Fili.”

“Are you sure?” Fili’s voice rose, just a little. “When I get angry – it always gets so violent and I can’t control anything and I’m scared that I will be like him, in the end.” He bit down very hard on his lip, his eyes looked up at the treetops and Dwalin saw they were glistening. “I’m not just a Longbeard, Dwalin. I’m not like you.”

“You’re not like him.” Dwalin was confident in this. He’d only met the wild prince twice, but he was already so confident that Fili would be _nothing_ like his father. “You’re not like him and you’re not like Thorin. You’re Fili.” Fili nodded silently, not feeling particularly soothed by Dwalin’s words. It wasn’t as easy as all of that. Dwalin didn’t know what it was like, to have two halves competing so bitterly. To have a constant reminder that he wasn’t like them at all, he wasn’t a pure-blooded son of Durin’s Folk. His blonde hair, the hair Kili thought was so beautiful, hung around his face, whispering constantly to him that this wasn’t the only life he had known. A shadow lurked in the background, beckoning him closer and he had to always keep his eyes closed to it.

Not his father. Not Thorin. He was Fili. He sounded the words aloud in his head with Thorin’s voice, but they didn’t seem any more real, coming from his uncle’s lips. _Who was Fili?_ Who was he really? A little bit of both, something mixed up and shaken about, like milk and oil, that came into contact and became thick and murky and unpleasant. Two things that shouldn’t ever be put together.  And yet here he was. All put together. Mixed up, he corrected himself. Mixed up because he was so desperate and turbulent. He couldn’t simply split his soul in half, take part of it out and leave it to wither and die. It was too late for that; everything was too shaken, it couldn’t become separate.

He looked up and realised that Ori had already finished darning his trousers. He sat waiting, hands wound in the fabric, waiting for Fili to pull himself together, afraid to intrude on something so private and delicate.

He steeled himself. As Dwalin retreated, pulling his hands away, Fili straightened his shoulders. Yes, he was mixed up. But that was what made him so _different._ He saw Ori, with his hunched shoulders, looking so lost and alone, remembering what Thorin had said to him, how he had been exiled in all but name. And Fili knew it was wrong, he knew Thorin had done the wrong thing _and he didn’t want to continue doing it._ He realised in that moment that he didn’t have to answer to _anybody_. Nobody had a claim over him. Not a ghost, not an enchanted sleeper. He had grown up, and was neither one nor the other.

“Ori.” He lifted his voice, allowed it to carry across the camp. Fili smiled, not a stupid, false smile that was so obviously pretended, but a real smile, a warm one that offered the first tentative beginnings of friendship. “Have you finished yet?”

And nothing could dim the light that shined in Ori’s wide eyes.


	33. Reforged

“How much food is left?”

Fili crouched behind Bombur, careful to whisper close, making sure his soft words weren’t caught by prying ears.

“Practically nothing.” Bombur muttered in response. “Enough for two days – three, if we eat lean.” Fili closed his eyes, shoulders slumping. “Bofur and I – we tried nibbling at the weeds but it’s all nasty, bitter stuff. We could try boiling it but we’re more likely just to poison ourselves.” His voice was low and helpless. “Fili – I’m sorry but there’s nothing else we can do. We’ve been rationing it all this time and we took as much as we could carry but...” he trailed off with a defeated shrug. “It wasn’t enough.”

“None of this is your fault.” Fili breathed as he pulled away. “Make it last – as long as you can.” He watched Bombur’s gingery head decline in a respectful nod. “Thank you.” Fili withdrew, running through a mental checklist as he stood up. Thorin was wrapped up safely in the middle of the huddle. Gloin was striking up his tinderbox on a paltry little pile of kindling. Bilbo looked as comfortable as could be expected, crouched beside Thorin. Bofur pawed through what little food they had left, frowning. Everything that he could do, everything that he had power over, it was done. He could relax.

Only, he couldn’t. Fili sat down with his legs crossed before the tremulous beginnings of a fire, hands clasped together and head bowed. His stomach ached with hunger, his mouth dry as sand, and feet screaming in pain. He felt as though he was falling apart at the seams, he was being slowly picked apart and any moment now he would unravel and fall to the ground in pieces. He didn’t know how Thorin could have ever done this. He struggled to take care of twelve others, trapped within the heart of the forest, scavenging about on crumbs of food, tired and lonely and walking slower and slower with their destination still hundreds of miles before them. He couldn’t imagine taking care of thousands of refugees, _wandering_ through the wilderness with nowhere to go, no destination in mind. It brought out a new respect for Thorin – not as a king or a leader but as a strong, resolute _person._ Fili was reminded through his own trials how much Thorin had suffered and overcome, and it filled him with a new strength, as his own resolution slowly leaked out of him. _He could do this._ Surely it wasn’t much longer now, until they would find the end of the forest, until they could smell the sweet, fresh air and feel the sun on their faces and taste stream-water and eat hot, wholesome food. Surely they had walked most of their two-hundred mile journey through this cursed wood. How much more was left to bear?

There was little joy to accompany their paltry dinner. Only a handful of uncomfortable murmurings, bleary-eyed glances before they all lay down, clutching their rumbling stomachs and pulling the blankets close. Ori took the first watch, kneeling before the fire with his eyes downcast, ears listening. On his side, turned towards the cheerless warmth, Fili watched him, the dips and hollows in his face, deepened by the shadows. The swelling in his nose had gone down, but it angled slightly to the left, crookedly, and there was no denying it had been broken. Ori’s hands were folded in his lap, idle. There was no paper to draw on, no wool to knit or crotchet, and it left him at somewhat of a loose end. His fingers twitched occasionally, as though he drew an imaginary picture in the shadowy air. As the soft whispers and uncomfortable snufflings died away, Fili remained awake, too hungry, his mind too frantic and desperate, to sleep.

Their eyes met after a long stretch of silence. Fili lying on his side, head pillowed by his hands as he stared into the little fire, Ori sitting up, hands clasped, his own gaze following the same line. Ori’s eyes widened in that moment, his fingers clenched on the edge of his tunic and he lowered his gaze, as though he was caught. There were black marks beneath his eyes, and they weren’t cast by the dancing firelight.

“Do you want to sleep?” Fili’s crumpled hair shuffled as he sat up, a waterfall of gold spilling over his shoulders and gleaming in the yellow light. “I’m not tired; you look shattered Ori. I can take your watch.”

“I’m fine.” Ori swallowed. He lifted his head, their eyes meeting once more across the fire. “I don’t think I could sleep either.” He kept his voice to a very low whisper, one Fili struggled to hear across the fire. It was a blatant lie – he was absolutely exhausted, but he wasn’t going to give away his responsibility. It wasn’t often he was shouldered with any real duties, and when they came Ori threw himself into them with a fierce determination, desperate to prove his worth. He wasn’t going to give up his watch to his breaking prince, just because he was tired.

“I can’t hear you.” Fili whispered. “Shuffle over.” With his blanket over his shoulders, Fili carefully made his way around the fire, careful not to step on any fingers or braids. Ori squeezed over in his little space, pushing aside Bofur’s outstretched arm. The dwarf didn’t break his snore, hat pulled down firmly over his eyes. It was a tight fit but the both of them managed to sit beside each other, arms touching beneath the blankets. For a long time, neither of them spoke. They sat staring into the fire, quite unsure of what to say, if there was anything that could be said. The silence became awkward; Fili cleared his throat softly, unable to bear the tense quietness, he opened his mouth to say the only thing he thought he could say.

“Ori, I-I’m-”

“If you say sorry again, I’ll hit you.” Fili turned his head and saw Ori’s lips twitching in that little smile of his. “You’ve said it enough.” Fili nodded silently, turning back to the fire. “You don’t have to always be talking Fili. Silence is nice sometimes.” 

“All right.” Fili whispered. He looked down, seeing Ori’s knee pressed against his. The point of contact was flooded with warmth, beneath all the blankets and trousers. He was certain he could feel a pulse, beating softly against his skin. Ori’s hands still twitched restlessly in his lap, desperate for something to _do._ A sock to darn, anything. Ori devoted his life to labours of craft and finesse, Fili remembered. The long hours of idleness would have been driving him mad.

Fili fed the fire. Both watched as a flurry of sparks rose into the air, sending the moths scattering in fright. Ori took off his mittens and stretched his hands out before the flames and Fili found himself looking down at those thin, bony fingers. He was reminded, painfully, of somebody else. He thought for a long time about Thorin’s darkest secrets, the concealed scars he wore on his heart. The anger, the violence and hatred towards his younger brother, the long years of growing distance, ending in blood and death. And he wondered.

“I have something of yours.” Ori’s voice sounded weak and disused and Fili knew he was struggling to stay awake at this point. He heard the soft rustle of clothing, and looked to see Ori’s palm held out before him, four silver hair clasps lying on his skin. They gleamed in the paltry firelight, shining, they seemed to Fili, with the light of diamonds. He couldn’t breathe. An odd little noise escaped from his throat, he clapped a hand over his mouth and his eyes started to sting. He’d left them. He’d left them to be buried in the dirt and leaves, to lie forgotten in the dark forest. He’d left them to _hurt_ Thorin, to express a pain and anger that he could not articulate. But here they were, they lay in Ori’s hand, they were being offered up to him. Fili’s hands shook, they curled into fists and he couldn’t unclench them and show Ori just how badly he trembled. Ori carefully took his wrist, pulling his arm out. He gripped Fili’s fingers, unwinding them. The blonde allowed his tight grip to slacken, he slowly unfurled his fist to let Ori press the silver into the palm of his hand. The clasps were warm against his skin; Fili curled his hand closed and pressed it against his forehead, overcome with the most bitter and painful urge to cry.

“Thank you.” His voice was a choked sob and he knew he couldn’t hide his trembling. Fili’s head was bent downwards, he felt the biting edge of the silver on his hands and his heart thudded madly within him. The deep throb of his pulse beat in his skull and he blinked as the vision of the fire wavered before him. “Ori – I...” His breath quickened. “Thank you.” He whispered. He wanted to say so much more. That he never deserved this, he was horrible to him, to everybody, he would never speak a word against him again. But all of that, it was lost in his throat. He lowered his hand and looked over at Ori and realised that he didn’t need to say any of it. Ori was looking at him with that familiar, quiet look, his wide eyes looking into Fili, and past him, bearing down into his soul. He read everything with his gaze, with the attention to detail, the silent observation of the artist.

Fili looked down as he opened his hand. The four little clasps from Thorin. Around his neck he wore the larger one. It clinked against Kili’s when he ran, the pair dancing against his collarbone.

“I s’pose it doesn’t do for a prince to walk around like I do.” Fili grabbed a fistful of wild golden hair. “Even on the road.” That was what Kili always said. He always braided Fili’s hair with just as much care and precision as if they prepared for a grand feast. He dragged his fingers through a lock, catching innumerable snarls and tangles. “Ori – do you have a comb?”

“Ye-es...” Ori murmured in thought. He bent over his pack, searching. “Somewhere... Beorn said I could take it. Don’t you have one?”

“Kili did.” Dark blue eyes lowered to his hand. “He kept one in his pocket but...” He trailed off. No need to finish that sentence. It was gone now, buried beneath the stone alongside his clothes. Fili was offered the comb by Thorin, but refused to take it, even though it was only ever used on his hair. It wasn’t his to take.

“Of course.” Ori’s voice was very small. “Here.” Fili accepted the wide-tooth comb, resting the clasps on the ground as he started to drag the piece of iron through handful-sized tangles, the sound of tearing rasping in the air. “No-” Ori’s bony fingers snatched the comb away. “What are you _doing?”_

“Combing.” Fili looked to his side, saw Ori staring at him as though he had tried to pick his nose with it.

“You’ll rip the hair from your scalp like that.” Ori huffed. “Start at the bottom and work your way up. Don’t you know how to do it?”

“Well – I never did.” Fili scowled. He didn’t like being told off by anybody, let alone Ori. “Kili used to spend ages doing it – I didn’t look at what he was doing.”

“Don’t take whole handfuls like that. Mahal – no wonder your hair’s a mess. It’s almost dreadlocks in part-” At that, Fili seized the comb in panic, _tearing_ it down his wild hair. “Fili!” Ori hissed, grabbing his wrist, not understanding. He caught Fili’s gaze, the eyes wide and almost black, seized in momentary terror at his words.

“You do it then.” Fili panted. He touched the back of his hair with his free hand and realised with an awful jolt that Ori was _right._ The locks at the back were matted and ragged. _How did he let it get so bad?_ Fili had never cared for his hair – it had always been Kili who took care of it for him.

“All right.” Ori took the comb from Fili’s hair, pulling on his shoulders in a silent command for Fili to turn around. “It’s going to hurt a bit.” He warned. “And pay attention who what I’m doing.” He knew Fili had his hair braided by his brother but he never realised that Fili relied so heavily on Kili, how much the younger dwarf took care of him. “I’m not going to comb it every night for you.” He would never dream of stepping into a memory. He wasn’t going to replace Kili for him.

Fili endured the comb in silence. Ori muttered under his breath, stopping to pick out leaves and twigs snarled in the blonde hair, one hand wound tightly around a lock while he gently teased out the ends, working higher and higher until the teeth of the comb bit into Fili’s scalp and ran freely down his hair.

It took _so long._ Ori’s eyes drooped in exhaustion but he didn’t feel tired as he forced the comb through Fili’s wild hair. His hands were busy in their gentle labour, forcing out the seemingly unforgivable tangles and matted knots without tugging on Fili’s scalp and hurting him. He lost himself completely, staring at the molten waterfall of gold that trailed down Fili’s back. The blanket fell from his shoulders as he got up onto his knees, but he didn’t feel cold, pressed in on three sides with the sleeping bodies of dwarves, the fire flickering almost cheerfully on the fourth.

Fili closed his eyes as he felt the thin hands in his hair. It was the most overwhelming sensation. If he kept his eyes shut, he could almost, _almost_ pretend that it was not Ori who was gently combing his hair. He could almost believe, just for a moment, that the hands belonged to somebody else.

And in that moment, he realised with an awful tearing in his chest that it bring relief. It didn’t feel _good_ to pretend, the way he did. It seemed so false and hollow to imagine that it wasn’t Ori, that somebody else was engaged in their ancient, private ritual. It felt like another betrayal, at that moment, as he had before with Thorin’s attempt to fix his hair. He had betrayed Kili’s memory again by letting somebody else in. By replacing him, by trying to reimagine those hands. But he _hadn’t_ , he hadn’t because he was gone, he was gone and nothing was ever going to replace him. No amount of imagining could ever bring his brother back.

He realised in that moment that he’d let Kili go.

An odd little gasp tore from his throat. Ori’s hands stilled, almost finished in Fili’s hair. Tears gushed from Fili’s eyes, pouring into his thin stubble and dripping from his chin. They came like blood from a severed artery, flooding down his cheeks as he sobbed silently, his chest and shoulder wracked in soundless cries.

“F-Fili?”

“I’m fine.” Fili gasped, in a voice that was weak and tremulous and broken. It was a low, hoarse cry, that sent something rocking in the pit of Ori’s chest. “Keep going.” He couldn’t speak any more, he pressed his lips together in an effort to muffle the sobs that erupted in his dry throat. Ori ran the comb over his scalp, the soft stands of hair falling through his fingers as though spun from silk. Ori settled back on his lap, finally finished, watching as Fili wiped at his eyes before turning back to look at him. “C-Can you braid it?” He fumbled in the dirt for his clasps, holding them out to Ori in a dirty, shaking hand. “Do you r-remember how?”

“Of course.” Ori realised that Fili didn’t want him to make a fuss. He wanted the auburn-haired scribe to ignore his tears, to go on as though nothing out of the ordinary was happening. And Ori was happy to do that. He took the clasps, and as Fili turned back, brushed the hair across his neck, dividing the locks with a tooth of the comb. “Pay attention.” He instructed quietly as he ran the comb through a blonde curl. “You can braid your hair yourself if you try.” Fili nodded in silence as Ori began to twist his hair into braids. “See what I’m doing here?” He took Fili’s hand, pressing the fingers against the base of the braid. “See how tight I’m keeping it? You have to have the same tension when you start. Too loose and it falls out. Too tight and it’ll pull on your neck all day.”

“All right.” Fili’s voice sounded distant, apart. His hand fell lax, he closed his eyes and nodded whenever Ori gave him more hints and instructions, allowing the artist to take his hand and brush his fingertips over his work. But within himself, he felt so very hollow. Kili wasn’t going to come back. He was _alone_ and he couldn’t wish his brother at his side. He had to do these things by himself. He was going to have to comb and braid his hair, on top of everything else. He knew Ori couldn’t do it for him; he didn’t want to do it. But this thought sent something breaking inside of him. He ate, he slept and walked and fought and _ruled_ alone now – yet the idea of weaving his own braids, something he had forced out of his mind for weeks until the locks grew so matted and tangled that Ori insinuated he was one of _them_ , it was the most devastating of all.

Fili ran his fingertips along the finished braids. They really were perfect. Ori was just as good as Kili, when it came to plaiting his hair. There was something so achingly familiar about the soft little tug at his temples, the familiar weight on his shoulders. He fished out the larger clasp, handing it to Ori. The scribe grabbed the fistful of hair and fastened it securely at the back of his head, brushing aside rogue strands of gold before settling back and admiring his handiwork.

“It’s done.” His voice was soft and tentative but Fili caught a note of pride. He wiped at his eyes one last time before turning back. Ori’s face broke into another smile when he saw Fili’s dry eyes framed in those familiar braids. “There’s Fili.” He whispered, watching as the prince refolded his legs beneath him, unable to keep his hands out of his hair.

“Thank you.” Fili whispered in return, combing his hair through the soft curls. It felt so _right_. As though something had been restored to him. He wasn’t wild anymore. “I’ll learn to do it myself.” He promised. Ori’s heavily shadowed eyes gleamed in the fire as he nodded. “I do owe you, Ori.” The smile on Ori’s face dissolved, it slackened and his eyes went dark as he shook his head. It was as though a light inside of him had been snuffed out and Fili didn’t understand what he could have possibly done.

“No, you don’t.” Ori was deadly quiet. He drew his knees up, pressed them against his chest and wound his arms around his legs. “You don’t Fili.” He whispered, looking away from him, into the fire. “I owe you.” He screwed up his eyes. “I owe you _everything.”_ Because this was still all his fault. This would _always_ be his fault, until the world fell and the days grew dark, Ori would know that he was to blame for Kili’s death.

“Ori-”

“I should have woken you up.” Ori cut over Fili before he could speak, could try to absolve his guilt with meaningless lies. “The moment Kili walked out that door – I knew it was dangerous and I knew that he could get hurt. I just knew it. I should have woken you up.” Fili opened his mouth, but he found he had no words to utter. They gathered in his throat, sticking like glue, refusing to come out. “And I can braid your hair and pretend to be him all I like but I can’t ever undo what I’ve done.” Ori’s voice wavered and he refused to look anywhere in Fili’s direction. He saw a shift of gold, in the corner of his eye. “I killed your brother Fili and I can’t ever make up for that.”

Fili took in a breath. He wanted to deny it. He wanted to say that Ori was _wrong_ , that there was no blame towards him, there was no cause for guilt. He knew Thorin had said it all before, more than once, and he knew he had too. And he knew then, crouched beside the fire, that there was no meaning in it. They were only ever said to spare Ori’s feelings, to alleviate the shame and remorse. Because Ori was right, he was completely right. He should never have let Kili walk out that door and vanish into the night. Anybody else would have woken Thorin or Fili in a heartbeat. But Ori had remained silent. He remained silent, Fili knew, because he wanted to be recognised in Kili’s eyes. He wanted to appear as though he could be dependable, a secret-keeper. He tried to gain Kili’s trust by keeping his secret _and he killed him._

Fili’s silence spoke volumes in agreement and Ori was glad for that. He felt like his own weight had shifted inside of him, as that burning, bitter guilt that he nursed for so long, the one that had been ignored or swept aside, was finally acknowledged by the one who was closer to Kili than anybody. It didn’t go away – it never would, but it withdrew. It didn’t beat at the walls of his heart and scream in his ear. It deflated, shrinking. It didn’t dominate him. Fili couldn’t speak, but he groped out with his hand, he found Ori’s wrist and he squeezed him very tightly. Tears of relief pushed at Ori’s eyes. It was what he wanted – he wanted someone to admit to him that he had done wrong, and he wanted forgiveness for it.

And he had that. Ori knew he had that as he looked down at his hand and saw Fili’s fingers gripped so tightly around his wrist. He knew Fili forgave him for what he had done, for loving Kili, and for killing him. And he wasn’t afraid anymore. He wasn’t afraid of Thorin, of Nori. He wasn’t afraid of orcs or darkness or elves or Smaug himself. He closed his eyes for a moment in the blackness, feeling its weight on his eyelids. He felt strangely untouchable, as though he had walked through fire and felt red-hot coals beneath his feet, and emerged from the other end, burned and blackened but _alive_ , with the air still tearing through his lungs, his heart beating in his chest. He didn’t care that they were still trapped within the forest, that their food and water were running out and everybody was exhausted and Durin’s Day was beckoning and they still had so very, very far to go.

Let it come. He opened his eyes as Fili’s grip slackened. He looked to his side and saw the blonde staring into the fire, chin propped up on his hands. Ori lowered his legs, stretching out from his cramped, nervous position.

“We’ll be all right.” He announced in the sleepy camp, his voice still very low. “We’ve come through so much Fili – we’ll be all right.”

“We will be.” Fili murmured a soft agreement, huddled close to the fire, cold and hungry and so very tired. But despite all of that, he felt as though there was a suit of mithril beneath his skin, it was sturdy and impenetrable and would never ever break. He reached up, touching his new braids as they fell over his shoulders.

“We’re going to be fine.”


	34. An Arrow in the Dark

“So the rumours are true indeed.” There was a nasty snarl on Azog’s face, it twisted his features and left a bitter, uncomfortable taste in Kili’s mouth. Nobody else dared to approach him; it was only the orc-king and the grey-limbed dwarf, standing side by side on the edge of the path with the rest clustered behind.

The marshes stretched out before them, perhaps two hundred feet across, before dissolving into the River Running itself. It was late in the afternoon – the sun was watery and pale at their backs, and there was a slight chill in the air. Autumn had passed its midpoint.

“Marshland.” Kili kept his voice low. “How deep does it go?” He looked up at Azog, watching him grind his teeth and curl his hand into a fist.

“Too deep to walk.” His voice was low and it crackled with fury. “We cannot go around.” For the path gave way to the marsh at the edge of the wood, and to go around would put them miles and miles out of the way, if they were to find a clear way at all. The reeds were green and straw-golden, the water still and smooth as emerald glass. It almost looked pretty in that soft yellow light. But Azog saw no beauty in the land before him – only a cruel, tedious hindrance. “We must go across.”

“What about the reeds.” On his knees, Kili leaned over, seizing a handful of the dry stalks. “Can we make some sort of boat out of them?” Kili sliced through the reeds with his knife, wavering a little as he crouched on the edge of the bank. Azog looked down as Kili blew through one of them, eyes widening in surprise. “They’re hollow.” He muttered. “Do you think we could make a boat?”

Azog stopped. He looked down at Kili, holding up the hollow reed with a little twist in his mouth, a look of deep thought. The orc-king looked across, at the hundreds and hundreds of clumps gathered along the shore, as far as they could see in both directions.

“ _Khatûrz_.” Azog muttered the word, turning away from Kili, kneeling on the bank. Kili bit down hard on his tongue, his heart skipping a beat in his chest. _Azog just called him clever._ Azog looked back for a moment, he saw Kili’s face break into a smile, saw his dark eyes brighten. Kili saw him looking, and he cast his eyes down, forcing his lips to fall slack and act as though he didn’t care about what Azog had said to him.

But the smile on Kili’s face, the bright look in his eyes, it stuck in Azog’s mind for a long time, refusing to go away.

* * *

The water was black as tar in the darkness. Kili leaned over the edge, trailing his fingers into the water and watching the gentle ripples shudder across the surface. The marsh-water came away clouded and brown on his hand as he pulled back, smelling of rot and mud and decay. Kili’s nose wrinkled, he ducked back inside his shaky little craft of reeds, pressing his nose against Nardur’s neck to comfort him. The warg curled up to him, whimpering and moaning like a dog, tail curled between his legs and face buried in his chest. Kili absentmindedly scratched Nardur’s fur, watching the bobbing of the makeshift raft bob dangerously low in the water.

Azog pushed the craft through the water with a long thick branch, staring beyond Kili, across the marsh-water and down the ribbon of greenish-black, cutting through the thinning forest. It had taken _hours,_ wading through the mud, cutting down the reeds and lashing them together, testing the weight of their little rafts. Night fell and they lit torches, climbing aboard and launching across the shallow marshland, scooting through the water in the dark. They negotiated the marshes, then after dragging the reeds over a reeking plateau of mud, floated the boats into the River Running itself, wide and slow-moving through the forest. Kili hummed to himself, eyes drifting closed as he leaned back in the little boat, his legs stretched out, one foot touching Azog’s knee. Curled in his lap and crushing him, Nardur covered Kili almost completely, only his eyes and nose peeking over the edge of his thick grey fur.  Pressed close together in the tiny little craft, bowed heavily under the weight of warg, dwarf, and orc, Azog gripped the side with a free hand. He hated water. Kili looked almost at home in the boat; Azog realised that it was his offhand comment before, his remark that Kili was clever for thinking to use the reeds. Kili could pretend that such a little comment was meaningless, but Azog saw the way he smiled and he knew that it had meant a lot to him.

“Look ahead.” Kili’s eyes snapped open at Azog’s rough voice. He was leaning forward, eyes narrowing as he squinted ahead in the darkness. Twisting beneath the weight of the warg, rocking the little boat dangerously, Kili managed to arch his neck enough to look behind him. There was a very, very distant twinkling, looking like a candleflame, suspended in the blackness.

“Who is it?” Kili found he was whispering, watching Azog’s face in the light of their torch. “You said there were no woodmen on the eastern edge of the forest.”

“There isn’t.” Azog hissed. “ _Golug.”_ His voice rose along the water. Elves. “Douse your torches and head for the banks.” Kili wriggled out from under Nardur, taking the torch thrust into the reeds between them and throwing it into the water. Azog pushed the boat across to the eastern bank, the three wavering as the reeds shuddered against the mud. Nardur threw himself onto solid land, clambering to the grass and waiting patiently for his master. Azog jumped easily to the bank, but Kili grasped about in the blackness, blind. The few hours of sunlight had absolutely ruined his slow-growing ability to see in the dark, after the long weeks of constant gloom beneath the forest.

“I can’t see.” Kili whispered. “Azog – am I close?” He leaned over, trying to feel for land. “Where are you?”

“Here.” Azog rolled his eyes in the darkness as he watched the figure groping about quite pathetically in the little boat. Mud swelled over his ankles as he got his arm around Kili, lifting him out and setting him down on a bank of loose earth. “Hold on to me until your sight adjusts.” He commanded. The last thing he wanted was Kili blundering about in the dark, getting lost or worse, crashing into something and causing a ruckus. “And keep _quiet.”_  With Kili grabbing onto his belt, their wargs following behind, and the retinue of goblins remaining a close shadow, Azog made his slow, careful way along the bank.

The lights grew. What was one became half-a-dozen, and more. There was a bend in the river; they followed along the bank and Azog realised that it wasn’t within the trees at all, like he thought. They came from the river itself. Azog crouched down behind a thick tree, peering outwards, with Kili kneeling beside him.

“Can you see better?” Azog leaned in to whisper in Kili’s ear. He felt the ragged mop of dark hair nod, tangled strands brushing his cheek. “Stay here.” He instructed, taking Kili’s hand and placing it against the tree trunk. Even though he was big, Azog was quick, sneaky, and very quiet. He had an innate ability to glide effortlessly over the fallen logs and sharp rocks without making a sound. The darkness settled comfortably around him as he edged closer and closer to the noises upon the water. It was a little boat, made for perhaps a dozen sailors and a fine amount of trade, pulled up close to the bank. Azog studied it carefully in the lantern-light, listening for the snippets of language, the voices, the shape of the figures inside. Perhaps he had been too quick, to call this the work of elves. With a snarl, he made his quiet way back, tapping Kili on the shoulder in a wordless command for the dwarf to follow him. He waved his arm, gathering the goblins in close as he knelt on the ground. Kili squinted through the darkness, making out perhaps a dozen vague shapes in the blackness, a white smudge at his side.

“It’s a boat.” Azog spoke very, very low. “Most likely a trading boat, heading towards Lake-Town.” The eyes around him glistened in the darkness. The aching desire of valuables, of rich food and drink, it intoxicated them. “It’s not of elvish make and the figures inside look like men. There can’t be more than a dozen on board, and they will all be merchants and sailors, not soldiers.” There was a smile on his face, one Kili couldn’t see. “It will furnish us well, with food and supplies.” There was a hushed undercurrent, a whisper. They were all in agreement. Kili listened silently, a growing, uncomfortable tightness in his stomach at what Azog was suggesting. A fleeting raid in the night, with slit throats and stabbed bellies, coming and going as quick as a whisper.

This was exactly what he was afraid of. Kili listened to Azog’s whispered plan, the knot in his stomach constricting, hurting him, infecting his chest. _I can’t do this._ He felt a twig dig into his knee through the sturdy leather of his trousers, a spider across his finger in the dirt. He became painfully aware of the air in his lungs, the heavy throbbing of his pulse with an odd rushing in his ears. Kili closed his eyes and dug his fingers into the earth, as though he clung to the side of a cliff, and any moment now he would fall into the black abyss below.

“Kili.” Azog prodded the dwarf on the shoulder. With a low gasp, Kili’s eyes snapped open, hands loosening in the dirt, letting go. “I said – you’ll look-out on the right side, by the _furgh_ with Krûklak. The moment I give the signal, start shooting.”

“Yes.” Kili’s voice rattled in his throat and he felt very cold. They were going to ambush an innocent party of sailors and merchants. They weren’t soldiers, they weren’t here to fight. He knew in his heart that this was so very wrong. He knew he couldn’t end any of the men upon that ship. But what could he do? Miss? Azog knew he was a better shot than that, even in the dark. They would be lit by their lanterns, it would be enough for him to land a killing strike. He was backed into a corner. Kili looked to his side, at the pale monster beside him, and he knew he couldn’t for a single moment consider disobeying him. He had come too far, had lost, had _suffered_ too much to give up now, to be exposed.

As he rose to his feet, groping out and grabbing Azog by the hand, Kili felt a part of himself falling away. It remained there, on the ground and he left it as he stepped through the darkness, retracing the steps of the orc-king. He felt numb and hollow, a puppet made of wood. As they crept closer and he began to make out slender, black outlines against the hovering baubles of yellow light, Kili felt his empty insides harden. The thrumming pulse in his head died away and he let out a long, steady breath. He broke away from Azog, his footsteps feather-light in the dark. Kili followed Krûklak, eyes on the slender goblin’s back as he crept slowly through the low bushes, a low rustling in their wake.

When they found enough room to crouch, satisfied they could get a clear shot while remaining relatively sheltered, Krûklak stopped. Kili sank low, on the balls of his feet, an arrow on the string. And they both waited. Kili breathed in and out, keeping his hands steady and pushing back the roar of his mind. They were already dead. They were dead the moment nightfall struck and they decided to continue through Mirkwood, rather than pulling up on the plains and waiting for dawn to break. There was nothing Kili could do spare them, even if he wanted to. He looked at the flitting shadows, heard the sound of laughter and merriment against his ears. He thought for a moment that it was a foreign language that met them in the darkness; it took a shockingly long time for Kili to realise that they were speaking Westron in an accent that was thick, unlike anything else that he had heard. The long-lost words pulled at his heart and Kili found his lip was trembling. A cluster milled about on the upper deck; they wore long, loose trousers beneath baggy tunics, in dark colours of purple and blue and red. One played a fiddle while the others sang, voices raising in the night, an old pub-song that Kili didn’t know. They were drunk.

“Where are they from?” Kili breathed in the goblin’s ear, keeping the bowstring taut. At his side, Krûklak shrugged.

“Don’t know.” His voice was low, it grated on Kili’s ears in the night. “They’ve sure had their fill though, the _flâgîtu_.” He talked about the wine, not realising how little Dorwinion wine it took to arouse such merriment. Half a flagon, and they danced with reckless abandon. “This won’t take long.” Kili opened his mouth to respond, eyes still fixed on the deck, when a new figure appeared from the cabins, making his heart sink and a choked gasp spill from his lips.

It was a child.

A boy, thin and gangly and no older than fifteen, crossed the deck with a piece of paper in his hand. He approached the fiddler, brown eyes shining in the light. Kili couldn’t breathe, the rushing came back full force in his ears and his hand loosened on the bowstring. He couldn’t look away from the boy, holding the paper so it could be read in the light, the fiddler leaning back a little to examine it while his fingers flew across the strings.

 _No no no no no._ Kili’s eyes stung. He blinked and his vision wobbled, and he refused to look away. He wanted to stand up, to scream that they _couldn’t do this_ , that he was just a boy and there was no need for this, for any of this, they could just leave them on the side of the bank and sail away into the night with the cargo.

But he couldn’t. Kili knew the goblins wanted the men as much as any other food they would have stored below deck. He knew what was going to happen, to all of them, and it made his stomach twist in a fresh sick horror. Horror because he knew he was going to have to eat it too, there was nothing he could do to protect them. Or himself. He watched the boy say something in the fiddler’s ear, the man roaring in laughter, tilting his head back.

There was no mercy in letting the boy live. Kili looked at himself, feeling so separate and apart, thought about everything he had done, everything he had suffered through. The torture, the breaking and the burning. He had endured, had come through the other side, clinging to the ragged scraps of life and sanity while letting everything else go. Broken down, rusted pieces of something that didn’t quite work the same, that couldn’t ever be put back together. And he couldn’t imagine a worse fate than his – to be imprisoned, a small, useless thing to be blackened and twisted into something ugly.

Death was better.

Kili pulled the bowstring taut, waiting for Azog’s low growl through the night. He kept the arrow firmly pointed forward, kept his hands tense and still and unshakeable. He blinked, forcing back the tears, the bitter, burning bile in his throat, the roaring in his ears.

It came with a low roar. At his side, Krûklak went for the tallest, the strongest-looking of the drunken dancers on deck. Kili didn’t. He watched the joy, abruptly snuffed out, the music dying and the singing turning to screams as goblins swarmed the deck. It was a low little craft and the creatures were light and nimble. The wargs followed, leaping easily on their huge hindquarters. All of this he saw in his split second of hesitation, feeling as though the world had slowed down while he knelt in the darkness with the arrow fitted against the string. But his faltering lasted only a for a single, deafening heartbeat; Kili knew he only had a few moments before the boy disappeared from his line of sight, before he was stuck like a pig or torn to pieces by the ravenous wargs.

A sob broke from his throat as he let the arrow fly. Kili watched the boy crumple to the wood; the fiddler screamed, a horrible sound in the night that rose above the growl of the wargs and the cries of the men, hurrying below deck as though they could escape the gruesome, bloody onslaught. One that remained, hanging in the air, reverberating in Kili’s skull long after the man had died.

“Good shot.” Krûklak muttered in Kili’s ear, rising to his feet. “Right through the eye.” Another arrow flew through the air, Kili watching as the goblin struck the fiddler in the chest. Kili drew another arrow from the quiver, his fingers shaking madly, but it was already over for him. The rest had fallen below deck; he heard only screams, the sick thudof bodies falling on wood, the growling and snapping of the wargs.

Kili was too short to climb on the deck like the others; he had to wait for a rope to be thrown over, had to haul himself up, hand over hand, with his broken arm hurting terribly and his thin muscles trembling underneath the strain. He bit back a sob as his feet finally touched the sloping boards, eyes drawn to the thin body in a twisted huddle, unmoving. Kili’s heart was beating outside of his body; he didn’t feel it as he crossed the deck. He felt nothing. He stopped a foot away from the boy, hands still and lax at his side as he stared down at the child he had killed. He wore loose blue clothing, the tunic too big for him. Brown, weather-beaten hands sprouted through the cuffs of the sleeves, the rough limbs of a labourer. The arrow had gone straight through the eye; at this close range, it would have been an instant kill. He wouldn’t have suffered, wouldn’t have felt any pain. Kili had shown him true mercy, in that fleeting, painless death.

A flash of white caught Kili’s vision. He glanced up to see Azog emerging from the low cabin below deck. Blood flecked his skin, his eyes gleaming. The awful screaming had all died down; the boat was silent now, bobbing in the night with only the sounds of wargs and goblins rising in the blackness. Kili’s eyes met the orc-king, standing over the body, and Azog knew in that second that Kili had let fly that arrow, had killed the boy in a moment with a single, merciful shot. He smiled. Kili’s eyes lowered, his hands tightened into fists at his side, the urge to scream at him, at _all_ of them, rising in his throat. But he held his tongue, as he always did. He remained silent as he knelt down, hand on the boy’s face as he grasped the shaft of his sturdy arrow. And with his eyes shut, he pulled.

While Azog barked out his orders, Kili remained on his knees beside the child’s body, silent and unmoving. The arrow was in his hand, the mess on the iron head wiped away. At some point, Nardur trotted over to Kili, curling up beside him and resting his head in the dwarf’s lap. Kili laid his hands on the grey fur but didn’t pet him, as he usually did. Blood was all around Nardur’s muzzle. Kili knew he was supposed to congratulate the warg on his kill, but Kili’s voice was dead in his throat. He couldn’t speak a word.

They dragged the body away after some time. Kili looked up, jaw clenching with horror when he saw the bodies in a line along the deck. He stood up, backing away from the sight until his back struck the wooden railing. He turned towards the darkness, the glassy black water, the light and horror at his back. The arrow was still in his hand. Kili looked down at it in the dark. He’d crafted every aspect of it himself. No. Almost every aspect. The black iron, shaped into a bodkin point, that wasn’t his. But everything else he’d made from his own hands, made to be stronger and swifter than the cheap goblin-arrows. And with the arrow, with the skill of his hands, he killed a child.

 _I can never undo this._ He looked down at his grey hands, turning the arrow over and over in his fingers. The blood of the innocent was on his soul and nothing could bring absolution. It was done. Murder had been committed in that still Autumn night. He felt nothing that he thought he should, inside of himself. Shame and guilt, they clung at the edges of his soul, clawing desperately but struggling to get a hold. He didn't feel them. Kili raised his eyes to the night, the bare twinkling of stars scattered across the blackness. He felt so cold and apart, walking through a world that held nothing for him, anymore. He didn't feel anything. He _couldn't_ feel anything. The horror of what he had done touched Kili, leaving a fresh black stain on his smudged, dirty soul. But he felt nothing in his chest, only a steady heartbeat, as resolute and regular as a pair of feet, marching towards a battle that threatened to tear the earth in two, transcending any mortal preoccupation with life and death.

The arrow dropped silently into the water, with only a ripple, barely noticeable in the waves from the shifting boat, to suggest that it had ever existed.


	35. Tipping Point

There was a quietness to the night as Kili walked about on the deck. He let the lantern dangle from his hand, throwing shadows across the wooden boards. They were like long, dark fingers that reached out for him. Kili closed his eyes and let out a long breath, trying to stem the fear rising in his chest.

There was blood on the boards. Kili wrinkled his nose and looked away at the stains, trying so hard not to remember what had happened just a few hours before. He turned his eyes up to the sky, as though the stars strewn in the velvety blackness could offer up any sort of comfort to him. Kili groaned, his neck stiff, and with a low growl of frustration, threw himself onto the deck, with his legs splayed out before him. Following behind, Nardur licked at his face before settling down to sleep, curled on his side away from Kili.

It had to be perhaps three or four hours before dawn, at this point. The camp had settled down to sleep; a feast had raged long into the night, and while Azog forbade his retinue to touch any of the potent wine, they had eaten themselves sick on the cured meats, the rich cheeses and of course, the crew members themselves. Kili picked at a side of salted pork, too nervous and overwhelmed to eat, even though he was so achingly hungry.

They divided the booty up amongst themselves and played games, gambling it around. Kili didn’t take anything, didn’t play. He was listless and empty and nothing could rouse him from his depressive funk. He feigned exhaustion, disappeared below deck into a little bunk allocated to him, and waited for sleep to claim him. But it didn’t. It _couldn’t._ Whenever he closed his eyes, Kili heard that horrible, anguished screaming of the fiddler as his son – Kili knew it was his son, knew there was no other cause for such pain – was pierced by Kili’s arrow and killed. He saw the remaining eye, wide and dark and glassy, staring up at him. The look of terror on that sun-browned face. He waited until the tiny cabin filled and when it did, slipped out in the darkness, followed by his warg, resigning himself to pacing the deck, in the deep silence of night, waiting for the dawn with only the memories in his head to whisper to him.

Kili looked to the side, frowning at the curve of wood lit by his lantern, darker than the bloodstained wood of the deck. He reached out, fingers closing around the neck of the fiddle. Groping in the darkness, Kili found the bow, holding both on the lantern-light. They had been left where they fell and kicked aside; goblins didn’t have any use for fiddles, didn’t know how they worked. Their instruments consisted of crude drums, animal skins stretched over wooden frames, sounding their heartbeat tones in the deepest cracks of rock.

It had been a long time since Kili played the fiddle. His archer’s hands, so quick and light, were naturally very good on the string; he played better than Fili ever did, with a natural fluidity and nuance his brother couldn’t ever replicate. He was very good when he was younger, and he would sit beside the fire with his mother, playing softly while she sang. But that was years ago, they faded into hazy memory and had no place for him here, in this life.

Kili rested the bout against his collarbone, tucking it under his chin. He drew the bow across the string, bringing a low, mournful note into the night air. It hovered around him, a wail of grief and pain. He swallowed and tried a higher note. That was better. It was almost cheerful, the lilting sing-song of a child’s rhyme-game on a summer afternoon. Kili struck another note, and another. And he almost forgot the screaming in his head, as he started to play a soft little tune, squeaky and stilted at first as he struggled to remember how to hold the bow, where to place his fingers and angle the neck. He felt himself sinking further and further into memory, replaying the old songs from his childhood. His heart grew tighter and his eyes stung and he knew it was hurting. But Kili couldn’t stop, he couldn’t ever stop. At least it drowned out the screaming.

The song broke Azog from an uneasy sleep.

He jerked up in his bed, a low bunk too small for him in a boxy cabin meant to house just two cramped souls. With a groan, Azog gripped the edge of the bed, hauling himself up to his feet. He walked with slumped shoulders beneath the low boards, bowing his head as he followed the narrow passageway. The sound of the fiddle grew as he approached the deck, a slow, mournful sound that scraped on the air. It sounded like a song for the dead and there was only one hand here, that could play it.

Kili sat cross-legged on the middle of the deck, lit only by a single lantern before him. Nardur lay stretched on his side at Kili’s right, snoring lightly. In the doorway, Azog was unnoticed, Kili’s head bent as he ran the bow along the string. It had been a long time since he last played, and the skill had leaked out of his fingers. The occasional squeak and flat note grated against Azog’s ears as he stood invisible, watching the dwarf play for several minutes. It was an ancient lullaby, one his mother used to sing to him, when he was fussy and restless and would not sleep.

He broke off rather unexpectedly with a sob. Azog paused, watching with a frown as the bow slipped from Kili’s fingers and clattered to the deck. His broken arm fell with a wince, the fiddle falling with a low thud. A rough, ugly gasp tore from Kili’s throat; his head sank into his hands and Azog realised very quickly that the dwarf was crying. It was obviously the music that had done it, stirring some blurry memory from the darkened tangle of what he used to be. Kili drew his knees in close, resting his forehead on his legs and wrapping his arms very tightly around himself. His sobs were broken and jagged and hopeless. Nardur awoke, trying to bury his nose into the crook of Kili’s neck and he flung his arms around the warg, grabbing handfuls of the thick grey fur, stemming the flow of his tears against it. Azog watched the entire exchange silently, tapping one finger against the low doorframe, unsure if he should intrude on Kili, exploit that moment of raw open weakness, or walk away and leave him to his solitary grief.

The deck creaked as he made his way across the sloped boards. Kili’s head jerked up with a gasp, wet eyes widening as he saw the orc-king approaching him through the darkness. Kili wiped at his face quickly, smearing the ash on his face, streaks of white showing in the dull light of the lantern. The dwarf pushed Nardur away with a mutter, straightening his clothes and trying to resemble his last scrappy remains of composure.

“I thought everyone was asleep.” Kili’s voice was thin and stretched and utterly pathetic. He was obviously embarrassed; he looked down at his hands, keeping his shoulders slumped. Azog made a low noise in his throat, an obvious sound of discontent.

“I _was._ ” He kicked at the fiddle, sending it skidding into the darkness. Kili flinched, his face strained.

“I’m sorry.” Kili whispered. He wouldn’t look up; Azog’s feet stepped into his field of vision, the orc-king leaning down a little. “I couldn’t sleep.” He explained, humiliated that he had been caught crying. “It’s an old song and I thought if I heard it-” His voice broke off and Kili gritted his teeth as the tightness rose in his throat. He was going to cry again. “I’m sorry.” He added lamely, feeling Azog’s eyes fixed on him. Kili fell silent, waiting for the orc-king to respond, waiting to be mocked or beaten or shouted at. Kili didn’t know how to react anymore, how to please Azog. One moment he thought he had it all figured out, he knew just who Azog wanted him to be, and the next he was being hit and called useless and insubordinate. Kili didn’t know how to win. He didn’t know if he _could._

“Why are you crying.” It was phrased like a statement. Azog’s voice was flat and almost disinterested, as he stared down at the dwarf. Kili’s head jerked up, his mouth half-open as his eyes glistened with fresh tears.

“What – why do you _think?”_ Kili gasped. “Azog – I _killed_ someone today.” He threaded his fingers through dirty, tangled hair, shaking his head. “I can’t ever – I can’t-”

“It’s hardly the first life you’ve taken.” Azog’s voice was so cool and calm and even. “You shot down half of my tribe near Bruinen.” Kili watched Azog, mouth still open. “You killed that nasty little goblin, in cold blood. How is that boy any different?” Kili stared at him with his open mouth, speech completely lost. “Is his life worth more than others you have ended, just because of his white skin?” He looked very pointedly at the ash smeared on Kili’s face. “Because he’s young? Isn’t that lucky, dying young, escaping all that pain and suffering?” Kili couldn’t utter a single word in response. His voice failed him, completely. “Don’t you think it is better that he never got to lose his innocence?” Kili’s eyes lowered down to his hands, his bloody, killer hands. “Would you have someone suffer your fate?”

“No.” Azog strained to hear Kili’s low, deadened voice. The dwarf swallowed, taking in a shuddering breath as he fought back more tears. “I wouldn’t.” But it wasn’t justification enough for his fractured soul. Kili was in pieces, scattered all about on the deck and he couldn’t reach down and pick them all up. Kili wrapped his arms around himself, screwing up his eyes and biting down hard on his lip as the urge to cry passed him like a fit, a panic attack. He wished he’d never touched the fiddle now. He wished he had never given into his urge and ran the bow across the string, had never tried to relive those childish memories that had slipped through his fingers, irrevocably lost. It only hurt now, to hear that song. It was a blow on his heart, it crippled him and left him raw and anguished, longing for something would never get back. “It’s better to be dead.” Kili’s lifeless voice struck a chord deep within Azog. He frowned as he focused his stare on Kili, resting a hand on his hip.

“Do you wish you were dead?” A note of curiosity crept into his voice, one that made Kili start, and look back up at him with his wide brown eyes. They were so heavy with shadows, his face so pale and tight, turned up towards the orc-king. And in a moment, all of it changed. Azog’s hand clenched, he watched as that raw, broken look hardened, the sadness dissolved and Kili’s lip curled and he reached for the his belt. Azog thought he was Kili was going to lunge for _him,_ he stepped back, raising the mace through his arm and assuming a snarl. But Kili didn’t reach for him at all. Azog froze, eyes widening a hairs-breadth as Kili pressed the little bone-handled knife against the base of his throat.

He had hardened into iron with Azog’s cruel words – he had been so close to breaking down, to giving in to him, and in that moment, when he lingered so close to total defeat, Kili realised how impossible it would be to give up. He had committed the highest crime any could ask of him – he had spilled the blood of the innocent and in that sin he had completely severed any remaining threads of goodness and purity. He wasn’t an unwilling hostage anymore. He was twisted and dark, as dark as any of them and no amount of guilt, _guilt he struggled to even feel_ , could wash his soul clean. There was no golden heart, no core of warmth that he nursed and nurtured and kept safe in the hope of rescue. Only more shadows and pain, only a rotting blackness. There was _nothing_ to protect. And in that moment of realisation, when Azog asked if Kili would rather be dead, it was like that last thin golden thread snapped. The full force of what he had done, his contemptible, vile crime that could never be undone, it unfurled. Kili realised, in a moment of clarity, that his own vestigial traces of innocence, his remaining pretences at goodness, they had died with the child, in the darkness and confusion and pain.

“I could kill myself right now.” His voice was hoarse in the dim light. Kili was anguished, humiliated that he had been caught crying, determined to claw back just an ounce of self-respect, feeling sick at the mere thought of ending his own life. “I could slash my throat and bleed out in moments.” Azog slowly lifted his good hand. “There is _nothing_ to stop me Azog. Not you, not Nardur, not _anybody_. I could end everything right now and there is nothing you could do.” Kili’s face was contorted – he _growled_ out the words in his rough voice, fingers curled like claws around the bone handle. Azog was looking at him _and he looked worried._ Kili’s dark eyes glaring at him, they narrowed in satisfaction, in the knowledge that at least for that single moment, Kili held all the power, held everything in his hand, while he had the knife pressed against his throat. “And everything you’ve done to me, everything you’ve planned, it would be for nothing. _Months_ of work will mean nothing, all in seconds.” Kili fought to keep a tremor out of his voice. He knew looking weak or afraid at this moment would spoil everything, would tear down the delicate facade that he struggled to hold up with trembling, broken hands.

A low groan issued from Azog’s throat as Kili slammed the knife into the grimy boards of the deck, eyes wider than Kili had ever seen them. Kili panted, head bowed as he relaxed his hold on the knife, leaving it stuck in the wood. He looked up slowly, his narrow, angry eyes framed in a wild tangle of dark hair.

“But I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction.” Kili spat. Azog remained very quiet and still, looking down at him for a long time. Kili never broke his gaze, he kept his chin lifted while Azog looked down at him, the orc-king so obviously rattled at what Kili had done.

Nobody had stood up to him like that before, had obliquely challenged his ultimate power. Azog weighed it all up in his head, eyes fixed on Kili’s face, his tight jaw, the trickle of sweat that oozed down his temple. He took it all in, the silence stretching out longer and longer as Kili kept that fixed, iron expression on his face, refusing to move a single muscle.

Azog knelt down slowly, after what seemed an age of that tense, still silence. Kili didn’t change his expression, but his heart raced inside of himself, beating faster and faster as Azog crouched down and leaned forward, so they were eye-to-eye, the same height. Azog grabbed the knife, the bone handle so thin and small in his monstrous hand. He pulled it free of the boards, maintaining his even stare with Kili every single moment. Kili didn’t flinch when the blade gleamed in the golden lantern-light, didn’t look down as Azog  pressed the blade very firmly against his throat, in the very same place where Kili had put it a few minutes before.

“Do it.” Kili whispered. He refused even to blink, staring at Azog, down at his eye-level. He was _done_ with all of this. He could play this game of nerves, with the knife at his throat until dawn and he wouldn’t ever flinch. He stared at Azog with a low, cold resolve and Azog stared back at him, the knife biting into his ash-grey skin, threatening to draw blood and spill all over the both of them. “Slice me open Azog.” Kili breathed the words, little more than a trembling vibration in his throat. Azog looked at him with that angry, violent scowl on his face.

He wanted to _hurt_ Kili. He wanted to drag the knife across his face as he had all those weeks before. He wanted so sink the blade into Kili’s heart, wanted to hear him scream in pain. He wanted to put Kili’s eyes out, wanted to mutilate him and leave him scattered on the ground in pieces. Azog snarled, the blade biting into Kili’s neck. He knew he _couldn’t do it._ He knew he couldn’t hurt Kili, not just then, because then it meant _Kili would have won._ For the first time, ever, Kili had held the pieces in his hand, had laid them out, had waited for Azog to make his move. He was _playing_ with Azog. He played with Azog in the wake of his awful act of murder, had staked his own life in this game, just to prove a point, had pushed Azog and refused to bend to him, had shown that even though his goodness and innocence had completely gone, he was never going to break his will.

And in that moment Azog knew that Kili was never going to be saved from him.

He relaxed his grip, the knife at Kili’s throat was lifted away, he held the bone handle out to Kili. And there was a smile in his face when he did it.

“I underestimated you.” Kili took the blade silently, not breaking the gaze even now, even though Azog’s anger had dissolved. Kili had won this round – but it was just one battle, one wordless game of wits at the end of a long and bloody war, and Azog had crushed him, without question. “I won’t do that again, Kili.”

“Good.” Kili thrust the knife into the sheath at his belt. “No more games Azog.” He lay out the single condition, letting it drop between them into the darkness. His heart was beating, beating madly in his chest and Kili was sure Azog could hear it, leaning in so close to him with their eyes meeting. The smile widened, just a little, on Azog’s face. He dipped his head for a moment in a single nod.

“No more games.” And he withdrew. Azog straightened and extended his hand out to Kili. Kili pressed his hand into Azog’s palm without a word, allowing himself to be hauled up to his feet. He felt cold, very cold; he’d been sweating, he realised, and now the cool night air chilled his damp skin. Kili’s heart was still striking madly in his chest; he forced it down and kept his chin erect as he followed Azog across the deck, Nardur trotting faithfully behind.

Everything had changed, and Kili knew it. He knew Azog wouldn’t look at him with scorn or contempt. Kili had seen that unsettling concern and worry in Azog’s eyes, and he knew that he left an impression on the orc-king, even if he wasn’t sure of the exact shape of it. Kili knew that he _meant_ something now. He had shown that Azog had misjudged him all along, had pushed him almost to the edge but never quite over, for weeks. And his implied suggestion that Kili end his own life, that he kill himself and undo everything, render all that suffering and pain completely worthless, it had tipped him over, had uncovered something very dark within Kili, something that wasn’t cowed by fear or pain.

Was this better? Kili looked at the pale shape of Azog’s back, bent almost double in the low, narrow passageway below deck. Having gained that fleeting moment of dominance over Azog, over the one who had completely torn him apart and ripped out his soul, at the cost of his last traces of purity and innocence – was it worth the cost? To know that he wouldn’t be toyed with, that he would be regarded as something worth more – was it a fair price to pay?

Yes. This was better.


	36. A Forked Path

Kili read the papers slowly, angling the dirty pages into the light of the porthole. The spelling was _atrocious_ ; Kili was a pretty bad reader at the best of times, but it took longer than he would ever admit to sound the letters aloud in his head, untangling the meanings of word-fragments from a near-foreign tongue. They were desperately boring – inventories mostly, an uneventful log, a few scraps of messages and there were grey smudges over all of them from Kili’s fingers. He needed to read only a few of them, to get an idea of the crew they had desecrated in the night. The ship hailed from the Dorwinion provinces to the East, a land filled with vineyards and farms, famed for a very delicious and potent wine. The hold was loaded with barrels and barrels of the stuff, bound for Lake-Town and the Halls of the elven-king. Kili’s eyes looked up from the paper, to the figure stretched out on the bed with his arm folded behind his head.

“Nothing interesting.” Kili sat on the edge of the wooden table, feet resting on the rather lopsided little chair. He set the page down and leaned against the bowed side of the ship, feeling the boards shudder beneath his back. “Just trade-jargon.” Azog grunted in response, staring up at the ceiling of the low bunk. “How long will we be staying on this ship?” Kili drew a leg up, slouching. Azog looked over at him briefly, noticing Kili swinging one leg idly over the edge of the table, tapping his fingers against the other in obvious boredom.

“Just another few days.” Azog muttered. “Until we’re out of the forest. Then we’ll ride again. The wargs will be well-fed, and we can hunt along the plains.”

“And then what?” Kili was staring at his knee, picking at a hole in his trousers. He looked quite purposefully away from Azog, almost as though he were afraid of what the orc-king would say. Azog heaved himself out of the low bunk, grumbling as he approached the low table. Kili’s leg fell still, he watched, motionless, as Azog rifled through the loose pieces of paper and fished out a worn old map.

“We’re here.” Azog pointed, his huge white finger covering a distance of roughly ten miles. “The river comes north.” He traced its path. “There’s a distance of forty or fifty miles along the plain between the River Running and the Elf-kingdom.” Kili looked down at the map, finding his mouth dry. “We’ll get a scent by then, and we will know if Thorin has managed to leave the forest or not. If he has, we’ll catch him in the wastelands. If not, we’ll have to negotiate a path through Mirkwood.” There was a deep scowl on his face at the thought. “And avoid the elves, at all costs.”

“And then?” Kili looked up at Azog, watching the scowl deepen, his eyes grow darker. Azog kept his eyes trained down towards the paper, the wheels slowly turning inside his head.

“I take what I want and leave the rest to them.” He jerked his head towards the door, to the goblins beyond who worked on the oars below deck, and carefully gathered the captured supplies and tried to figure out how long it would all last. “ _They_ can do as they please; I won’t need them anymore.”

“And then what?” Kili breathed, finding his heart was pounding terribly in his head. He realised with a churning of his stomach that he was leaning in a little, as though he _anticipated_ Azog’s words. Kili drew back, humiliation reddening his cheeks beneath the smears of ash, invisible to Azog but very warm and obvious to him.

“Then we return home.” Kili’s hands instinctively clenched at the _we._ “Through the Grey

Mountains before winter sets in.”

“We.” Kili whispered. Azog looked up from the page, seeing Kili’s fingers dig into his trousers. “You really mean it.”

“I never say something I don’t mean.” Kili tried to read the orc-king’s face, but it was as blank and impassive as ever. “You’re smarter than most, Kili. You’re getting a thicker skin. And you’re not afraid to bite back.” Kili looked at him, his throat clenching as he swallowed. “You’re got grit.”

“Grit.” Kili repeated, chewing on his lower lip. What did that mean, really? A willingness to push on forward through repeated failure? A dogged determination to hold on when all hope that been lost? Or was it his weakness, in letting everything he had slip through his fingers, forsaking everything he had known and succumbing to the darkness. “They wouldn’t see that.” A burning ember lodged itself in his throat, refusing to burn out. “They would think it better to die with honour.”

“They can have their honour.” Azog stood up, as much as he could in the low cabin. His shoulders stooped and he bent his neck to look down on the dwarf. “It won’t save them. It wouldn’t have saved you. Honour is a death sentence, Kili. It never saved anybody.” He briefly touched Kili’s shoulder, his fingers closing around the thin bone for a heartbeat, squeezing, before letting go. Ash clung to Azog’s fingers. The dwarf’s eyes were wide, staring up at him, biting very hard on his lip. Azog turned away without another word, clumping out of the cabin, bent over in his heavy boots.

Kili looked down at his trousers and found that he no longer wanted to cry. He felt-dried out as he looked down at the map, at the land he had managed to cross. Ered Luin stretched along the western edge, looking very tiny and distant across the foot of yellowed parchment. Kili traced his finger slowly along his journey, across the Lune, through the White Downs, the Shire, along the East-West Road and through Rivendell, beneath the Misty Mountains and across the Wilderland, through Mirkwood to the River Running. Kili spread the map out, rising to his feet and unfurling it across the table. It was _huge_ , bigger than any map Kili had seen before. It was the map of merchant travellers who were so very far from home.

The Lonely Mountain was a tiny peak, an upwards arrow small and insignificant. The Iron Hills lay to the east, mere inches between them. Kili’s journey was only a tiny corner on the magnificent atlas of the world. He had seen so little – a mere few hundred miles. He felt younger and smaller than ever before as he looked at Mordor, the homeland of his new tongue, the vast deserts beneath, vague and unexplored with only ‘Harad’ scrawled across a blank space that stretched to the edges of the map and beyond. The Orocani Mountains, three times longer than the magnificent Misty Mountains, stretched along the east, with four dwarven strongholds marked down in black ink. He knew nothing more than the names – Blacklocks, Stonefoots, Stiffbeards, and Ironfists – initialled on the parchment. They were strangers to him.

There was something so very comforting about looking at this map, at the huge, unexplored distances, the foreign lands filled with people he had never met. Kili found something warm filling his chest, tugging at his heart. It was a big world, bigger than he had ever realised. No map he had seen ever reached this far.

 _If I ran away_ , Kili thought as he examined the paper, the rivers and mountains and towns filled with strangers, _nobody could ever find me in this big world._

* * *

They left the ship, stripped bare and the sails torn down, the rudder smashed, a hole in the hull,  to drift in the fading sunset. Kili heard the groaning of wood, the rushing of water as the river claimed the crippled wood. He looked back for a moment, seeing only a hulking shape in the twilight, drifting lopsidedly towards the mouth of the forest.

“Should o’ burned the thing.” Kili gave the goblin beside him a sidelong look. “Someone’ll see that.”

“Burning it would send smoke into the air, Rukul.” Kili murmured, his voice flat and dead. It sounded almost like a rehearsed speech. “The elves will see it, and the men from Lake-Town too. There’s nothing downstream for a good three hundred miles.” The map was folded and stowed away in one of Kili’s bags, slung over Nardur’s side. “Only small villages, filled with men.”

He had spent longer than he would ever admit looking at the map, and again turned it over in his mind, curled up in his little bunk with Azog snoring below. It hung on his mind for three long days while Kili floated about on the ship, with almost nothing else to fill his time. After a few hours of rowing, Kili was free to do as he pleased. He spent a lot of time resting, taking the bed above Azog after their new understanding. Kili asked about Azog’s home, about what sort of people he led, what yield of minerals his mountain bore, filling out a dark sketch in his mind. Kili managed to last through the entirety of the second day, and the night too, without thinking even once about his brother and uncle.

And not once did he feel guilty about it, afterwards.

“They’ll know what happened.” Rukul muttered, still uneasy with the prospect. “They’ll see the blood on the deck and they’ll know.”

“It’s the wildlands.” Kili’s voice was very low in the deepening light. “They knew the dangers when they left home. These things happen, when you’re out on your own.”

* * *

They lay awake through the night. Fili heard the shuffling, the sighing and the low whispers. The grumbling of their stomachs. He heard all of it, lying with his furs pulled close around him, Thorin’s sleeping body with his steady, inexorable breath in his ear.

They were all so hungry. Two days had passed since the last of their food ran out, and they had barely moved since. The poor dwarves could only stagger for perhaps a quarter of a mile before flopping down into the earth, proclaiming they were too weak to take another step, their limbs trembling under the weight of Thorin’s body. Fili watched the life leaking out of them, draining from their faces, pulling their lips down and paling their cheeks.

He was failing them. He was failing them as their leader and protector. The bitter helplessness clawed at him in the dark and he could not sleep. He remained awake, staring at the impenetrable canopy of leaves, unable to imagine the stars above him because he didn’t know their names or what they looked like, his shame and failure resounding in his head with every thudding heartbeat. Morale was at its lowest. Nobody blamed Fili for anything, but he could sense their discontent and anger. Most of them were angry at themselves, for agreeing to such a foolish quest. Fili’s newly-forged confidence could only go so far and it was already eroding as he grew thinner and hungrier with no end in sight. Nobody had dreams of Erebor now, least of all Fili. All he wanted was for them to escape from this leafy prison, to have food in their stomachs and water on their lips. This wasn’t worth dying for. This wasn’t how it was supposed to end. This wasn’t how heroes fell.

And as he laid down in the darkness, listening to the rustling around him, the soft whispers, listening to Ori fight back tears because he was so painfully hungry and couldn’t sleep, something inside of Fili snapped. His hands curled into fists and scowl clenched his lip and he knew that he could not take this any longer. This wasn’t worth dying for, not over a century of animosity that Fili had no part in. He wasn’t going to sit and wait for them to starve to death in the gloom, to wait for some sort of beast to carry him off. He wasn’t going to let them down.

They would hate him for it. They would call him a coward and a fool and they would never ever respect him again. But they would live. And Fili would rather be a dishonourable coward, hated by twelve former subjects, than a starving king of corpses. He looked over to Thorin, thinking about what his uncle would do. He would scream at Fili for even having these ideas. They were insubordinate and foolish and spineless.  He would say Fili was insulting the will of dwarves, the honour of his name, in what he was doing. _But Thorin wasn’t here._ Fili was. And as he laid in the dirt, shivering with cold and sick with hunger, with no one to call upon, Fili realised that the choice lay with him and him alone, and he had already made it. This wasn’t worth dying for.

He waited for the light to grow enough for him to see his uncle’s face beside him, before sitting up.

“Enough of this.” His voice shook in the dimness, hair looking pale and grey. On his side, Ori opened his eyes. “There has to be _something_ – look, I’m not having us all blunder on and waste what strength we have left.” Fili fumbled about for his boots. Everybody sat up, or propped themselves on their elbows, or got on their knees. “I’m going to go on ahead and find _something.”_ There was a very tight expression on Fili’s face, his jaw shaking. “I’m not going to let us lie down and die in here.”

“Fili,” Dwalin tried to still the blonde with a hand on his shoulder, but Fili jerked away. “Lad – you’re not dashing ahead and getting yourself killed.”

“I’m not going to get myself killed.” Fili said bluntly. “I’m not Kil – I’m not doing this recklessly.” He caught himself, pausing to take in a long breath. “How long could we go before someone drops? Half a mile? Maybe a little more?” He dipped his head, fingers plainly trembling around the fastenings on his boots. “Look – I’m young, I’m strong, I can go on for days.” Fili looked at the pale faces slowly emerging as the light inched forward in the sky, veiled by a shroud of heavy beech trees. “We – We ran out of food, on the way to Bag End.” Fili admitted slowly, recalling the journey with his brother across the western lands. The food ran low, they didn’t have any money and wouldn’t stoop to stealing. “I went four or five days without eating a thing, and I was _fine.”_ Dwalin frowned at him, and Fili averted his gaze. That explained why Fili was so lifeless and pale, that night. He had given Kili all of his food, had kept his brother comfortable and happy while he suffered. Dwalin wasn’t surprised to hear it, and he knew in a heartbeat that Fili had been doing the same again, now. He saw the food he slipped to Bilbo and Ori, and saw his cheeks begin to hollow, very plain in his beardless face. “I’ll go on alone and try to find something.” His eyes lowered to his boots and he wouldn’t look up from them.

“Not alone, you’re not.” Dwalin spoke firmly. “It’s a madcap idea, but if you’re insisting on going, I’m coming with you.” Fili’s head darted up, jaw tense. He knew there was no deterring Dwalin. He wasn’t going to leave Fili alone, not for a moment. He would be implicated, in this. “You think I can’t handle it, Fili?”

“No. No no, not at all.” Fili’s mouth was dry. “I-I’m sure you can.” He faltered, his eyes slipped back downwards and an uncomfortable feeling grew in Dwalin’s stomach. _Why was Fili so keen to go ahead on his own?_

“I’m coming too.” Fili closed his eyes at Ori’s voice, weak with hunger, but firm, resolute. He shook his head, a groan sounding in his throat.

“Ori, there’s no point if-”

“What was your argument? That you’re young?” Ori kept his chin high, his gaze straight and unwavering at Fili. “So am I. I can keep going. I’m all right.”

 _No, you can’t._ Fili bit back the retort. Ori’s hunger reduced him to tears – he wasn’t strong enough to march on for another three or four, or ten or twenty, miles. But when he looked into Ori’s eyes, black stones staring into him through the grim light, he found all of those words remaining behind his lips, clinging unsaid to his tongue. Ori wanted to go with _him._ He didn’t want to be left alone here, alone amongst people who hated him, who thought him a monster and a freak. He held on to the comfort and safety of a friend.

“All right.” Fili’s hands clenched into fists. “Dwalin, Ori and I – we’ll go.” He murmured the last words, lips barely moving. “The closer we get to the edge of the forest, the higher the chances of wholesome food.” Fili tried to sound convincing. “We’ll catch something, between us and bring it back.” His eyes fell to Thorin’s sleeping body. “We’ll come back with food.” He reached for his cloak, threading his arms through the brown leather. “We won’t be long.” Fili’s eyes met Balin’s, looking so dull and hollow in his wrinkled face. “We won’t.” Fili repeated, keeping his shoulders square and straight.

“Aye, I know.” Balin crinkled in a smile, stiff and fragile and transparent as glass, looking as though it could break any moment. “We’ll hold tight here. Nothing can harm us from the path.” He gave the dark forest a sidelong look. The thick trees criss-crossed endlessly in both directions. At least beneath the beech trees, there was nothing that could loom up on them in the darkness. Still, none would dare to leave the path, especially at night.

“I’ll take an empty pack.” Dwalin hefted it in his hand. “Not much else to take.” He sniffed, wrinkling his nose. “I’ve got a flintstone – anything else we need?”

“Nothing else to take.” Fili murmured. “Blankets, maybe.” He wasn’t sure if they would need them. Surely they would get it all done by nightfall. He looked over at Bilbo, looking so ragged and pale. They _needed_ to. Dwalin stuffed it with their blankets, eyes down at the ground. The discomfort didn’t ease in his stomach – it grew, as Fili grew more tense and anxious.

“All right.” Dori struggled to his feet. He had been silent through the exchange; he knew nothing could deter Ori, nothing Dori said or did would convince his younger brother to remain here with the rest. He didn’t know if it was a foolhardy effort to prove himself, intense dedication, or the need to protect Fili, but Ori was resolute, and Dori knew in a heartbeat that he couldn’t be stopped. “Ori – take _care_ of yourself, Mahal.” He engulfed the young scribe in a bone-crushing hug, burying his nose in Ori’s shoulder. “Stick to Dwalin. He’ll make sure you’re all right.” Dori pulled away reluctantly, chest tight and sick with a rising horror at the prospect that he might not see his little Ori again, not quite as he stood before him now.

“I will.” Ori’s eyes lowered briefly, they darkened with some unknown shadow. He lifted them and they weren’t quite as bright as before. “I’ll be fine Dori.” His eyes shifted to his second brother, sitting on his blanket with his legs crossed, eyes fixed on the ground. Ori’s mouth opened, he longed to speak, to sink to his knees and beg for Nori to say something, anything, just one _word_ to him after these days and days of silence. His lips made the words, shapeless and silent, voice utterly dead.

“Oh – Mahal, _Nori_.” Dori muttered, seizing the thief by the wrist as he crouched down. “Say _something_ you fool.” He waited for Nori to speak, waited for the apologies or the curses to tumble from his mouth but his brother remained motionless, lips closed. “Nori put your feelings away for one damn second.” Fili, in the midst of whispering to Balin, froze, watching the pathetic sight. Ori was biting very hard on his trembling lip, wringing his fingers inside the unravelling mittens.

“Come Ori.” Dwalin shot Nori an absolutely filthy look, taking the scribe gently by the elbow, guiding him away. “Let’s get a move on while the morning’s young.” Ori followed, silently and obediently, looking back over his shoulder for a moment. Dori turned away from Nori in disgust. He didn’t see Nori wipe at his eyes with a shaking hand. But Ori did. His heart jumped into his throat, nails instinctively biting into his palms through the wool. He cared – Nori _cared_ and Ori thought his heart would burst right out of his mouth.

“We’ll be all right.” Fili stood in front of the ragged collection of fractured, starving souls. He looked into their eyes, all of them in turn. They wouldn’t wear this expression to him, not again. There would be only anger and hatred in them, when they saw him once more. He packed them all inside his memory, holding the memories in his chest like eighteen precious jewels. His gaze settled on Thorin, heart tightening in his chest. _I don’t need to feel guilty or afraid. I am doing the right thing._ “Balin will make sure everything will be fine.”

“We’re not going anywhere.” Balin promised. “Come _back_ Fili. And soon.” Fili inclined his head in a nod. He turned away from them after several agonising moments, turning his face towards the path ahead, dark and unknown and stretching out into eternity, it seemed, through the forest with no end. Dwalin and Ori fell into step alongside him. Dwalin looking ahead with a stony expression on his face, Ori’s eyes darting as he tried to decipher the meaning behind his brother’s wet eyes, putting the words in Nori’s mouth, the words he couldn’t say, and trying to understand what held them back.

“I hope you know what you’re doing.” Dwalin muttered darkly. Fili looked to his side, but Dwalin still stared straight ahead, fixed only on the road before them, and nothing else. He knew. Fili licked his parched, dry lips. He knew but he wouldn’t ever say it. He would claim he didn’t know, it was never said, it was a surprise to him.

“I hope so too.” Fili gripped the fur-lined hem of his sleeves, feeling the soft shuffle beneath his fingers. Panic was rushing in, panic that he was going about this all wrong, it was going to blow up in his face and he would be seen as a coward and a fool and a rogue and he would tarnish his name for nothing. He remembered the muted sobs in the night, the muttering and the incomparable pain in his stomach, the weakness of his limbs and dizziness that wracked his head. It steeled his resolve, an iron edge to his splintering will.

 _This isn’t worth dying for._ Fili reminded himself. _This isn’t how heroes fall._


	37. Spider Bite

“ _Ishi,_ I’d kill for a fire right now.” Beneath his furs, Kili smiled, watching the goblin pace, stamping his feet in the cold. “It’s _freezing –_ Anud! Hurry up!” Dhaka shouted into the forest.

“ _Quiet.”_ Azog’s voice cut across the cluster of bodies in the little clearing. Dhaka fell silent, shooting a dark look at the shadowy gap in the trees. “Be patient.”

“I need to _go._ ” Dhaka almost whined, rubbing his bare arms. “How long does a damn _bag_ take.”

“With the food you cook? He’ll be gone for hours.”

“ _Shut_ it Rukul don’t make me-”

“I said _quiet!”_ Azog spat into the dim light. Kili buried his nose under the furs, biting his lip to hide the smile on his face. “Just go _._ ” He waved his hand towards the gap in the trees. Dhaka picked his way across the little clearing, muttering under his breath.

“If you’re sitting around with your pants at your ankles Anud, I’ll kill you.” The goblin’s voice lingered in the clearing as he left, and Kili let out a tiny snort, the muted sound of someone trying hard not to laugh. Azog glared at the figure beside him.

“It’s not funny.” He snarled, watching Kili’s nose and mouth emerge from beneath the blanket, flickering with the effort to stay sombre. “Grow up Kili.”

“ _Fikdumizub,_ Azog.” But he wasn’t sorry really, and both of them knew it. Kili reached out, gently stroking the head of warg curled into his side. “ _Sriz_ Nardur.” He clicked his tongue. “Ooh, you’re cold.” Goosebumps rose along Kili’s arm as he curled it around the beast’s neck, getting a lick on the hand in return. “Why is it so cold?”

“Winter is close.” Azog didn’t seem to feel much of it, not needing a blanket or a cloak. He leaned against a tree, good arm draped over one knee as he stared thoughtfully into the gloom. “We’re getting slowly higher up, the further we head east.” Kili pressed his nose into the top of Nardur’s head, silent. “It’s only going to get colder, wherever we go.”

“We won’t need to go east.” Kili lifted his head after a few moments of silence. “You said Tho- the dwarves were still on the elf-path, or at least, close.” It was surprising at all that Azog paused in his relentless pursuit along the eaves of the wood, withdrawing into the shadows of the trees for a few hours rest in the dark, grey hour before dawn. Only a glimmer of sunshine, a single watery beam, managed to pierce the colourless forest. Azog wasn’t going to venture into the true depths of the forest, where the light couldn’t touch the ground. He kept close enough to the edge for scouts to see the occasional glimpse of the grass outside; he wasn’t going to get lost in this wood. “So we just need to stick north, and wait for them to pass through.”

“We’re certainly not cutting a path through untamed forest.” Azog remarked. “We can’t lie outside the elves’ settlement in wait, and we can’t hang about in the plains.” His scowl deepened.

“What about scouts?” Kili suggested. “They can’t go far – They’ll stick to the river if they have sense. It wouldn’t be hard to follow them unseen with just one or two scouts.”

“I’ve been thinking about that.” Azog was impressed they both had similar ideas, although he would never say it. “I don’t know who to send.”

“Archers have the best eyes.” Kili curled his fingers tightly into Nardur’s fur. “If you want those who can see the farthest, then-”

“No – it’s not sight which an issue.” Azog cut over him, shaking his head. “I don’t know what’s along the river. There could be settlements of elves and men.” Realisation dawned on Kili’s face. “They’ll see two scouts and know more could be about.”

“And they would ask questions.” Kili murmured, very softly. Of course they would. It was what had happened to him in that cave, so many weeks ago. “You want someone who wouldn’t break under torture.” He whispered, shifting his back slightly against the tree-trunk.

“I’m not being found out by a couple of scouts who can’t keep their mouths shut.” Azog growled. “I’m not breaking this secrecy.”

“You won’t find someone.” Kili drew the fur closer around himself, feeling even colder than before as the memories licked at him. “You can’t. Everybody breaks Azog.” Some faster than others. Humiliation rose in Kili’s chest and he kept his gaze firmly downward.

“Oh, I know.” Azog’s lip curled, upwards. “Nazarg.” Kili frowned as Azog called the healer close. “Come here for a moment. Bring your things.” Kili allowed his stare to lift only a little as Nazarg made his slow way towards the pair, heaving a sigh. He sat down with crossed legs in front of Azog, not looking at Kili. The dwarf kept clinging to Nardur, remembering the last time they spoke, when Kili burned Ori’s book and told Nazarg to leave him alone. He was bitter and violent. He was everything he was told to be but Nazarg was somehow unhappy with him. Fresh anger rose in Kili as he recalled it. _What else was he supposed to be, if not this?_

“What is it.” Nazarg teetered on the edge of rudeness, and it made Azog’s blood boil. “What do you need.”

“Poisons.” Kili’s head jerked up, staring at the orc-king with wide eyes. “What poisons do you have.” The demand had made Nazarg just as confused, the orc staring at Azog, mouth half-open. “Don’t give me that look, I know you carry potions to kill. All good healers do.”

“Why.” Nazarg’s eyes flicked down to Kili for a moment, blood rushing in his chest. He clenched his hands tightly, holding his woven bag close to him. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m not asking for them now,” But Azog held his hand out all the same. “I just want to see them.” Nazarg gave him a scorching look, before opening his bag, and rustling around inside. He kept them in the false bottom of a little wooden box, filled with what remained of his salves. Keeping his hands inside the bag so they couldn’t quite see how he did it, the orc-healer lifted the false bottom. Three tiny vials of clear liquid lay wrapped in a soft rag, corks sealed with wax. He extracted two of them, holding them out on his palm.

“ _Nink_ _matûrz-baga_.” He murmured, watching Azog take one vial, holding close to his eye. “Don’t open it. A single drop will kill you.”

“What does that mean?” Kili asked, his voice very soft in the light. He realised what Azog planned to do with them. He wasn’t horrified or outraged at the thought; he just felt dull and hollow. Death by poison would be better than any fate the goblins suffered at the hands of elves and men. It was mercy.

“White arsenic.” Nazarg explained in quiet Westron. “Starts with a headache and a sore stomach. Then you throw up and a lot of blood comes out, _everywhere._ You suffer fits and lose consciousness. You’re dead, anywhere from hours to days.”

“What if you take all of it, at once?” Azog looked over the vial at him. “Undiluted.” Nazarg’s eyes widened, a muscle twitching in his throat. “How long would it take?”

“I haven’t seen that before.” He held out his hand, wordlessly demanding the orc-king to return the poison. “If I had to guess... It wouldn’t take any more than an hour. The fits would come in minutes.” The vial was pressed into his palm; Nazarg closed his hand around it, returning to his pack. “I didn’t think poison was your style Azog. It’s too... subtle, for your tastes.”

“It’s not any of my enemies.” Kili looked down at Nazarg’s pack. He saw a corner of faded, ragged parchment, folded into a haphazard lump. He stopped breathing. “It’s a precaution.”

“If you want to kill yourself, there are faster ways to go about it.” Nazarg said shortly, hands trembling as he replaced the false bottom on his little box. “If that’s what you’re planning to do... A slit throat will kill you in a third of the time.” And hurt a lot less, too.

“It’s easier to ask someone to swallow a mouthful of poison, than to run a knife through their neck.” Azog replied with the same cool tone. “Keep it safe – I’ll need it soon.”

“For who?”

“You don’t need to know.” Kili ignored the both of them, eyes fixed on the folded picture of him and his brother, half-hidden from sight. He wanted to take the parchment and tear it into tiny pieces. He felt the awful shuddering of a sick heart beating within him, the pulse rearing in his throat. Violent anger blossomed inside of him, and his fingers were pulling hard on Nardur, at the roots. The warg yelped, and it broke the spell. Kili jerked back with an odd little gasp, one that made both orcs stop in their slowly rising debate and look at him.

“Sorry.” Kili combed the thick grey fur beneath his fingers, looking past the both of them, knowing the glances they cast in his direction. Confusion, exasperation. He read it in his periphery. Kili stared at the huddled group of goblins and wargs, sleepily bunking down and wrapping themselves tight against the cold. His eyes fell on an empty space, a frown creasing his forehead, knitting his brows together.

“Hey _bukra_ ,” Kili rose his voice, loud enough for the entire clearing to hear. Azog was staring very hard at him. “Has anyone seen Anud and Dhaka..?”

* * *

Dwalin sighed, toying with the hilt of his dagger as he waited for dawn to break. Fili and Ori slept wrapped in the blankets, bound closely together to in a vain attempt to shield themselves from the cold. A bitter chill came in the night, biting Dwalin’s skin and settling in his bones. They creaked, he winced and felt so very old when he tried to move the stiff joints in his legs. He lit a small fire but let it die out as soon as the youngsters were asleep, painfully aware of the thin plume of smoke rising in the air. His own cloak was draped over Fili and Ori, while he shivered in his furs.

There was a gasp sounding beside him, a choked sob. Jerking out of his stupor, Dwalin tightened the hold on his dagger, thinking at first it was some sort of animal. The noise came again, by his leg, Dwalin’s shoulders sagging as he realised where the noise came from, in the darkness. He reached out, fingers brushing soft blonde curls. It was difficult in the darkness to figure out where Fili ended and Ori began. They had started sleeping back-to-back, but both had shifted around in the night, Dwalin’s hand lightly grazing unidentifiable limbs and cloth. He tucked the blanket back underneath someone’s – Fili’s – leg, drawing a little closer to the pair.

Mahal, Dwalin felt old and tired, leaning against the tree, with his joints aching and hunger crippling his stomach, eyes stinging with exhaustion. He’d been walking down a very, very long road, and for the first time he thought he caught glimpses of the end, finally emerging from the horizon. _Not after this winter_ , he remembered laughing to Thorin the season before, _I’m getting too old for this._ He hadn’t _felt_ old at all, as he fought trolls and orcs and wargs, clambered over mountains and through forests. He felt younger than he had in years, more vibrant and alive than he could remember. But he was wearing down. Hunger attacked him, an iron file on stone. Hunger and helplessness, the claustrophobic suffocation of the days and weeks of constant wandering beneath a forest that let in no air or light, they wore him down. He was an aged warrior, past his prime and slower to bounce back from sickness and pain. Childless, love-lost, and without a home.

He felt quite miserable, beneath the huge beech tree, forced to remember what he lost, what he never really had. A dwarrowdam bound to someone who never existed. Two fatherless children who didn’t know quite what to call him – what were they, really? He fought now for the only thing he could take back. Home. Everything else, fate had taken away from him, so _cruelly_. Dwalin’s hand, which had fallen back down onto the soft curls, began to sift slowly through Fili’s hair, almost unconsciously, his memories filled with somebody else. A little tousle of dark hair who followed him like a shadow and looked at him with nothing but love and devotion. A willing participant in his little play-acting at family.

“Dwalin?” The elder dwarf froze, squinting through the dark as he heard the sleepy voice. He didn’t mean to wake anybody up. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing, Fili.” Dwalin kept his voice very low. “Go back to sleep.”

“How long have I been asleep?” Fili mumbled, trying to shake away the sleepiness that still enfolded him. “What’s the time?”

“Still early.” Dwalin lied. “Go back to sleep. Your watch isn’t for a while.” He had no intention of rousing Fili for his watch, at any point in the night. He knew how badly the young prince needed sleep, bowed down under the weight of responsibility, the wellbeing of the company resting squarely on his shoulders, keeping him awake.

“Y’sure?” Fili mumbled. Ori’s arm was thrown across his chest, his auburn head resting on Fili’s shoulder. Fili realised with a little shock, a jump in his chest, how close they were. His first instinct was to pull back, to turn away from Ori and tug the blankets around him. _Calm down._ He inwardly berated himself. They were sleeping together for warmth – nothing more. Nobody could see them, not even Dwalin, in this black night. Ori slept deeply, a whistling little snore issuing from his nose. Ori didn’t want _him_ ; he wanted someone sweeter and warmer than Fili could ever be. It was no different to when he and Kili would sleep underneath the same blankets as children, when the harsh winters left the stone walls cold as ice and the breath fogged before them. The _last_ thing Fili should care for was a platonic embrace that nobody else could see. He pulled the blankets higher around them both, his right arm stuck beneath Ori’s sleeping form.

“Course.” Dwalin murmured. “You don’t have to look out for me you know. I look out for _you_. It’s my job.” He found Fili’s shoulder beneath the curls, squeezing tightly. “Always has been.”

“I know.” Fili yawned, jaw creaking in the darkness. “Kili used to call you _Adad,_ before Thorin told him not to. Do you remember?”

“Yes Fili.” Dwalin whispered, finding it hard to breathe. He screwed up his eyes, relieved that Fili couldn’t see him. “I remember.”

“He got confused – he thought you really were our father.” Fili chuckled. “It made sense in his mind, I guess – you were always there for us.” He buried his nose under the blankets. Ori slept soundly, pressed into his side. “I wish you were.” It was a soft voice, barely above a whisper, that came out from under the blanket.

“Oh, Fili.” Dwalin sighed. “Get back to sleep.” His tongue felt too thick and clumsy in his mouth to speak any more. He couldn’t trust his mouth to form words without his voice breaking.

“I’m not sorry.” Fili shifted a little, feeling Ori’s heavy breathing against his neck. “I mean it – if I could choose anybody...” He trailed off, closing his eyes. “But we don’t choose.” He murmured, feeling oddly sadder than he had in quite a long time.

“It doesn’t matter Fili. Not in the end.” Dwalin tried to keep his voice light. “You’ve done well. Dís will be proud of you, when she hears what you’ve done.”

“Even this?” A tremor crept into Fili’s voice. Dwalin looked down, seeing only a shapeless blur before him in the darkness. He sighed, and found a small, sad smile stretching across his lips.

“She will be proud of this.” Dwalin spoke with real conviction, an aching sorrow swelling in his heart. “I wouldn’t doubt it for a moment.”

* * *

“Kili and Durbûrz, come with me.” Azog rose to his feet quickly, taking the forked cleaver in his good hand. “No wargs. Take _every_ weapon you can carry. Kili, extra arrows.” The dwarf cast aside the furs, hissing as the cold air licked his skin. Krûklak grimly stuffed his arrows in Kili’s quiver, while Durbûrz, a tall goblin-warrior with broad shoulders and possibly the strongest in the tribe next to Azog, slung two extra scimitars at his waist.

“They probably just got lost.” Kili tried to reason. “You can’t see much of the dawn light in here, it’s...” But he trailed off when Azog looked back at him, a cold, hard look that came with a little shake of the head. Flanked by his best swordsman and his sharpest archer, Azog plunged beyond the relative safety of the little clearing, and into the forest. He headed right, to the _bagronk_ they had dug before bunking down with a heavy scowl on his face.

“ _Flâgîtu_.” The orc-king hissed into the grey light. “Anud! Dhaka!” He barely rose his voice above a hoarse whisper, there was no chance that he could ever be heard. Kili watched him with slowly widening eyes. _Why was Azog so desperate to keep quiet?_ It wasn’t elves, they were too far away to be touched by them, surely. Something else kept Azog on edge, almost _afraid_ , on the fringe of Mirkwood’s dark secrets.

“Something took them.” Kili whispered as Azog plunged on past the smelly little pit, the snarl growing. They could still see occasional glimpses of the outside world, a single finger of light. “What was it?” They weren’t too far gone, yet.

“ _Takhborku_.” Azog growled, his knuckles very tight around the sharp weapon. Kili frowned.

“What?”

“Spiders.” Durbûrz whispered, bending down into Kili’s ear. “ _Big_ ones.” The breath hitching in his throat, Kili found his hand creeping towards the quiver slung across his back. He remembered the spiderwebs, clumped around the edge of the path with filaments thicker than string.

“They’re gone.” Azog stopped. Kili found his mouth was dry, a groan coming out from his throat. _No._ Azog looked down at the dwarf, looking down at the ground with the bow and arrow lax in his hand. “They’ll be dead by now Kili.” Kili nodded silently, not trusting himself to speak. He felt the little bone knife against his hip, holding his breath as a rising wave, sour and painful, began to crash at his chest. “We need to get back, _quickly_.”

“Wait.” Durbûrz sniffed the air, holding up a finger. “Azog – smell that.” He drew the second scimitar from his belt. “ _Skai!_ ” Kili gasped, fitting an arrow on the string and blinking away the stinging in his eyes. He caught a writhing black shape in the darkness beyond the nearest trees, steeling himself. “Stand our ground or run?”

“Run.” Azog growled, breaking away and charging through the forest. The two followed, Kili having to scramble over a fallen tree-log that came almost to his waist. The shadows writhed around them. “ _Bukra!”_ He roared, voice carrying thin and vague to the clearing near the eaves of Mirkwood. “ _Takhborku! Irz! Irz!”_

The spiders lunged from the darkness, going for Durbûrz first. Kili stopped short, the goblin fifteen feet before him. A dozen spiders clambered around the thick tree-trunks, along the branches, lurching from the darkness. They were _huge_ , much bigger than him, with legs thicker than tree-branches and six-inch pincers. Kili let an arrow fly, piercing one in the thorax and killing it with an awful screeching cry in the muffled air. Durbûrz was on the ground, weapons knocked from his hand. Four spiders lunged, Kili gritting his teeth at the screams, the goblin bitten again and again, spider-venom filling his veins. The rest rounded on him _._ Kili’s arrows wouldn’t be enough at close range, he couldn’t run away further into the trees, and he couldn’t rely on his knife. His eyes fell to the abandoned scimitar on the ground and he slung the bow across his back.

Kili threw himself beneath the legs of the spider that leaped towards him. His fingers closed around the hilt, Kili rolling over onto his back and slashing at the first creature who tried to come for him. The scimitar was longer than any of their pincers, and for a moment the spiders drew back, regrouping.

“ _Help!”_ Kili screamed, backing away, realising the spiders were trying to corner him. “ _Azog_ _help me!”_ He licked his lips, but heard only the low hissing of the spiders, the clicking of their pincers. Kili cried out as the tree-trunk crushed against his spine, trapped. “ _Help!_ ” Kili couldn’t breathe. Where were they? Why was nobody coming for him _?_

_Nobody was ever going to come for him._

He held the scimitar out before him, lip curling in a snarl at the realisation. Nobody was risking their lives to save him. Not Thorin or Azog or _anybody._ The crippling fear that seized his heart and made it hard to breathe was burned up in a hot, crackling flare of anger. _Nobody was ever going to help him._ And he burst forward.

The spiders weren’t expecting such a violent attack. They thought they had already won. Kili cut two down in a single stroke and rounded on a third before creatures had even realised that their prey had sprung from his defensive crouch. Kili ran the scimitar through the abdomen of another, the spider squealing as it curled up on the ground and shuddered, falling still. He kept moving, refusing to allow the creatures more than a fleeting glimpse of his back. They were fast, but he was even faster, using his smaller size to his advantage as he ducked beneath the spiders, cutting through their hairy abdomens or slicing the bowed legs out from under them. They tried to weave their spider-webs around them, but Kili was quick and his scimitar was sharp and they couldn’t bind the dwarf and drag him to the earth.

Bodies littered the ground as Kili rounded on what he thought was the last spider. It had been less than a minute since he’d screamed for help; it was a fast, vicious attack from Kili, who didn’t stop for a moment. He knew that the slightest pause was a death sentence, that if he faltered he would be on the ground, lifeless like Durbûrz. Kili struck as the spider lifted its hairy black forelegs, reaching out to him with clicking pincers. He leaped forward, thrusting the scimitar through the thorax of the beast, blood oozing thick and black along his forearm. Kili’s shoulders slumped as the spider flopped to the ground, eyes lowering as the breath returned to his aching lungs.

The blow in his back stunned Kili; the air was knocked out of him as he fell heavily to the ground, the scimitar tumbling out of his grasp across the dirt. Eight hairy legs closed around Kili, trapping him. He tried to get on his hands and knees and crawl away, but before he could move, the spider bit him, horrible pincers closing around his left shoulder.

The scream left his throat raw and voice hoarse. The spider-venom sent a wave of agony through the bite at his shoulder, unfurling outwards as it slowly spread. Kili managed to roll onto his back, gasping with pain and unable to move his left arm. The spider made to bite him again, Kili’s heart pounding as he reached for the knife at his side with shaking fingers. He had only a moment. As the spider leaned down, Kili thrust his own little stinger, straight into the spider’s mouth. A horrible screech filled his ears, like rusted nails on beaten iron and Kili ducked away, still clinging to the knife as the huge spider withdrew. He was on his knees, leaning over with his forehead touching the ground, nose filled with the horrible stench of death, black insect-blood, and venom. He panted, cradling his bitten arm close to his chest, the knife loose in his fingers.

“ _Kili!”_ Someone had their arm around him, holding him, helping him to sit up. Jamming the knife into his belt, he tried to grab the wrist of whoever held him and his hands closed around cold iron. “Kili – _say something_.” Through half-lidded eyes, Kili caught a glimpse of white. He held tightly onto his arm, biting back the incessant waves of pain that rocked his shaking limb. “ _Kili!”_  Red blood was all over Azog’s fingers as he probed at the wound.

“I’m fine.” Kili groaned the words out through gritted teeth, Azog’s breathing so quick and heavy against him. “I – where _were_ you?” Betrayal stung on his voice, and Kili was unable to fight back a moan as the pain wracked his broken, bitten arm.

“I thought you were behind me.” Azog pullied the vest aside to look at the spider’s bite in his shoulder. “I didn’t realise until you screamed.” Kili bit down on his lip, groaning again as he struggled against the growing agony. “How many times were you bitten?”

“Just once.” Kili gasped. He felt dizzy and sick, his vision wavering before him. He saw white and red, all mixed together as Azog’s bloodied fingers hovered close to his face, not knowing what to do, edged with a blackness at the edge of his vision, threatening to overtake everything and collapse completely. His hands found Azog’s wrist and he clung to him, refusing to let go. He blinked, keeping his eyes open, but they were hazy and dull. “O-Only once...” He groaned, head bowing forward as Azog helped him to sit up, the bad arm across Kili’s back, hand on his good shoulder.

“It won’t kill you.” Azog sighed with relief. “One bite won’t kill you. Come on, up.” He masked his subsiding panic with a growl in his voice. “I said run, didn’t I Kili?”

“Durbûrz was attacked in front of me.” Kili’s voice was thin and weak. “They got him so quickly...” He ducked his head, remembering the screams. “He couldn’t do a thing.” Azog gripped Kili’s good arm, hauling the dwarf to his feet. He knew it wouldn’t be long before the spiders returned, enraged at the loss of their kin and frenzied with bloodlust.

“ _You_ killed them all?” Azog faltered, looking down at Kili, splattered with blood, panting for air as his forehead began to grow slick with sweat. He’d only lost Kili for a moment before hearing the scream. And it had taken him less than a minute to retrace his steps through the wood and come to Kili, kneeling on the ground, surrounded by the beasts. Beasts he had slain alone, while Azog’s best swordsman lay dying in the earth.

“You... You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you Kili?” Azog breathed, heaving the trembling, poisoned body into his arms.


	38. Traitor

“I thought you didn’t use a sword.” Azog stared at Kili, keeping a blank, impassive mask on his face as Nazarg slowly wound a coarse bandage over the dwarf’s left shoulder. Kili grunted, digging his fingernails into his trousers in an effort to counteract the pain.

“It...” He let out a breath. “It would be stupid... not to.” Kili gritted his teeth, arching his neck back as a fresh wave attacked him. He wasn’t going to give in and cry out, no matter how badly it hurt. The poison came to him in rolling fits that made it hard to breathe, convulsions in his chest that he struggled to keep under control.

“Stop making him talk.” Nazarg muttered, a pin between his teeth. “I’ll give you something for the pain in a moment – just hold tight and let me finish.”

“No.” Kili screwed up his eyes, fighting back a whimper. “I’m fine – I’ll be fine.” He _wasn’t_ , he was so obviously suffering, and Nazarg felt almost sick with helplessness as he watched the young dwarf, trying so hard to be brave and strong and unshakeable. “We have to move.” The moment the bandage was pinned, Kili started to gingerly thread his arm through the sleeve in his vest. “You said – they’ll be back.” His shaking fingers fumbled on the fastenings, and Kili stopped, grabbing hard onto the leather and biting his lip as he rode out another spreading rush of agony, liquid fire darting through his veins.

“Give him _something._ ” Azog snarled, his voice rising on the last word. There was an intensity in his voice, one that made both Kili and the orc-healer look up. “Take him on your warg.” He didn’t like seeing this. Nazarg realised that he _couldn’t_ see this. It made Azog dark and angry, to see Kili suffer so horribly through Azog’s mistake. He turned away from them both, towards the rest of the retinue, three less now than they were just an hour or so before. “We need to leave _now._ ”

“Stay still.” Nazarg said softly, fixing Kili’s leather vest. “Kili – are you all right? Do you feel dizzy? Sick? Hot?” He listed off all the symptoms he could think for spider-venom, noticing just how pale Kili had gone beneath the smears of ash. He touched Kili’s forehead for a moment, grey-tinged sweat coming away on his fingers.

“I’m fine.” Kili repeated, eyes lowered. He seemed so dull and lifeless. “I don’t need anything.” He shrank away under Nazarg’s touch, avoiding him. “I can ride by myself.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous.” The orc-healer slung his pack over one shoulder, taking Kili’s good arm and hauling him up. Kili lurched forward, unsteady on his feet and horribly dizzy. He pressed a hand to his forehead, gasping for air. “You’re coming with me. Nardur can take our bags.” He whistled for his own warg, one arm around Kili’s back, helping him walk. The bones of his ribs dug into Nazarg’s palm. “Just give me a moment to look for my-”

“No.” Kili’s hand closed around the orc’s wrist, and he shook his head. “I don’t _need_ anything.” He repeated, his strained voice rising in the stale air. “Can we just go?” He looked up at Nazarg, eyes dark and hollow and ringed with pain. “I just want to go.” Kili whispered, the stare breaking off as he bowed his head, gritting his teeth through another wave of agonising spider-venom attacking his veins.

“Kili-”

“ _No.”_ He spat out, shoving Nazarg away and trying to walk himself. “I’m _fine.”_ Kili forced down the rising nausea in his stomach, the dizziness of his head and horrific fire licking at his bitten arm. He bit it all back, the rage and pain, twisting his mouth into a scowl, because he was afraid if he opened his mouth a scream would come out.

* * *

“The air’s getting lighter.” Ori closed his eyes, arching his neck as he took in a long, deep breath. “Less stale. Can you smell it?”

“I can.” Fili walked with his hands half- hidden in his sleeves, curling his fingers around the fur cuffs. Every step brought them closer and closer to the irrevocable fate that Fili had decided for them. Anxiety made left his head swimming. _I am doing the right thing. This is the right thing._

“How far do you think we are from the edge now?” The three of them walked shoulder-to-shoulder, Fili in the middle, Dwalin to his right, Ori the left. “It can’t be more than a few days, for the air to change.”

“Hopefully.” Fili muttered his voice dull and colourless. He couldn’t think about any of that – it didn’t matter, after all. Not when they were found. Whether they were hours days or weeks out – it would all be the same.

“Fili – are you all right?” Ori frowned slowly. Fili had been vacant and distracted all morning. “You’re not, well, yourself.” Fili’s response was to chew on his thumbnail for a moment, spitting out the cuticle before muttering a response.

“I’m fine.” He swallowed. “Just hungry... Don’t worry about me Ori.” Fili looked over at his bony little inquisitive face, forcing a smile. “Don’t worry about anything. I have everything under control.” His dark blue eyes shifted back to the forest path, they dulled and Fili pressed his lips together, pulse thudding quite obviously in his naked throat. Ori opened his mouth to respond, when a flash of green caught his eye, on the very edge of his vision, within the deep shadows of the trees.

“What was that?” Ori gasped, pulling up. “I saw something – I _know_ I did.” Dwalin clenched his hands into fists, reaching for the axe on his back. He backed into Fili, reaching out and taking his elbow with a shaking hand.

They came with a surprising lightness. Fili half expected a crash and a roar through the branches, but the elves moved with a surprising fluidity into the forest path. They didn’t burst out at all; they just seemed to slip into sight, as quick and easy as blinking, arrows drawn, pointed at his neck. Fili’s heart thudded, the world seemed to stop moving as the trio were surrounded, a dozen slender lithe figures towering two feet above them, dressed in green and brown, the same shifting colours as the trees.

 _No going back from this._ Fili tried to recognise the leader amongst the squad – but they all looked the same, dressed in the same coarse green fabric and brown leather. None wore armour, carrying only bows in their thin arms. They seemed so slight, like young saplings that could blow away in a strong wind. He remembered the elves of Rivendell, how they laughed and smiled, milling about in silken robes of blue and silver. But he saw none of that ethereal grace here. Their faces were narrow and hardened, eyes the colour of earth and leaves. They were creatures of the wild. At his side, Ori fumbled in his pocket for his slingshot. Fili rested his hand on the scribe’s wrist, clenching tightly around the thin bone wrapped in wool.  Dwalin’s hands were motionless at his side, but his fingers were tense, ready in a heartbeat to pull the axe its sheath and fight. Fili pulled Ori behind him, shaking his head as he scoured the faces of the elves, locked in a tense cluster beneath the trees.

“My name,” Fili stood forward, hands spread at his side, before any of the elves could speak, “Is Fili. I am the nephew and heir of Thorin Oakenshield, King under the Mountain.” It was an old title, one Fili only rarely heard attributed to Thorin, and he wasn’t sure if he could use it. But he knew the elves would know of Erebor, if not Thorin himself. He needed their interest. “My companions are Ori, son of Glori, and Dwalin, son of Fundin.” Ori stared at him, mouth falling open.He looked so _calm._ But Fili’s hands were trembling and Ori heard the quaver threatening his voice. The elf before Fili lowered his bow, brilliant green eyes narrowing as the blonde spoke. “I am not here to attempt combat.” Fili’s mouth had gone dry; he swallowed before continuing, tongue rasping against the roof of his mouth.

“I have come to seek your help.”

* * *

“How is your arm?”

Kili looked up from the bone-handled knife in his fingers. Azog settled down in front of him, cross-legged, leaning forward a little as he studied Kili’s drawn, pale face. “And the venom. Are you coping?”

“I’m all right.” Kili’s voice was hoarse. “It – it’s not so bad now.” He put the knife away, briefly touching his shoulder with his good hand. He was _drenched_ with sweat, eyes dull and foggy. He wouldn’t look Azog in the eye; Kili kept staring down at his dirty hands, clasped in his lap.

“Kili _look_ at me.” The orc-king leaned in, and there was an edge to his voice, so intense and harsh and grating, that Kili couldn’t ignore. He looked up slowly, their eyes meeting. “Are you all right?” He repeated, the harshness falling away. Kili’s lips trembled, he looked so close to the edge, to some kind of breaking point and Azog wasn’t sure how far he could stand to be pushed, this time.

“You _left._ ” There it was. The anger. Kili’s voice was a hard rasp, his brow wrinkling as he screwed his face up on a scowl. “You _left_ me.” He clung to his spider-bite now, digging his fingers in, antagonizing the dull, slow burning in his arm. A fresh surge of pain flared up in his shoulder, Kili shaking with the effort to remain upright.

“Kili – stop that.” Azog hissed, seizing the dwarf’s hand, pulling it free. Blood came away on Kili’s fingertips, staining his grey fingers red. He closed his hand around Kili’s palm, trying to be comforting, trying some pale attempt at reassuring Kili that he wasn’t alone. But Kili’s scowl only deepened and Azog knew that a single hollow gesture wouldn’t placate Kili in the slightest.

“I didn’t mean to leave you.” Azog lowered his voice. “As soon as I knew Kili – I came running for you.” But Kili’s face was twisted, and he snatched his hand free of Azog, brushing a lock of ratty brown hair out of his eyes. Azog looked into Kili’s eyes and knew that he was suffering from the same sense of betrayal and abandonment that had poisoned him against Thorin. He walked on panes of cracked glass – one misstep, and he would fall. “I won’t do it again. You will always be at my side Kili. Always.” He closed his fingers around Kili’s shoulder, the good one, squeezing tight. “I promise you, I won’t leave again.” But what were they, really? Vague, empty words that meant nothing to Kili without proof, without deed and action. And as he looked at the dwarf, Azog knew he struggled to believe them. “Wait.” He sprung up, turning away from Kili and heading towards his pack.

Kili looked down at the blood on his fingers, so very very red, a disconsolate moan threatening to burst from his throat. It was hateful to look down at it. It was too rich-looking, too red and it made Kili boil with self-hatred. He couldn’t change _this._ He could wear and eat and speak whatever he liked, he could change the colour of his skin but he could never ever do a thing about the red, dwarven blood that flowed through his veins.

Kili wiped his fingers on his trousers, but the blood would not come off on the stiff leather. He clenched his hand into a fist, to hide it.

* * *

 _My name is Fili nephew of Thorin Oakenshield King under the Mountain_ _My name is Fili nephew of Thorin Oakenshield King under the Mountain my name is Fili nephew of Thorin Oakenshield King under the Mountain –_

_Oh Mahal._

The roaring voice fell silent in Fili’s head as the heavy wooden doors creaked, opening inwards and beckoning the three dwarves, ringed by a dozen elves, inside. He still couldn’t see. The scouts received Fili’s declaration with muted hostility, as he knew they would. But Fili wasn’t interested in what these willowy hunters had to say or think about them. He only cared about their king, the white-haired elf from the North. Fili only needed Thranduil’s hospitality.

He recited speeches aloud in his mind as the trio were escorted through the forest. The elves took their weapons and cloaks, binding their hands at their backs and, as a final insult, wrapped thick blindfolds over their eyes. The elves erred on the side of caution, when it came to unannounced strangers arriving on their doorstep and Fili didn’t blame them for a single moment.

But when he heard those doors creak, heard the thudding of his boots echo back to him, he knew he was in a grand hall that he could not see. Fili’s nerve threatened to fail him. The speeches were lost, they were scraps of half-sentences in his mind and when he tried to pick them up, they merely slipped through his fingers. He tried to breathe, tried to steady himself as he blinked against the blindfold on his eyes.

After what felt like hours and hours of walking – and possibly was – a pair of hands, with slim, graceful fingers, rested on Fili’s shoulders, pressing him into the ground, holding him still. Another deftly worked the knot in his blindfold, and as the cloth fell away, Fili blinked, shadows and shapes squirming about in front of his eyes, colours running together as his eyes struggled to adjust to the sudden rush of light. He kept his chin erect, biting on his tongue behind his lips as the smudged blurs before his eyes took shape.

The elf-king, Thranduil, relaxed in his huge wooden throne, ornately carved and entwined with elk-horns that Fili was sure must have been real, somehow. The halls were similar – all polished and carved wood, reaching upwards, stiff and faded in parts, worn down almost to grey. Fili took this all in for a moment before fixing his gaze on the tall figure upon the throne. Thranduil himself was a stark contrast to the earthy hall around him. The red in his crown, filigree silver stretching outwards like tree-branches, looked like blood against his pale blonde hair. His long robe glittered, woven with silver and gems of astounding craft. The elf-king looked artificial, so contrived and out of place amongst the carved wood. Whatever Fili had been expecting – it wasn’t this.

Clear blue eyes were fixed on him, narrowing a degree in an imperceptible twitch. Fili stared back, wishing he thought to rebraid his hair that morning, knowing his boots tracked mud and dirt through the hall, feeling very grubby and dull and smelly in his worn clothes. Thranduil was yet to speak. He looked almost as though he _waited_ for something. Fili bore the horrible, tense silence for only a moment longer before opening his mouth, taking in a breath.

“My name,” Oh _thank Mahal_ his voice was not shaking. Fili was emboldened by the sound of his own voice, ringing clear and loud in the hall before the elf-king, strong and unafraid. “Is-”

“Fili.” The dwarf was cut short. Fili froze, mouth falling open as Thranduil’s voice overtook him, low and indifferent. But Fili saw Thranduil’s eyes fixed on his intently, and he knew the elf-king was anything but bored. _How did he know who Fili was before he had uttered a word?_ “You have the hair of Northern dwarves,” Thranduil explained, his quick mind missing nothing. “But your features are that of Durin’s line. You are Fili. Son of Dís and-”

“Don’t say his name.” Dwalin cut rudely over the elf-king, rough and ragged and desperate. “Don’t you _dare.”_   Fili’s heart thudded very heavily inside of him, at Dwalin’s words. He had never heard his voice so angry and raw before. Thranduil didn’t answer Dwalin. He didn’t even look at him. He kept his gaze fixed very firmly on Fili.

“You are the son of Dís.” He repeated, letting the sentence end there. “The heir of Thorin Oakenshield.” Thranduil’s face darkened at the name, he angled his face downward, the shadows making his jaw and cheeks look sharp and hollow and dark. “Why are you calling upon my house, Fili?”

“I-” Fili tried to remember the ragged fragments of his grand speech. Everything had slipped away from him – _damn_ that Thranduil, for gaining the upper hand so quickly. He made Fili nervous, picking him apart with his bright eyes, looking down into his soul and knowing everything about him before he had even opened his mouth. “I am here to ask for your help.” He paused, waiting for Thraduil to interject, but the elf-king only raised an eyebrow, waiting for Fili to continue. “We do not wish to disturb you, in any way. Our Company has run out of food – they’re starving, we’re starving – we only need a little food, just enough t-to get through the forest and we won’t come near you again, I promise we-” Fili grew nervous, he was babbling, he stumbled over his words and his face flushed with embarrassment at his weak, naive voice. He was almost glad when Thranduil straightened a little in his throne, cutting him off.

“Did Thorin send you?” His piercing eyes didn’t move from Fili, not for a moment. The dwarf was returning the stare, as fixed and steady as he got it, glad that Thranduil couldn’t see his bound hands, trembling in his sleeves.

“No.” Fili cleared his throat. “Thorin did not send me. He – He fell. In the enchanted river.” There was a minute twitching of Thranduil’s lip at that comment, and at his right Dwalin sighed. Fili’s ears rang with shame. He should have lied. _Why didn’t he lie?_ “I am taking charge while he’s – he’s incapacitated.” Fili’s tongue felt thick and clumsy and he wanted the earth to swallow him up. He didn’t have a problem with the elves in their greens and browns, arrows pointed at him. He could be brave, then. But this vast, glittering stranger who knew so much about him, it shook Fili down to his core and left him nervous and trembling and he knew was screwing this up.

“A bold first move, for a young king.” The twitch came again, and Fili realised Thranduil was trying not to smile. _It wasn’t funny._ Fili gritted his teeth. “I was not aware Thorin Oakenshield counted me amongst his friends.”

“He doesn’t.” Fili took in a long breath, finding his eyes were starting to itch. He wanted to blink, to look away. But he couldn’t break that spellbinding gaze with the elf-king. He couldn’t back away. He knew _everything_ counted on this. Without the hospitality of the elves, Thorin and Balina and Bilbo and everybody else, they would die. They would starve to death or grow mad with hunger, stray from the path, and find themselves a poor dinner for some wild beast. Fili was doing this for them. He wasn’t going to be laughed at. Thranduil wasn’t going to sneer at him. “I am not interested in his old quarrels.” Fili’s voice rose. “I am asking you to set aside the history between us. I am not coming to you as a dwarf or as a prince. I am coming to you as someone who is hungry and desperate. We’re starving. We just need food and water and we will not disturb you again.” There was a quaver in his last word; Fili fell silent, terrified a trembling voice would betray him.

“You require food.” Thranduil looked deep, very deep in thought, as he stared into Fili’s eyes. “I shall give you as much food as you need, Fili.” Fili’s shoulders sagged in relief; he closed his eyes and sighed, overwhelmed as the tension inside of him fell slack. At his right however, Dwalin remained as tense as ever. “Tauriel.” The elf with their hands on Fili’s shoulders stepped forward, another set of hands holding him fast. It was a _she_ Fili realised, as she bowed close to him, too curved and lithe to be male. “Take Fili and his companions to the room on the lower levels. Let them eat their fill, then they may rest.”

“It’s all right.” At his side, Dwalin closed his eyes and hung his head realising the smirk on Thranfuil’s face, the elf-maiden’s sidelong glance at Fili. But his prince was painfully ignorant of the true meaning of Thranduil’s supposedly generous hospitality. “We need to get back as soon as possible. If we could just take it-”

“No, I insist, Fili.” The flicker of a smirk was gone from his mouth now – Thranduil had stopped having his fun. “After all, you have travelled such a long way. We shall find your companions.”

“No – we _really_ don’t need that.” Fili’s heart, which had finally calmed with his supposed victory, began to beat faster. “I don’t want to cause any more trouble for you, if we just-”

“You have trespassed on my lands.” Fili gasped as Thranduil rose from his throne. He was tall, impossibly tall, taller than Fili could have ever guessed, folded in that seat of carved wood. Every trace of warmth, of curiosity had gone now. Thranduil’s eyes looked dark and narrow, down at him. “You have taken a path that a secret only to our allies. You have disturbed the creatures of darkness. Do you think I am a _fool_ , Fili?”

“No, I-”

“I know what you are doing in my homeland. I know where your quest ends. You wish to reawaken an evil that threatens to destroy a land still scarred by fire.” Thranduil walked towards Fili, his jaw tight. “You think I would allow you to simply slip past my home and awaken Smaug after a century of peace? Do you think I would risk the lives of my people, of the men of Lake-town, for a foolhardy quest to reclaim a lost fortune?” He stood close to Fili now, two feet apart, their eyes not breaking.

“Erebor is our home!” Fili shot back, Thranduil’s words awakening a dragon inside of him. He didn’t care if it was the elf-king; Fili was never having his motives questioned. He wasn’t a weak-hearted fool who lusted after gold. He wasn’t Thrór. “This isn’t about the gold – I don’t _care_ about the gold. I care about restoring our people.” Fili tried to calm his shaking breath, realising too late how damaging it would be, to descend into shouting. But it had already been done, he already gave Thranduil the fuel and information he needed. Thorin wouldn’t have done this. Thorin would have contained himself, would have remained silent and never said a word. “Please – we will not bring any harm to you. We’re _starving_ , we only need food.” Fili begged. “Thranduil – I will not ask anything more from you, I promise. Just enough to help us live.” But he looked at the elf-king, and Fili knew in his heart that he had failed. He bit on his lip, fighting back a bitter wave of anger and disappointment.

“The lower levels.” Thranduil repeated, shaking his head slowly. Fili closed his eyes, hunger and pain and frustration exploding inside of him. _No._ His humiliating failure coiled in his stomach and made him sick. _It couldn’t possibly be worse than this._ Panic rose in his throat, his eyes snapped open and Fili tried to rush forward.

“This isn’t _fair!”_ He shouted, his voice breaking. The elves grabbed his elbows, pulling him back, but they couldn’t stop his screaming. “I’ve done _nothing_ – you’re just doing this out of spite!” He crumbled, hopelessness and despair dragging him down, somewhere dark and violent. “I’m only asking for a little food – I’m trying to change things, I’m trying to help my people!” Fili’s breath came out of him in gasps, and his eyes were stinging. Thranduil stood very still, not alarmed, giving him the same cold, calculating expression. He dissected Fili in his mind, taking him apart and weighing the pieces. “I risked _everything_ for this!”

“When you are king, Fili,” And Thranduil’s face was stony and unmoving. “You will understand the folly of what you have done. You and your kin will not die from hunger.” Fili’s mouth trembled. “But I will _not_ allow you to disturb Smaug and risk the lives of my people.”

“What will you do – imprison us forever?” Fili cried. “You can’t _do_ this – people will find out – Dain will find out and he will be furious. He’ll fight you for us Thranduil. You can’t lock us up!” He grew wild and desperate and control was slipping away from him. “You can’t keep us from our home!” The hands began to pull at his elbows. Fili looked beside him, and saw Ori staring white-faced at Thranduil, shaking. He looked at Fili, eyes meeting for a moment, and he saw nothing but fear. Fili’s stomach flip-flopped, the sick horror and panic swelling painfully inside of him. Dwalin had a stone-set snarl carved on his lips, his tongue struggling to hold back the dwarvish curses that threatened to spill from his mouth. He wasn’t looking at Fili at all. He was staring at Thranduil with an old, weathered hatred. “You can’t do this!” Fili begged. He tried to drag his heels but the elves forced him along, Fili’s screaming voice rising in the wooden hall.

A sob beat in his throat, and Fili swallowed hard, not sure how long he could fight it away. He shook violently in the elves’ hands, humiliation and anger drowning him. He had completely failed his people. He had tried to do something _right_ , had tried to set aside a century of hatred and anger and Thranduil had openly mocked him for it. He called Fili a fool for what he had done. The outrage was suffocating. Fili was _not_ a fool. He was backed into a corner, had no other way out. He would not accept that he had done a foolish thing. He had a single, reasonable request. Thranduil, he was the villain here. He was the one who trapped Fili, who now imprisoned them illegally and threatened to keep them here for ever. Hatred for the elf-king rose within Fili, and he fought back the urge to spit on the wooden floor as he was forced along the wooden passageway, downwards, deep into the heart of the palace.

He would never forgive this, not as long as he lived.


	39. Safety Net

The blood was easy enough to stop with a rag. Azog bit down on the scrap of cloth, the bitter, black taste soaking through the fabric, spreading over his tongue as he worked on the task before him, one that took mere seconds with two hands – but with one, had stretched into agonizing, tedious minutes that left the orc-king’s hand shaking in frustration.

It wasn’t all that painful, really. He found a pair of pliers in the bottom of Nazarg’s pack – healers always needed to wrench things out of gums and bones and flesh – and sat down by himself with the metal tool and an inch or so of burning liquor in a half-forgotten flask. He ran his tongue over his teeth for a long time, trying to decide which one he was most willing to lose. Bolg had his left canine tooth, the sharpest and longest, and he was reluctant to give over the same privilege to Kili, to show the same affection he gave for his own flesh and blood. Eventually, he settled on one of his incisors, on the right side, swigged down half of the liquor, and pulled.

The hardest part for Azog was binding the bloodied tooth in the piece of string he had. He was used to tying one-handed knots – he had decades of practise – but this was so small, so finicky and frustrating, he almost gave up more than once. But every time he threatened to throw it to the ground in frustration, Azog looked up and saw Kili crouched beneath his tree, slumped forward in obvious pain, staring down at the ground with a hardened expression etched into his grey-smeared face. And he knew that he had worked too hard, had come too far, to have Kili pulled away from him now. He wanted Kili reaching out for him in moments of pain and terror.

Azog had realised, as he held Kili and learned that all twelve of the spiders had been killed singlehandedly by him, that the dwarf didn’t _need_ people as much as he thought he did. He was stronger and faster than anybody could have guessed. If push came to shove – if Kili was to run away or get lost, he would survive on his own. His raw, primal will brought out something indomitable inside of him. He didn’t cower away when he was backed into a corner – and that was _dangerous_ to Azog. He needed Kili to look up to him. He needed Kili dependent.

As the knot closed around the extracted tooth, Azog let out a short sigh of relief. Tightening the string with his hand, he shot Kili one last look. He needed to bring Kili back to him - and if he pushed away again, Azog would have to resort to beating that will out of him, resorting to keeping him subdued, rather than trusting. And he didn’t feel quite the same satisfaction in his stomach at the thought of doing that, again.

“Do you know what this is?” Kili blinked as he looked up, seeing Azog kneeling on the ground before him. He held out a necklace of cord; upon it something small and white glinted. A tooth. Kili frowned down at it, fingernails biting his palms as the venom still throbbed deep in his bones.

“A tooth?” It was quite a sharp little fang, looking like it had been wrenched right from the gum. He thought at first it was a warg-tooth, but it was too short for that. It seemed to belong to something smaller. But not much smaller.

“My tooth.”Azog curled his lip, pushing his tongue against the hollow in his gum, where one of his incisors once rested, blood still lingering, thick and black and bitter as tar on his tongue. Kili froze, eyes slowly widening as he looked down at the tooth. “See how some of the goblins are wearing teeth around their necks?” He pointed one of them out now, bent over his scimitar, the short little fang dangling from his throat. Kili nodded silently, unsure of what any of this meant. “They’re given to them by their fathers, when they come of age.” Kili’s head jerked up, mouth dry. “It’s a sign of protection.”

“Azog.” Kili breathed. “You – did you _just_ do that?”

“Come here.” Azog jerked his head, beckoning Kili to shuffle forward. The dwarf complied silently, his lower lip trembling as he got on his knees and crawled half a pace towards Azog. “It’s an old tradition – most of the rabble don’t bother with it. They’re given to first-borns and preferred sons. It shows that they’re favoured children.” He muttered, sitting down behind Kili. Brown eyes closed tightly as Azog brought the string down over his head. With an expert quickness, Azog tightened the thin leather cord with one hand, the tooth resting several inches above Kili’s sternum. He swept the tangled mess of brown hair free in an easy, fluid movement, fingers brushing Kili’s neck, fragments of ash coming away on his white fingers. “You’re not alone.” Kili’s shaking hand clenched in a fist around the tooth, eyes pulled toward the ground. “I wanted to remind you of that.”

“Azog.” But Kili couldn’t say anything else. He opened his mouth to speak and nothing else came out. Just a choked gasp. Azog withdrew, taking two long strides across the grass and kneeling in front of the dwarf. Kili’s eyes met his, wide and brown and expressing everything his shaking mouth could not say. Gratitude. Trust. Loyalty. Words he probably didn’t even know how to speak yet. “ _Narnûlubat_.” He finally managed to choke out, his hand still clenched into a tight fist around the sharp tooth, fighting back a rush of pain surging through his bitten arm.

“Don’t doubt me Kili.” Azog spoke quietly. Kili’s eyes lowered, he looked down at his hand and slowly spread his fingers, looking at his new gift lying in his palm.

“I won’t.” Kili promised, feeling something very hot and sick pushing up in his throat. He was trying not to _cry._ He bit down very hard on his lip as he clung to the tooth at his neck. It was such a violent, grotesque symbol of protection, to mercilessly tear out a part of him and give it to Kili, like an amulet or a medal. He didn’t trust himself to speak. He wondered if Azog would try to do something to show he cared – but he never thought the orc-king would do _this_ for him. He never for a single moment thought that he would be thought of as something like a child to Azog. “I won’t doubt you.” The words came out in a low, trembling whisper.

 _“_ You have this,” His fingers brushed Kili’s clenched fist for a moment, snaking around to grasp his wrist, at the mark hidden beneath Kili’s leather archer’s glove. “And this. No one will ever touch you.” Kili’s eyes lifted, and he looked at Azog with something utterly inexpressible, something dark and angry and yet at the same time absolutely softer than the orc-king had ever seen. And Azog knew that he had him.

 _You are such a fool._ Azog bit back the comment, resisting the urge to shake his head. He knew it would work – he knew as soon as the idea crept into his head that Kili would jump greedily at Azog’s offer of protection, his sign that Kili was worth something, _even though he didn’t need it._ It wasn’t just because Azog had broken him down – Kili had obviously been dependent for his entire life, dependent on his brother and uncle, desperate for any scrap of affection they could spare him. Dependence and desperation he didn’t really need.

It would be dangerous, if Kili found out just how strong he could be on his own. He ran his tongue along his teeth, feeling the dull ache, the bleeding hole in his gum. Azog wasn’t willing to run the risk.

* * *

Thorin awoke in the middle of the night.

They had bunked down in a tight huddle, curled inwards, backs to the cold. Thorin and Bilbo slept in the middle, side by side, with both blankets thrown over them, the others forming a tight ring around the pair. Bofur sat on watch, leaning against Bombur’s enormous stomach. The others slept – in a light, uneasy doze that they jerked awake from all too often.

Nothing felt amiss to Thorin in the first few moments of reality. It was simply like coming out of a nice long nap, and he smiled in the darkness, remembering his dreams of a grand feast in a chaotic nest of trees. Idly, he thought he must have had his fill and decided to take a nap in the woods, and the party must have dispersed – and it was _strange,_ because he distinctly remembered dozens of _elves_ and Mahal knew he would never come within a mile of them if he could help it –

_When did they get into Mirkwood?_

Thorin jerked upwards and out of the remnants of his dream, scrabbling at the blankets. He disturbed everybody around him with his sudden movements, especially Bilbo, who rubbed sleepily at his eyes and muttered something about restless dwarves before realising with a jolt what it meant, to have Thorin digging into him and poking at his side.

“Thorin?” His sleepy voice came out of the darkness, Balin’s eyes snapping open. “Thorin _you’re awake!”_ The dwarf grunted at the thin pair of arms wrapping around him in a momentary embrace, before drawing back, an embarrassed cough sounding at his right. “It’s been weeks since you fell – are you all right?” Bilbo’s little hands rested on his shoulder, as the rest of the camp shuffled about and whispered in the darkness. “Say something.”

“Bilbo?” Thorin groaned, scratching his beard. He felt so _thick_ and hazy and sleepy, wrapped in a heavy stupor. “Where... Where are we?”

“We’re in Mirkwood.” Balin’s grim voice came from his left. “Thorin – you fell into the enchanted river two weeks ago now. How much do you remember?” His heart began to race with the very real fear that Thorin could have lost some memories – the last days, weeks, months, _years_ , they could have all vanished from his mind, never to return. He reached out, finding Thorin’s wrist and wrapping his hand around the thick bindings of fur and leather.

“Mirkwood?” Thorin’s head spun, he tried to separate the tangled thoughts in his head. They were both dreams and memories – he didn’t know which ones were real, which ones to trust. “I don’t remember...” He breathed, threading his fingers through his hair. The only memories he had beneath these trees, Thorin was sure, belonged in his dreams.

“What do you remember?” Balin’s hand tightened on Thorin’s wrist. Everyone was awake now; Gloin rustled about, fiddling with his tinderbox, sparking a light in the blackness. Thorin sat hunched over, the weak, flickering light casting hollows in his cheeks. Bilbo wrapped the thick furs around Thorin’s shoulders, desperately wishing he had a hot mug of tea and a biscuit to push into the dwarf’s hands.

“I don’t...” Thorin’s head sank into his hands, trying desperately to sort through the knotted threads. “Beorn... his Hall, with the bears carved into his chair.” He mumbled. “And jars of honey...” He felt _sick_ with hunger. How long had it been, since he ate? “And-” Thorin groaned, seizing handfuls of grey-streaked tangles as grief pushed at his chest. _“Kili.”_ Kili was dead. The overwhelming pain of loss hit his chest, leaving him breathless. Kili was dead. His mind caught a glimpse of a beardless little face, grinning beneath a mop of tangled hair. _Kili was dead._

“I’m sorry Thorin.” Bilbo murmured, straightening the cloak as it slipped over his shoulders. Thorin screwed up his eyes and for a moment, his face almost crumpled and it looked as though he might cry. But he swallowed back the pain, that familiar, effortless-looking grimace, smoothed his face and opened his eyes.

“It’s all right.” He murmured, forcing a smile for just a moment. It faded, as he looked around the group, realising with a start just how thin their numbers were. “Fili. Where’s Fili?” Panic seized him, he wrenched his wrist free of Balin and made to stand up. _“What happened to Fili?”_ Thorin’s voice grew hoarse, he couldn’t breathe and he knees were weak.

“Easy Thorin, easy.” Giving Bilbo a worried look, Balin jumped up, to take Thorin by the elbow and guide him back into the dirt. The others shuffled back as Thorin staggered for a moment before his legs gave out, he collapsed on his knees, fear paralysing his chest. “Fili went off with Dwalin and Ori a little while ago. They’ve gone to look for more food.” Thorin bowed his head, closing his eyes as his breath returned to him. “We ran out some time ago.” The elderly dwarf explained, relieved beyond words to have Thorin awake and _talking_. Sorting out the memories, that could come later. For now, he was simply to have Thorin conscious beside him.

“How long ago?” That familiar short tone crept into Thorin’s voice, crisp and businesslike. He wasn’t going to remain down for a moment Bilbo realised, crouched rather awkwardly beside him. Thorin looked at them both, his frown deepening. He honestly could _never_ remember being quite this hungry, and Thorin had suffered through more than his fair share of hardships. He looked at the hollows in Bilbo’s cheeks, Balin’s grey, sagging face. “When did they leave? When did we run out?”

“We ran out of food... Mahal, near a week ago, now.” Balin’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Fili and the others left three days ago.” Thorin’s eyes flashed at him in the pale light.

“Three days...” He rubbed at his temples, fear swelling inside of him, horrible sick fear that some cruel fate had befallen his last surviving nephew, one of his closest comrades. “And _nothing.”_ Thorin lifted his head, biting on his lip as he stared beyond them all, into the darkness. He didn’t allow another moment of weakness, of sitting back and letting things crumble and fall around him, no matter how tired and hungry he was. Thorin looked into the eyes of his people, saw the same famished exhaustion reflected nine times over.

“Nothing.” Balin murmured gently, his face deep in shadow. The thought of what had happened to his younger brother – it tortured him in his sleep, made it hard for him to breathe and left his voice broken and trembling. “I would follow but – we couldn’t move, Thorin. We’ve nothing left. We can’t walk on nothing.”

“We’ve done it before.” Thorin’s voice was hard, and grim as he picked it all apart in his head, sorting everything out, pushing those tangled memory-dreams away. “We need to keep moving – in the morning, we need to head on. Something could have happened, they could have gotten lost or caught and we’re sitting ducks out here, alone.” He sighed, feeling utterly exhausted. “We’ll walk slowly and rest often. But we cannot stay here after this long, Balin.” The elderly dwarf only nodded in agreement, silent. “Who decided to go? Was it you or Dwalin?” He pushed a lock of grey-streaked hair back from his face, watching as Balin lowered his eyes.

“It was Fili.” Balin stroked his beard, looking older than Thorin ever remembered him, by Gloin’s flickering little torch. “He’d had enough – he said he was young and strong enough to go on, when we couldn’t. He was right – he had a few more days left in him when we’d all burned out. Dwalin too, he’s hard enough to forge ahead. And Ori, he’s got the most heart. He took a good team with him, the best chances of finding hope.” Balin looked up, pushing back all that fear and worry, as his eyes met Thorin’s. “He’s done so well Thorin. You should be so proud of him.”

“I’m sure.” Thorin whispered, feeling so very cold and deflated. There was no doubt in his mind that Fili had been admirable, in his absence. He was ready, he was _desperate_ , to embrace Fili and sing his praises and swear that he couldn’t wish for a finer heir. Bilbo’s hand on his shoulder felt vague and distant, but he didn’t shake it off. He was tired, as though he had walked for miles upon miles through snow and rain without a moments’ rest. “I just hope I can tell him.”

* * *

Fili leaned against the wall of his cell, listening to the low footsteps approaching him. He stood, waiting on his own two feet with his arms crossed, assuming a scowl on his face as the familiar jingle of keys sounded outside the wooden door, as it had that morning. And the day before. He remained silent as the door was pushed open, watching as Tauriel shook her head, making a sound of annoyance in her throat at the sight of Fili’s untouched food.

“You can’t starve yourself.” She remarked shortly, the keys jangling from her belt as she bent down to pick up the wooden tray of food. “You’ll get hungry soon, Fili.”

“I’m not eating a mouthful,” Fili spat out the words vehemently, his tone low and poisonous, “Until you take me to see that _snake_ you have the gall to call your king.” She stared at him with a cool, expressionless face, fingers curled around the tray. Tauriel was well-trained, and she knew when to keep quiet.

 “You _are_ stubborn.” She remarked, maintaining that same facade, that blank mask that drove Fili mad. “Thranduil knows you’re refusing to eat until you see him.” Tauriel watched the dwarf’s reaction, not moving a muscle.

“What did he say?” Fili’s head jerked up a little at her revelation, his jaw tightened and his fingers dug into his arms.

“He said he’s very busy at the moment.” There was nothing in her tone, to give her away. Tauriel didn’t give the dwarf an ounce of emotion. It made Fili’s blood boil with a violent, uncontrollable rage. Fili was never ever violent towards a female, the mere thought made him nauseas and dizzy  – but he wanted to _hurt_ this elf, he wanted to hear her scream and that desire made him sicker than any hunger. “But he may have a moment to spare in a few days. You have made your point Fili. Eat.”

“In the meantime, what of my uncle? What of my _people_ , trapped in the woods?” Fili took a step forward, a snarl on his face. He barely came up to her chest, but Tauriel still stepped back at the sudden burst of anger, hazel eyes growing dark. “What humiliation do you have prepared for _them?”_ Fili’s hands were balled into fists, he gritted his teeth and was only vaguely aware of a violent tremor in his throat, aching and bitter. “Are you doing to leave them to die? Or are you going to cage them like animals?”

“You are so thoughtless.” She bent down to look him in the eye, her voice very low and Fili knew he had gotten under her skin. “You are an _idiot_ if you thought for one second that Thranduil would allow strangers to wander through his domain and provoke a sleeping dragon.” A lock red hair tumbled into the untouched cup of water, and Tauriel ignored it. “You came begging, standing cap in hand on our doorstep expecting Thranduil to risk what little peace he has fought for us? He owes you nothing, Fili.” Tauriel straightened, closed her eyes for a moment and carefully reassumed her patient mask of indifference, letting the momentary burst of anger fade as quick as it came. “Thranduil’s son Legolas is heading a band of elves, scouting along the path and looking for your kin.” Her knuckles were white on the tray, but the tightness in her lip, the knot in her jaw, had relaxed. “They will be found and brought here, before nightfall.”

Fili kept silent. He had nothing to say to her, now. He was sick with nervousness and anger, it made his fingers shake, his mouth dry and a violent whirling rushing in his ears. The betrayal was rancid and poisonous, he was pinned beneath a rotting carcass and no matter how hard he beat his fists Fili was trapped. The elf captain waited a few more seconds, but realising Fili was not going to utter another word, she made a short, clipped sound in her throat, almost like a snort, before and turning and leaving, the keys jingling and lock drawing home with a click, leaving Fili alone in the silence.

He moaned, leaning against the wall as his knees failed to fold up beneath him, thin and frail as paper. Fili slid along the wall, his hair so tangled and messy, sinking forward as his knees hit the ground, leaning heavily on his hands. He couldn’t think. The bitter taste of his failure would not wash away from his mouth. He wanted to be sick; he would vomit heavily if he could, blinding terror leaving his heart pounding madly in his ribcage.

 _What would Thorin say?_ What was he going to say, when he woke up and learned of all this? Fili had tried to tell himself, pacing slowly through the wood, that none of it really mattered, that Fili’s honour wasn’t worth the lives of his people and he would lose it all in a heartbeat if it meant making sure everybody was okay – and he didn’t believe that any less. The conviction still carried the same weight. But the added pressure, the explosion of fear and terror as his perfectly laid plans crumbled and everything Fili tried to do only made things worse, it was a crushing weight on his soul, it flattened his courage and strength and left him feeling thin and jarred and beaten. He thought he had prepared for this. But _nothing_ could have readied him for the reality of the situation, the humiliation and fear of being locked away like a mad beast, with only that maddening elf-woman, staring at him with her horrible empty eyes.

 _I’m so sorry, Thorin._ He recited the words in his, wishing somehow that his uncle could hear his desperate confession. _I am so sorry._ He failed; he failed and he knew it. He failed _again._

And Fili didn’t know how many chances he had left. He had the sick certainty in his gut that this time, Thorin wasn’t going to be there to cushion Fili’s fall; he would tumble and break his bones and bruise his pride. And this time, Fili wasn’t pushed by grief or misery or anger.

 This time, he jumped willingly.


	40. Never

“Get up.”

There was a boot in his side. On his bed of dirt and leaves, Thorin groaned, rubbing at his eyes. Sleep still clung to him, winding about his limbs and pulling him down, somewhere sweet and dark. The boot was there again, harder. His eyes cracked open, struggling to see through the dull gloom. Dawn beckoned, stretching pale rays of sunshine above him, in a world of light and air that Thorin could not see. The boot _jabbed_ him this time, quite hard, and with a groan, he opened his bright blue eyes fully, stinging with sluggish lethargy.

An arrow was six inches from his nose.

Thorin gasped. He jerked upwards, tugging on Balin’s sleeve in an effort to wake up his elderly friend. The other hand gripped at his waist, only to find Orcrist missing. The breath left Thorin’s lungs as a cold panic rushed inside of him. He looked beyond the arrow, to the thin white hand that kept it taut against the string. Slowly, his eyes roved over the elf that had him pinned to the earth. Blonde hair was draped over his slim shoulders, girt with plated armour and mail, over soft leather delicately wrought with gold leaves. His eyes were impossibly blue, fixed on Thorin, jaw set. A prince. Thorin’s empty stomach clenched, he felt suddenly cold and he couldn’t breathe, as though had he had been dropped into a very deep pool of icy water, and he was sinking to the bottom.

“Get up.” Legolas repeated, his eyes not leaving Thorin for a moment. He took half a pace back, giving the dwarf room enough to rise to his feet. Thorin got on his knees but refused to move further, hands splayed before him in a silent gesture of piece. His eyes darted wildly, taking in the ring of elves that enfolded them, the cluster of dwarves, sitting kneeling and lying with their hands on their heads or thrust out before them. “Get _up_ , dwarf.” The elf prince growled, pulling the bow back, a hairs-breadth further along the string.

 _Where is Fili?_ It was Thorin’s first thought, as he wavered unsteadily on his feet. They bound his hands quickly, the others allowing themselves to be dragged to their feet without a fight. Thorin only came up to the elf’s shoulder, but he refused to feel small, glaring up at Legolas with his lips stiff and tight. He wouldn’t speak a word to this obstinate prince, who sneered at him like an unpleasant slug, something he had gotten smeared on his pristine slippers.

 _Where is Fili?_ Thorin tried so hard to just breathe, to keep his face blank and impassive as they rootled around in his cloak, searching him for spare knives and weapons. He knew he couldn’t show an ounce of fear or anger, he kept his chin up and forced down the uncertain panic. He was strong, unmoving. He was stone. Let this prince strip him and take away his things. Let him drag Thorin before the elf-king, bound and battered and starving. 

Only Balin and Bofur noticed that Bilbo was missing, eyes meeting as they were roughly shoved into a line with their hands bound in front of him. The dwarves were all very silent. Some of them were _relieved_ to be captured; at least they could count on food, within Thranduil’s cells. There was no fight left in them, nothing to match the elves, so tall and quick and alert. Thorin had given up. They had all given up. Bofur only gave the white-haired dwarf a shrug, a meaningful smile that went unnoticed by the elves. Balin returned with a near imperceptible nod. He tried to look at Thorin and grab his attention, but it was obvious to him that even though he kept his composure, Thorin was screaming and breaking apart inside. He could read pain in those startling blue eyes, in a heartbeat.

And he tried not to think on his brother, for fear his own sturdy mask would break.

* * *

A sunbeam lit Kili’s ashen face.

Azog sat beside the sleeping dwarf, watching his eyes twitch, turning a little in slumber. Kili slept on his right side, using his pack as a pillow. His broken arm was curled against his chest, and Azog could see the thin leather cord was wrapped tightly around his fingers. It was a clear, bright afternoon and the finger of sunlight made the scar shine white on Kili’s cheek, beneath the smears of ash. He slept facing Azog, a foot away from his side. His face flickered in a dream, a low whimper sounding from his throat.

They were close. Azog could almost smell it, crouched beneath these beech trees, snatching a few precious hours of rest in the chilly afternoon. The wargs certainly could – they got excited with each passing hour, their feet quickening as the scent grew stronger and Azog knew the dwarves were, for the first time in months, within his reach.

He looked back down at Kili, at his downturned lips and heavy eyes. Azog remembered how Kili positively shone when he had Azog’s tooth in his hand, his grotesque offering of kinship. Azog had watched him in the two days that followed, keeping Kili close at every waking hour, dragging him away from the goblins with false errands and requests, making sure the dwarf slept at his side. He was being obsessive, keeping Kili as close as he did, and Azog knew the others were starting to talk.

If he had to give an answer, a solid, truthful answer to _why_ he acted this way, Azog was unsure if he could give it honestly. He didn’t _know._ It was not out of any affection for Kili – _it was not_ – but neither was it an opportunity to watch Kili suffer. He _wasn’t_ suffering, anymore. He ate his meals with Azog, swallowing down whatever meat was offered to him without flinching, he laughed and made jokes and Azog let him – sometimes he even smiled to himself, looking away so Kili wouldn’t catch his expression. Azog saw fleeting glimpses, beneath the dirt and ash and dried blood, of the dwarf Kili used to be. So silly, childish, and sunny. He could see how Thorin babied him, for so long. But those fleeting moments were just that, fleeting, and almost as soon as that light crossed Kili’s face, it faded and he became dark and angry again. The brightness seemed to stir memories inside of Kili, memories of his brother and his uncle. It was almost as though he couldn’t ever be happy again, without thinking of them and souring whatever sweetness he managed to hold on to.

Azog’s show of kinship, of closeness and comfort, it had completely wound its way around Kili’s heart. He had _befriended_ Azog in his mind, as they rode beneath the low-hanging eaves of Mirkwood, eating their meals together, sleeping side by side in the soft hours of afternoon quiet. It was both admirable and disgusting, how Kili had managed to place such overwhelming trust and loyalty towards someone who had caused such horrific pain. He would make an excellent lieutenant, with his quickness and strength, his enduring will and fidelity. Azog looked at Kili and he knew that he could ask anything of the dwarf, anything at all, and it would be done without question. He stepped back and marvelled at what he had done, at how he had built Kili up from nothing, had done everything he had set out to do and _more_ , utterly transforming him from somebody weak and lost and fearful, to a strong warrior.

Azog stared out across the plains, the eastern fields that stretched out before them through a brief netting of trees. Kili murmured something in his sleep, restless. He sounded in pain. Azog’s gaze lowered to the dwarf, watching as Kili’s brows knitted tightly, mouth wrinkled and a quavering moan coming out of his throat. He was having a nightmare. Kili curled over, hair falling in his eyes and his good arm reaching out through a carpet of dead, rotting leaves.

Why did he do this then?

Azog brushed Kili’s hair back, combing the tangles away from his face and resting his hand on Kili’s shoulder, feeling the dwarf tremble in his grasp. Kili would remember this. He would have the sensation of being touched in his dream, he would wake up with Azog beside him and he wouldn’t be scared anymore. Azog was no fool; he had a son, and he knew how children worked.

He did it because he _could_.

* * *

Fili lay with his eyes closed, listening to the footsteps echo around him. They were heartbeats, slow, steady and effortless. But not his. His own heart banged inside of him, shallow and fast. Desperate. Fili screwed up his eyes, hands clenched over his chest. He couldn’t sleep, not properly. He drifted in and out in a haze, shaking with hunger as his skin loosened and grew paler than ever. He starved, growing sick with fear and anger, he closed his eyes and imagined Thorin’s face, screaming at him for his stupidity and foolishness. Thranduil’s cold, mocking eyes staring down at him from his throne. He pulled everything out and tried to look at it from all angles, trying to figure out what else he could have done.

Nothing. There was nothing he could have done that didn’t end with them starving, or being caught by Thranduil – they were at his mercy, that had _been_ at his mercy ever since they took his secret path. There was nothing else he could have done. Fili stared up at the wooden ceiling in his little cell, on a bed that stretched entirely along one wall, a thin mattress he only half filled.

The door creaked.

Fili jumped up, his racing heart quickened further and he sprang to his feet. He flattened his back against the wall, facing the door with his hands splayed against the wood as it swung open, ready to greet Tauriel, to snarl at her and ignore her pleas for him to eat as he had done time and time again.

But Thranduil stood in the doorway, a small plate of food in his hand.

What was _he_ doing here? Why did he come all the way down here, instead of having Fili hauled up out of his dark cell? Was that it - did he want somewhere dark and private to talk to Fili? Somewhere they couldn't be overheard? What did Thrandil want? Fili’s fingers grew numb, his empty stomach clenched tightly and he didn’t dare move a muscle as he watched the elf-king step into the room, filling it. _Mahal_ how was he so tall? Fili had to crane his neck to look up at him, curling his shaking fingers into the wood. He bent double at the waist, placing the food on the floor in a single, fluid motion, before taking half a pace back.

“Eat.” The command was a short, clipped word. Fili parted his cracked, dry lips, anguished, desperate to make a sound. But his voice failed him, in the shock of seeing Thranduil _here_ , in his dirty little cell with the smells and the sound and the dim light, looking so foreign and removed. “Eat and then we will talk.”

Fili took two steps towards the elf-king, sinking to his knees before the modest plate of food. A hunk of break, a few slices of cold salted pork and half a mug of ale. It was a poor meal, but Fili’s mouth watered, at the sight of it. It had taken every ounce of his will and restraint to lie facing the wall, turned away from the food Tauriel left for him with the delicious smell invading his nostrils and making his stomach burn. His fingers shook, closing around the bread and breaking it in half. He knelt on the ground, Thranduil’s toes a foot or so from his plate. Fili tried to take small bites, tried to give off the illusion that he wasn’t really hungry, he was doing this as a favour, but the moment the soft bread touched his lips, Fili screwed up his eyes and his defences fell with a low moan. He barely chewed, eating with great wolfish gasps, choking a little as he downed the ale in a single gulp.

“Easy.” Thranduil warned, having to stoop in the low cell, his eyes fixed on the dwarf prince. Fili froze, mouth filled with pork, staring down at Thranduil’s slippers, glittering and iridescent. Like the rest of him. Fili chewed slowly, wiping his mouth on his sleeve as he swallowed. He remained on his knees, staring up at Thranduil with his head turned back, unsure if he could trust his legs to remain sturdy beneath him. He felt smaller than he _ever_ had before, on the ground in this room, bigger than his own shared bedroom in Ered Luin, but a cramped box to Thranduil, who stood bent over, who could touch both walls if he stretched his arms out.

“You can’t keep us here.” A new life had sparked in Fili’s eyes – his stomach was knotted, he felt bloated and stuffed and there was a _warmth_ that ran through his veins. “Not forever.”

“I will let you go, on the condition that you _never_ return.” Fili’s heart pounded at Thranduil’s words, his blue gaze not shifting from the elf-king for a moment. “You will be escorted to the western edge of the forest and given everything you need to return to Ered Luin. You will swear that neither you nor your descendants will ever pass through my domain in an attempt to reclaim Erebor.” The dwarf shook his head slowly, mouth dry.

“I cannot promise that.” Fili breathed, hands shaking plainly at the awful condition set before him. He couldn’t even consider it – not for a moment. It was _unthinkable_ , to surrender his claim to Erebor, to deny his people the chance to regain their homeland. He would die, before swearing it. “I will _never_ promise that.” His voice shook with the final word, Fili looking up at Thranduil with clear, steady eyes.

“Is the gold of Erebor worth more than freedom, Fili?” His words cut deep inside the blonde, down into his heart, and it made him grit his teeth in pain, in outrage and frustration at Thranduil’s deliberate, mocking accusation.

“It is _not_ about the gold.” He balled his hands into fists but they still shook; Fili was losing control, he was breaking down and he didn’t know what to do. This wasn’t supposed to be how it all went. He wasn’t supposed to be trapped and mocked and _defeated_ like this. He was a prince, he was doing what a prince should do and put his people before his own honour and Thranduil _ridiculed_ him for it. “I don’t care for a single coin.” Why was this so difficult for him to understand? He had a throne if he wanted it, a kingdom and a fortune that lingered in the northern mountains, ruled by an ageing Ironfist king, possibly already dead, heirless apart from his estranged grandson. This wasn’t about the gold at all. Not for Fili. This was about a home he never had, one he ached for.

“It’s a rare dwarf, who does not care for gold.” Thranduil’s stare was level, even. He was trying to get inside Fili’s head, trying to pick him apart. There had to be a chink in his armour, a weakness, a limit to his apparently selfless devotion and naivety. No prince was this noble, not  without a fault. “Your conditions are simple, Fili.” He didn’t blink. “No one would think any less of you, for accepting them.”

“I will not sell my claim to Erebor for the sake of my own freedom.” Fili bit back a snarl. “You’ve made your conditions and I’ve rejected them. If you don’t have anything else to say, get out.”And finally, he rose to his feet. He was still so small, even stretched upwards with chin held high, but Fili refused to be looked down on.

“Another hunger strike will not bring me down here.” Thranduil warned as he took a step backwards, realising that he was rapidly outstaying his chilly welcome. “Eat Fili. Tauriel will not be afraid to force-feed you, if the situation arises.”

“Leave.” Fili spat, humiliated. He wavered on unsteady legs but refused to show weakness, glaring at Thranduil with everything he had. He watched the elf-king leave without ceremony, waiting until the footsteps drifted away before throwing himself down on the straw mattress, clutching his stomach as he curled into a fetal position, face pressed into the bundled rag of a pillow.

Tears stung at Fili’s eyes, but he pushed them back. He refused to cry. _He_ _wouldn’t cry._ He was bitter, miserable and helpless and overwhelmingly frustrated but he would not shed a tear for any of this. He bit down on a scrap of cloth, breathing heavily through his nose until the burning passed, until he was able to breathe normally and the sick flood of agony in his chest faded to a dull, throbbing ache. He did this. He did _all_ of this and he was utterly trapped. Fili couldn’t see a way out of this, he knew Thorin would somehow find out, would learn about this and he would have to look into his uncle’s dark, angry eyes, and explain his naive stupidity.

And he could _never_ face that.

* * *

The Halls were not as Thorin remembered them.

He had only been once before, as a rather young dwarrow of perhaps twenty or thirty, and remembered being thoroughly unimpressed at the intricately carved wood, spreading out forever in all directions. He didn’t think much of the greens and browns, the plain coarse clothing of the elves and the slender pillars of branches and leaves. Thranduil hoarded his treasure, keeping it locked away rather than adorning his home with glittering gold and gems.

He remembered Thrain commenting that the wood-elves didn’t like having it around the place – they preferred bunches of flowers in the spring and summer, berries and red leaves in the autumn and in the winter they let the walls hang bare. The only wealth seemed to come from Thranduil himself, with his glittering coat of woven silver, the heavy rings on his fingers and the filigree crown on his head. Legolas too wore the wealth of Mirkwood, walking on front of Thorin with his delicate coat of mail beneath the armour, spun gold trailing down his back.

He realised now, how short-sighted he had been, when he scoffed at the elves’ craft. They had their own skill, in shaping and carving these wooden halls. They didn’t have the patience of dwarves, who chipped away at the stone for generations, but they had a special cunning, all of their own.

But Thranduil had not aged a day.

Vile, bitter hatred swelled in Thorin’s stomach as he entered the hall and caught sight of the elf-king. He clenched his bound hands into fists, lip tightening over his teeth as he fought back the urge to shout curses at him. He was certain now that Fili rested somewhere within these walls. He had been caught like a bolted pony and dragged down here, locked away in the darkest recesses of Thranduil’s dwelling. _Where is my nephew?_ He wanted to scream the words, shout at Thranduil until he was hoarse. He wanted to rush at the elf-king and he didn’t care if he was killed on the spot. _Thranduil you have no right to do this to us._

“Thorin Oakenshield.” There was no lounging about on the throne for him today. He sat with his back straight, fingers curled around the arms of the carved wood. “How long it has been, since we have met. It is good to see you have awoken from your sleep.”

 _Fili was here then._ Thorin didn’t utter a word. He watched Legolas hand Orcrist over to his father, watched Thranduil mutter to him, in Elvish, withdrawing the blade six inches and examining the steel, before handing it back. Thranduil’s eyes turned back, very bright, scanning the entire company before returning to Thorin.

“Have you nothing to say, Thorin?” Thranduil tilted his head to one side, raising an eyebrow. “A greeting, perhaps? An explanation for stumbling about in _my_ domain, for using _my_ secret paths without permission and authority?” Thorin was stiff and cold as stone, but Thranduil saw his throat clench, hands shaking wildly. “An enquiry about your nephew?”

“How dare you.” Thorin couldn’t hold back the snarl, not when Thranduil directly mentioned Fili. Behind him, Balin held his breath. “How dare you snatch him from the shadows like an errant beast!”

“I did nothing of the sort.” Thranduil retorted sharply, eyes narrowing as he realised Thorin really didn’t have any idea of what Fili had done without his permission. “He came to us Thorin. He came willingly and-”

“Do not _lie_ to me!” Thorin was not going to keep his tongue still around Thranduil, not with Fili’s honour questioned in such a repulsive, malicious attack. He stepped forward, Legolas grabbing Thorin’s arm and holding in place with a low Elvish curse that his father could not hear. “How _dare_ you question the loyalty of my nephew!”

“I am not lying, Thorin.” Thranduil resisted the strange urge to sigh at the obstinate dwarf before him. “He knocked upon my doors, requesting my aid. He asked for food and water to sustain his starving company, some miles along my path.” Thorin stared at him wide-eyed, all pretence dropped in his utter shock. “He was rather polite, at first.”

“You-” But Thorin found he couldn’t utter another word. His throat had closed in shock and anger. It was impossible. _There was no way Fili could have done this. He would never betray Thorin._ It was unthinkable. Fili knew about Thorin’s attitude to elves, he _knew_ where Durin’s Folk stood and he knew help from Thranduil was not worth the blow to his pride. _Fili would never be so stupid._

“I have placed him here for his safety and ours.” Thranduil locked Thorin’s eyes in a smouldering glare. “I _never_ thought you would consider something as foolish and reckless as waking a sleeping dragon.”

"Am I to abandon our home?" Thorin wasn't taking his insults with an ounce of composure. Thranduil didn't _deserve_ it. "Are we to wander in poverty, Thranduil?" His knuckles were white.

"What you are doing is beyond unwise. It is _dangerous._ You put the lives of your people, of _my_ people, and the men of Lake-town in catastrophic risk." But Thorin wore the same steady defiance Thranduil had seen on Fili, three days earlier. Defiance and a bitter, aged hatred that had only sharpened after a century of uncertainty and darkness.

“Perhaps I would not need to do this, if your sword had not been stuck in its sheath.” Thranduil stood up at the words, his eyes wild and Thorin knew he had crossed a line. The elf-king rushed across the dais, bending down to scowl in his ear, his voice _shaking_ in rage.

“Do not speak to me of violence and bloodshed, Thorin Oakenshield.” Thranduil’s ragged voice sent a chill through the dwarf’s veins. Legolas watched him, wide-eyed, hand still on Thorin’s elbow. “I am many things but I am not a coward.” He stepped back, a very ugly scowl on his fine features. “I will not have the lives of my people risked by dragon’s flame. I will not allow you to disrupt the peace we have built within these walls.” He watched Thranduil’s eyes lower to the ground for a fleeting moment, bound in an ancient bloody memory, before matching Thorin’s bright blue stare. “You will not attempt to reclaim the Lonely Mountain. I offer to you the same condition. We will escort you to the western border, and give you provisions enough to return home, and you will never return. You will never see Erebor again.” But he was wasting his breath. Thranduil knew the answer as soon as it came out of his mouth. They both knew.

“Never.” Thorin’s steady, measured voice was very deep. Two kings stood on the dais, one fighting for a lost home, a name buried in ash. Another fighting to hold on to a fleeting moment of peace, watching the world age in a home that was not his. Both exiled.

“As you wish, Thorin Oakenshield.” Thranduil’s lips moved, but Thorin was sure no sound came from his mouth. He felt only a dull rushing, a violent, agonizing slash in his heart as he thought about his nephews, _both of them_ , one lost for ever, another locked in a cell, terrified, isolated.

And despite the fury at being caught, despite the insult against his name and Thranduil’s cruel conditions and threats, the outrage and confusion at what Fili had done, all Thorin could think about was how badly he had failed the both of them.


	41. Trapped

For all of Thorin’s shock, outrage and exasperation, he could not deny his meal that night was the _best_ thing he had ever eaten. He lay afterwards on his straw pallet with his hands over his stomach, feeling the chicken and ham and boiled potatoes churning, tightening painfully. Perhaps he had eaten too fast.

He tried to sleep, for a long time. Thorin closed his eyes and tried to clear his head, but it was impossible. The memories were like sharp branches, tangled all about, sticking into him and scratching him and making it difficult to see. He tried to go through them all carefully, recounting every night, every event that he could, tracing his journey back to Beorn’s Hall. He remembered Fili overturning the table, breaking down into tears. He remembered holding on to Kili’s things, feeling his heart break within him. He remembered sealing everything in that little cave, a simple stone tomb because they didn’t have time enough for something worthy of Kili (They would go back, they would build a stone guardian to stand watch over Kili’s resting place, it would stand until the end of days until Middle Earth disappeared in a haze of ash and fire and _Kili would never be forgotten_ ), he remembered sitting with Fili, braiding his lion’s mane and listening to him fighting back tears. He remembered Fili confessing his mistakes, having them thrown back at his face and turning away from Thorin in bitter anger.

Thorin felt embarrassment colour his cheeks as he remembered his own reaction to Kili’s death. It was so _restrained_ after his initial outburst, so composed and stiff and he didn’t blame Fili for being angry. The memories, they grew hazier the further Thorin’s mind travelled through Mirkwood. But he remembered Fili screaming at him, he remembered coughing blood and Ori holding his hand _– Ori_. His stomach tightened and this time it wasn’t the food. He remembered Ori.

But the last thing Thorin could remember, and it took a long time to recall it through a fog of dreams and darkness, was Fili’s dark blue eyes, staring at him. Demanding to know about _Frerin._ Oh Mahal. Thorin shut his eyes, letting out a long breath. He remembered agreeing to tell Fili everything. _But he didn’t remember saying it._ Thorin twisted his fingers in the edge of his tunic but he couldn’t remember anything after that. He didn’t remember falling into the water, he didn’t remember anything Balin or Bilbo or anybody else had said to him. He only remembered Fili’s dark eyes, the hurt and betrayal and indignation.

And two weeks had passed. Two weeks where Fili was alone. Balin swore that he was all right – that he did _well_ – but the shame of his failure still weighed heavily on Thorin. This _wasn’t_ supposed to happen. He wasn’t supposed to leave Fili, not yet. He remembered how Fili had collapsed in his arms, so scared and angry and _young_ and bowed down with grief. He wasn’t old enough to do this, alone. Nobody knew better than Thorin the crippling burden of early leadership. It had left him so beaten down and broken; he never would have wished it for Fili. Not when he had to cope without his brother. It wasn’t fair of Thorin, to do this to him.

“Thorin?” In fact, Thorin was almost asleep, his mind filled with these dark, heavy thoughts, when a little voice sounded at his keyhole, starting him right out of a light doze, jerking up on his straw bed. “Thorin – is that you?”

“ _Bilbo?_ ” He couldn’t believe it. _Bilbo Baggins._ His heart leapt in his chest, Thorin scrabbling across the room and pressing his ear to the wooden door. “Is that really you?”

“Yes.” And the voice on the other side sounded just as relieved. “Sorry I’m so late. I followed you all through the paths but I fell behind and I had to wait until those blasted magic doors swung open again before sneaking in... I’ve been looking around half the night. They’ve got you all locked up tight and nobody is in the same place. Are you all right? Have you had something to eat?”

“I had the best dinner of my life.” Thorin spoke truthfully, a smile spreading across his face at Bilbo’s little voice. “What are you doing down here? How have the elves not caught you?”

“Well – er, I’ve got that under control.” Bilbo suddenly sounded cagey and defensive. “Hobbits are hard to find, remember? Always slinking about the place.” Thorin frowned, fingers curling into the wood. But he let it go. “Look – I can’t stay very long, it’s awfully late but they still have a guard doing the rounds on the hour. I can pass a message to anybody, if you like.”

“Fili.” Thorin pressed his forehead against the door. “Where is Fili? Have you found him?”

“No – I’ve been looking all about the place and eavesdropping. I heard two elves gossiping about a blonde dwarf down ‘the bottom’, wherever that is, so it must be him. I was going to look after I found you.” Bilbo sighed. “I found Ori, though. And Dwalin.”

“How are they?” Thorin wanted nothing more than to break down the stupid door and look the hobbit in the eye. “How – did they tell you how they were caught?” Thorin’s voice stuck in his throat, as he recalled Thranduil’s damning words. _He came to us... he knocked upon my doors..._ Thorin didn’t want to believe them. He _refused_ to, until he knew for sure what Fili had said and done.

“Dwalin didn’t say much. He’s in a terrible mood.” Bilbo sounded apologetic for the dwarf warrior. “He just kept saying Fili was an idiot and Thranduil should be hung for his trickery.” Thorin heard him take in a breath. “Ori... Oh, he’s so sad Thorin. He was almost in tears, when he told me.”

“When he told you what?” Thorin whispered back, pressing against the door with all of his might, not wanting to miss a word. “What happened?”

“They weren’t caught – well, they _were_ , but they wanted to be caught. Fili... Um, came asking for help, Thorin.” Bilbo stammered over the words, and Thorin realised he hadn’t heard Thranduil’s accusation, that this was all new to him and he thought he was telling Thorin for the first time. “He came here to get food and water, for _us.”_ Thorin could see him now, toying with the hem of his waistcoat, all fiddly, with eyes downcast as he was caught saying things he didn’t want to. “He tried to be friendly but Thranduil wasn’t having a bar of it.” Bilbo made an odd gulping sound, a swallow, shuffling outside the door. “Ori... He didn’t want to say anything. He was so scared. His exact words were ‘don’t tell Thorin, he’ll kill Fili’. But I knew I couldn’t _not_ tell you, it’s too important. I know he would have his reasons and he can tell you in time but... Thorin? Thorin are you still there? You’ve gone all quiet.”

“I’m here.” _Thorin was crying._ He convulsed in silent sobs and pressed the heels of his hands deep into his eyes, tried to swallow down the sick burning. _Fili no how could you do this?_ He was going to throw up, in the anger and shame and treachery. He was going to fall forward and throw up. _How could his nephew betray him like this?_

“Thorin?” Bilbo breathed. “Thorin, a-are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” He swallowed, the quaver in his voice smoothing over. “Bilbo, listen to me. You have to find Fili. Tonight. Find him and ask everything you can. _Everything,_ you understand me?”

“Of course... do you want me to say anything to anybody else?” Thorin shook his head, hands shaking madly. He didn’t trust his voice but he realised he had to say something. Bilbo couldn’t see him, behind that door. “Thorin?”

“Just find Fili.” Thorin clutched at his tunic, over his heart, arching his back and closing his eyes.

“All right... I’ll find him and let you know.” Bilbo sounded very quiet. “Take... Take care.” He murmured. “You won’t be in here forever. I’ll find you a way out of here, I promise.”

“Thank you Bilbo.” Thorin whispered, unsure if the hobbit even heard him. He heard his bare, leathery feet pad away down the corridor, and when he was sure he was alone, Thorin pitched forward, all the grief and betrayal and _anger_ coming out in a long, low moan.

“ _Fili,”_ He gasped into the floor, struggling to breathe. What had he done? How could he – how _could_ he ignore everything Thorin had said to him? How could he turn his back on Thorin’s advice? How could he do something so reckless and naive and _unfaithful?_

 _Oh Fili._ He tried to fill his lungs, tried to steady his ragged gasps of air. _What have you done?_ Thorin gritted his teeth but the nausea doubled, heaving within him and he was sure he was going to be sick.

* * *

“I need to ask you something.” Kili looked up from his arrowhead to see Azog sitting down in front of him, a distracted frown on your face. He toyed with the sharp little point, tilting his head a little as he tried to read the orc’s face.

“Of course.” Kili lowered his eyes for a moment, knowing in an instant what it was Azog was going to talk to him about. They were close, _so close_ now, to the Elven-king’s Hall, and Azog didn’t dare to push his retinue any further. But the scent was going cold; scouts had cut west through the forest and came back, reporting that the trail led quite plainly into the Hall itself. Thorin and his company were obviously within – probably having food and rest. It was simply a matter of waiting them out, the goblins muttered, growing in anticipation. But Azog was less confident. Kili could see he grew edgy and he knew why.

“Thranduil and his elves – have you had the pleasure of meeting them?” Kili snorted outright at the question, shaking his head as a smile flickered across his face.

“Never.” Azog’s scowl deepened. “They don’t come near us and we don’t go near them. I’ve never heard Thorin say a good word about an elf, Azog. Ever since Erebor fell, he’s done nothing but curse them.”

“What do you know of them?” Azog studied Kili’s face, watching him bite on his lower lip in thought. “Surely you must have heard stories.”

“I’m thinking...” Kili murmured softly, lines creasing across his forehead. “All Thorin – all he ever said was that they were traitors and cowards. That they abandoned him. Balin said they used to be allies, before Smaug...  well, as much as you can expect between elves and dwarves.” Azog’s lip flickered, twitching upwards for just a moment. “Why?”

“So Thorin – he’s no longer a friend of elves.” Kili brushed a wild lock of hair back, as he shook his head.

“He accepted Elrond’s help in Rivendell,” Kili spoke slowly, trying to figure it out in his own head. “But – that was Gandalf, pushing him into it.” His gaze had slipped down to his hands, twisting and turning in his lap, obviously pained with the thought of his family. “And Thranduil – the things I have heard are so odd... One of the elves in Rivendell, he warned us _against_ them. He turned his nose up and said the Mirkwood elves were ‘wild’, that they weren’t wise like they were.” Kili frowned into the dirt. There was a very good chance that Thorin was not a welcome guest within that Hall. He looked at Azog and saw the same thoughts, reflected in his eyes.

“That tells me nothing.” Azog muttered, looking as though he’d tasted a mouthful of something very foul. Kili watched him stew in his anger, awkwardly pressing his thumb along the edge of his flinted arrowhead, unsure of what he could do to make anything better.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered. “If I knew any more Azog, I would tell you.” He clenched his hands around the little point, knuckles whitening, hidden beneath his glove and his cast, embarrassed. “But I don’t.”

“No, you don’t.” Azog growled. Kili held his breath, heart racing inside of himself. _It wasn’t his fault._ His frown grew harder on his face as he stared down at the dirt. What was he expected to know, when Thorin had treated him like such a child? Nobody ever told Kili _anything_. Hot anger rushed upwards in his chest, at the thought. “We shall have to find somebody who does.”

“Azog?” Kili’s head snapped up, eyes growing wide. “What do you mean?” The scowl had smoothed over; he now looked deep in thought, working through an elaborate plan in his quick head. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m not making a mistake.” Azog said coolly; he’d made too many, already. He presumed before and he was _not_ going to do it again. Kili swallowed, his Adam’s apple so sharp beneath his weathered grey skin. “Go and get Aanash and Gozad. They’re the fastest.” Kili looked at him, so confused, his breath clearly shallow through his parted lips. “We’re going to _urgaigrak_.”

Kili nodded silently, shoving the arrowhead inside his pack as he rose to his feet, picking apart Azog’s words. He wasn’t going to rush into anything. He knew there was no chance of raiding Thranduil’s vast Hall and he wasn’t going to entirely rule out either possibility. He was too careful to assume whether Thorin was friend or foe. _Urgaigrak._ He knew what the word-segments meant, even if he hadn’t heard them together before, and nervousness began to rumble inside his stomach.

Azog was going to lay a trap.

* * *

“How bad is it, Galandur?”

A curtain of chestnut hair lifted half a degree, grunting a short reply, before returning back to the upturned hoof. Legolas sighed, swinging himself effortlessly down from his own mount and crouching beside the elf in the dirt.

“The shoe’s gone.” Galandur sighed, giving the young prince a sidelong look. “Sorry Legolas, but we’ll have to turn back. She’ll walk home, but ride no farther today.”

“We’ve barely gone ten miles.” Legolas ran his fingers alone the split hoof. “Perhaps if we tried on foot-”

“You won’t catch a white hart on foot, my prince.” He gave a small, sad smile, trying to pacify him. “I know you’re disappointed by there will be other chances. The tracks are fresh; perhaps if we try tomorrow, we will have luck.”

“If we can’t catch it on foot, we can’t catch it by waiting.” Legolas stood up, kicking at a piece of bark as he ached in disappointment. “We’ve been looking for tracks for weeks and the day we find some...” He bit back a scowl, nails biting into his palms as he tried to keep the frustration out of his voice. He wasn’t going to be a child about it.

“I’m sorry,” Galandur repeated the apology, straightening. “But we’re not going any further today.” But there as a firm edge to his voice, and his dark eyes stared very hard at the blonde. Legolas returned with his own muted stare, keeping his chin up, refusing to pout or sulk. He kept his burning disappointment locked tightly behind a resigned smile. “Tomorrow, we will return. The tracks will still be visible and we can regain lost time with a good sturdy ride.” Legolas nodded silently, taking the reins of his own horse, following Galandur as he turned away from their little path, back towards their home.

 _It wasn’t fair._ Legolas wanted to hit the stupid elf, contracted to guard him, as though he was a feeble-minded child. Elves had been scouring the forests for _weeks_ , searching for any sign of the magnificent white hart. Even if Galandur frowned and shrugged at the marks on the ground, Legolas was sure that it was the beast leaving such tracks. No other creatures inhabited these parts of the woods – none that could leave a trail that size and shape. They were close, _so close_ , and now they had stumbled, they had to turn back, because Galandur was a short-sighted fool who did not see fit to check his horse was shoed properly before riding out that morning.

They passed the walk in a long, strained silence. Legolas stared down at the ground, his expression darkening as the shadows deepened in the trees and the pair drew further away from their prize. Galandur wisely held his tongue, knowing the worst thing he could do to the youngster was to try and placate him with well-meaning, misplaced words. Legolas didn’t want to be told that it wasn’t the end of the world. He would rather stew in his silence, and Galandur didn’t have the patience to argue with him, walking in front of Legolas with his fingers loose on the reins. But the silence grew stiff and cold as time passed, and Galandur found himself being wound tighter and tighter, imagining Legolas staring at his back, bright blue eyes glaring at him and a scowl on those fine features.

“Legolas, how about we-” The voice in Galandur’s throat died as he turned his head, expecting to see the young elf-prince riding behind him in a sulky silence. But the air was empty and lifeless. Legolas was gone. “Legolas!” Galandur’s voice rose immediately, eyes widening. That _foolish_ little brat! Curses danced on his tongue, but he bit them all back, forcing down a thrum of anger as his hand clenched tightly around the reins. _Damn_ _that boy!_

Legolas had slipped away as soon as he was sure he could get away with it. He guided the horse with silent little jerks, coaxing her to fall still, hoping Galandur wouldn’t notice. He didn’t. Legolas remained still, waiting until the older elf became nothing more than a vanishing whisper in the trees. He pulled back, nervously guiding his horse to turn back towards the hart-tracks, heart racing in his mouth as he gradually picked up speed, breaking into a trot when he was sure the heavy hoof-thud’s wouldn’t be heard from his grumbling chaperone.

 _I’m not letting it get away._ Legolas was determined. What was it, really? Just a single, stupid beast. There was _no_ danger, there was no reason why Legolas couldn’t go himself. He knew these paths like back of his hand, he knew every tree, every wandering little trail and he knew the exact direction of home. Rationalising his disobedience in his mind, Legolas plunged forward, determined to prove to Galandur, to Thranduil, to _everyone_ , that he didn’t need to be watched on a simple hunting trip.

The afternoon wore on – the light was waning in the trees ahead but Legolas did not stop. His eyes were sharp enough to cut through the gloom and he knew he would have the best chance of spotting the hart at dusk. Legolas kept his eyes on the plain trail, little scuff-marks in the leaf-litter, the occasional hoof-print, weaving through the wide-set beech trees, the clusters of large bushes and the winding pathways, farther and farther, until he came to a little copse of saplings. The sun was setting – the green glow beneath the trees began to swell in a last gasp of sunken burnt orange, before the colour began to leak out of it.

Without any warning, the tracks stopped. Legolas pulled hard on the reins, the horse shuddering still, a frown etched on his fine features as he studied the ground. What was the meaning of this? A lock of blonde hair fell over his shoulders as he leaned forward, sharp eyes piercing through the scuffles of leaves and dirt, but unable to find a shadow of the track. It had simply melted away.

Legolas stiffened. The air grew cold around him, as though an approaching darkness beckoned. His clear eyes darted rapidly from side to side, jaw very tight as he held his breath, listening for the faintest rustle or whisper in the lifeless forest.

It came from his right, from a young tree at the edge of the copse. Legolas didn’t waste a moment. He whirled around on his horse, seizing his bow and firing an arrow into the thicket before he had time to breathe. With a horrible, screeching cry, the dying body of a goblin heaved forward, the elf’s arrow pierced through his chest.

_A goblin?_

His eyes fixed to the creature in the dirt, Legolas was only vaguely aware of a ringing in his ears. _Why was a goblin in his home?_ There was a low roar, the horrible sound of a dark animal and from his shadowy hole in the grove, a warg leaped out at him, baring his teeth as he easily leaped over the body of his fallen master.

“Arod, _nor!”_ Legolas screamed, his horse crashing through the thicket. The bow slipped from his fingers as he tried to sling it across his back; Legolas looked behind him, watching the weapon snap beneath the warg’s heavy paw. Heart in his mouth, Legolas turned back towards home, spurring Arod on with everything he had. But the warg was faster; another low howl came from his right and with a cold start, Legolas realised that the goblin-rider was far from alone in the trees. Two more riders came from the shadows, their teeth flashing in the greying light, high cackles turning the blood to ice in his veins. And _more_ – Legolas gasped, blue eyes catching the shadows leering at him up ahead, coming towards him, from the direction of his father’s Hall.

 _They were trapping him._ Legolas pulled hard, guiding Arod left as he wove through the maze of trees, all trace of the path lost. He chanced another glance, heart sinking as he saw the creatures gaining on him.

“ _B_ _rêg_ Arod!” Legolas begged, lungs somehow burning for air. _Faster._ But the valiant horse gave all she could, charging on through the forest. Six wargs in all, five with riders, followed the elf-prince, gaining on him with every heavy footfall and Legolas knew he was going to be caught. He ducked his head, _willing_ her on with every ounce of his soul but it was never going to be enough. And as the roar came from behind him, Legolas reached for the short swords strapped to his back.

He tried to slice the warg’s throat before those awful claws and teeth made contact with his skin, blood splattering over Legolas’ arms as the warg leaped at him. But the blow was enough to unseat the blonde; he was forced from the saddle with a cry, Arod stumbling and almost falling as Legolas was dragged down to the dirt in a bloodied tangle of teeth and hair and damp fur. The horse galloped away, hoof-thuds falling silent as Legolas pulled himself free from the dead warg. Heart in his mouth, Legolas tore the second sword from his sheath, striking out as the first warg approached him. He lamed the beast with a slash across the foreleg, the blade in his left hand cutting through the goblin’s neck with a low groan.

Legolas spun on his heel, blonde hair flying as he realised with widening eyes that the four surviving creatures had him hemmed in tight. His knuckles white around the blade, the prince waited for the first strike, every muscle, every fibre of his being tighter than a coiled spring. The first warg snapped at him, and he leaped into action. It was a short, desperate fight, one Legolas knew he had no chance of winning. But he _wasn’t_ going down to these foul beasts without giving them all a nasty scar.

He took down another warg and two riders, before a stunning blow from a hard club sent Legolas onto his hands and knees. It didn’t break through his sound coat of mail, but the strike knocked the air from his lungs and his weapons from his hands. The elf-prince lurched forward, trembling hands reaching out for his swords, inches from his grasp. Legolas sucked in a mouthful of air, one that came out in a choked cry as a remaining warg jumped, pinning him into the earth with a heavy paw. With a laugh, one of the goblins kicked his twin blades away through the dead leaves, the pale metal half-lost in the dying light. Another leaned forward, Legolas squirming desperately beneath the warg’s hold. The goblin took his wrists, binding them tightly behind his back. Legolas screamed curses at them in his native tongue, the sound rising into the shadowy gloom of the fading dusk.

He never stopped fighting. Not for a moment. Even when the goblin hit him on the side of the head and snarled, Legolas spat in the dirt, growling at them. He kicked out at the beasts, catching one in the ribs, the goblin jerking back with a squeal. He was too desperate, too wound-up from the adrenaline, to be truly afraid yet.

“ _Ishi –_  hold him down Aanash. Little worm won’t stop struggling.” Legolas cried out as the warg lifted his massive paw, gasping for air as his lungs flared with pain. Two goblins pinned him on his back, one on the torso, the other on his long legs, binding his ankles. Legolas arched his back, writhing and twisting fruitlessly against the restraints. Long grey fingers reached for his face, a scrap of cloth dangling from the clawed hand. The elf-prince tried to duck away, but he was held fast, pressed into the dirt. The blindfold pressed against his eyes, vision going black as the rag was tied, snared up in his long blond hair.

They weren’t going to kill him. Legolas gasped as the goblins hauled him roughly upwards, bound hand and foot. Whatever they wanted to do with him – they didn’t want to kill him.

They wouldn’t have blindfolded him, if they wanted to kill him.


	42. At His Right Hand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I don't really do notes for my individual chapters but I really felt I had to for this. 
> 
> Like - this is bad. Really really bad. We're at the absolute bottom of the pit here and Kili can't sink any further. So um, you may want to make a cup of tea and snuggle under a blanket. 
> 
> I'm sorry.

“Let me go! You don’t know what you’re doing – you’re going to _pay_ for this I promise you! _Let me go!”_

“Lively.” Kili stiffened as the muffled screams filtered through the gloomy air. They all heard the elf before they saw him, struggling and cursing in a mixture of Westron and Sindarin, slipping into his mother tongue in fright. Looking up from his hands, Kili noticed Azog’s jaw was tense, his nose twitching as he sniffed the air. “He _reeks_ of orc-blood.” His face twisted into an ugly expression and Kili swallowed.

As Aanash broke into the clearing, Kili held his breath. Only the goblin-swordsman and the shorter Graz met them, a riderless warg leading up the rear. _Six_ had left that morning. Kili blinked, tried to push the thought out of his head. It didn’t matter. He didn’t even _like_ Gozad all that much – too arrogant and pushy for Kili’s taste. Horngoth was an outright bully and he’d never even spoken to the other two. But he was still reminded, staring at the warg with no rider, how the retinue which once numbered forty now had slipped to thirty-three.

“Take this blindfold off and _face_ me!” Kili’s eyes jerked back to the elf-prince, dumped on the ground with Aanash’s blade pressed against his neck. His long limbs were bound; he had struggled up onto his knees, head slightly bent with long blonde hair tangled over his shoulders. Everybody could hear his desperate, ragged breathing.

“Strip him and bring him over here.” Azog rose slowly to his feet, eyes not shifting from Legolas for a single moment. Legolas fell silent as the ugly words tumbled from Azog’s mouth, his hands plainly trembling. The orc-king sat before the fire on a large boulder, white legs stretched before the flames. His warg dozed on one side, and Kili sat on the other, leaning against the warm stone with a strip of deerskin and a handful of sinew thread. The protesting kicked up again as the goblins cut the bonds at his hands and feet, dragging him out of his light clothing. Legolas was dressed only for hunting, in thin clothes that shifted with the air, which would tear and break underneath heavy, deliberate blows of goblin-steel. His quiver of arrows, his shoes, his cloak and mail and tunic, his leather braces were all cast aside, the goblins hauling him to his bare feet in thin trousers and an undershirt, a sword-point pressed against his unarmoured back. Kili set aside his work, edging back a little and getting on his knees, wanting to leave. But Azog’s hand reached out – he curled his fingers around Kili’s shoulder, pushing him down into the leaves, in a wordless command to stay.

Legolas bowed his head as the goblins pushed him down onto his knees. His unbound hands fell lax, his heart beat violently and terror seized his voice. The point of the sword dug a little deeper into his back, pushing the thin cotton of his shirt and he couldn’t stop the rushing in his ears.

Azog rose to his feet. Kili pressed his back against the stone boulder, feeling his own heart seize within him. The elf was clearly so _young_ , so lithe and slender and frail and Kili knew that he would break. Azog would rent that soft skin and snap the thin bones without a moment’s thought. The memories crowded in Kili’s head, the low embers and the wooden frame and the red-hot knives. Kili bowed his head, trying not to make a sound as he remembered his own suffering, suffering that would repeat itself now, in the screams and sobs of the young elf trapped in this dark wood.

The breath halted in Legolas’ throat as Azog tore the blindfold from his eyes. He blinked, sharp eyes adjusting to orange glare of the firelight, casting shadows around him. Legolas looked up, the terror doubling in his throat as he saw the huge while orc-king standing over him, the cruel mace through his arm, scarred lips twitched in a sneer. Legolas wanted to close his eyes and look away but he could not move. He opened his mouth to speak but no words rose. Nothing came out, only a choked gasp of air.

“So this is the elf you were able to trap.” Azog eyes narrowed as he bent down slightly. “Kili.” The dwarf at his side, pressed into the rock and trying to hide in the shadows, started. He looked up but did not move. “I need your tongue.” He jerked his head towards Legolas, the sneer widening on his face.

“Yes, Azog.” Kili whispered. He rose to his feet, taking the few steps towards the pale orc. Legolas looked from Azog to the thin little figure at his right, voice dead in his throat. Kili’s face was blank, eyes utterly lifeless and looking very black, reflecting none of the firelight.

“I need his name, his place amongst the elves. I need to know whether the dwarves inside their home are prisoners or welcome visitors.” Kili nodded silently. Azog wanted him – _him_ – to stand at his right hand and be his mouthpiece. He wanted to keep Kili close, while they interrogated this wide-eyed elf. He _trusted_ Kili enough to do this. His heart skipped a beat, in sick nervousness and terror. He wasn’t just complicit – he was _participating_ in this. Azog was going to torture this elf and Kili was going to have an active role in it. He swallowed, the tendons sticking out of his throat as he tensed his jaw.

“What’s your name?” Kili looked Legolas in the eye, the elf unable to breathe as their gaze met. He looked at Kili, and he knew in a heartbeat that it wasn’t an orc or goblin who stood before him. Beneath that mottled grey skin, all smudged and worn, beneath the scar on his cheek, he saw the lips and eyes and nose and hands of something much more human than everything else around the fire. His voice was rough and jagged, a knife along a broken whetstone, and it sent a shiver down the elf’s spine. He couldn’t speak. “Your name.” Kili repeated, without an ounce of emotion in his voice.

A heavy blow to the stomach knocked the air from his lungs. Legolas gasped, lurching forward as Azog kicked him hard beneath the ribs. Still holding him tightly, the goblins drew him back, a clawed hand grabbing his blonde hair and forcing him to lift his head.

“Your name.” Kili repeated, keeping his hands still at his side, fighting to keep a violent tremor out of his voice. He wasn’t going to crack. He wasn’t going to break down. He knew Azog looked at him, he knew he couldn’t give anything away as he stood beside the orc-king, his mouthpiece. He was _not_ going to break down. He could do this, he could do this without lashing out, without cracking. He was Azog’s mouthpiece and he was not going to fail him.

“Y-You think I can break so easily?” Legolas coughed, a scowl on his face as his blue eyes flashed. He spat on the ground. Kili bit his lip, refusing to look away from the elf, keeping his voice and eyes dead as a pit of snakes writhed and heaved in his stomach. He knew what was going to happen now and it made his skin crawl beneath he smears of ash and fragments of charcoal.

“He’s refusing.” Kili whispered in Black Speech. At his side, Azog growled, and he leaned down with his lips curled downwards. Kili couldn’t breathe as he watched the goblin’s tighten their grip, watched Azog seize his left hand, pulling it closer to him. Legolas opened his mouth in a wordless cry of protest, one that was cut off, turning into a scream as Azog closed his massive white hand around Legolas’ slender finger and pulled. Kili gritted his teeth and closed his eyes for a brief moment, the soft _click_ somehow ringing like a whip-crack in his ears. The orc released his hold, Legolas gasping for air as he looked down at his left hand, index finger bent at a grotesque angle.

“If he ever wants to hold a bow again,” His sharp eyes missed nothing; Azog saw the half-filled quiver of arrows, abandoned on the ground. “He’ll tell us everything.” Kili’s eyes flicked to Azog, in a momentary sidelong glance, before returning back to the elf.

“Give him what he wants.” Legolas locked his gaze with Kili, fighting back a scream as fire spread along his dislocated finger. He couldn’t stop staring at his dark eyes, looking so very large in his ashen face. Kili licked his lips, Legolas catching a glimpse of a very pink tongue. “He’ll cripple your hands. It’s not worth it.” Kili’s right hand briefly touched the black iron around his broken arm. “Just give him what he wants.” Legolas looked at the heavy cast, unable to hold back his harsh, ragged breathing, tearing from his throat in broken gasps.

“Who are you?” Legolas whispered, shaking his head. Kili ignored the question, fixing that horrible dead stare on him. “Who _are_ you?”

“Just tell me your name.” Kili’s stumbled clumsily over the Westron, his voice rusty and worn. Legolas sucked in a lungful of air, gritting his teeth as he continued to fight the urge to cry out in pain. His blue eyes gleamed in his face, half-hidden in shadow, the other half flushed from the heat of the fire.

“Legolas.” He finally crumbled, shoulders slackening under the goblin’s hold.

“Legolas.” Kili repeated, testing the name on his tongue. He looked at Azog for just a moment, giving a short nod. “Who are you Legolas? A soldier? A stablehand? A smith?” The elf’s breath quickened even further, his bright eyes widened and Kili realised with a stab in his chest the cause of his fear. He felt the _exact_ same thing, three months ago as he hung from the makeshift rack, burned and bleeding and broken.

“I...” Legolas shook his head and Azog reached out with a snarl. “No – _no!”_ He tried to jerk his arm away, but the orc-king had him in a heartbeat, wrapping his hand tightly around his middle finger. Legolas bowed his head and moaned, a pounding flood of agony coursing through his hand, up his arm. His lungs heaved, a choked gasp spilling from his lips as the hand in his hair jerked his neck upwards like a broken puppet. “Please - I-” Legolas screamed this time, as Azog snapped another bone, the broken cry leaving his throat raw.

“Begging will not help you.” Kili murmured tonelessly, his face remaining stiff, stony, while Azog broke the third finger. “Just tell me who you are, Legolas.” He looked at that fine blonde hair, remembering the dark locks of the Rivendell elves. Even though he wore green and brown, Legolas didn’t _look_ the way Kili thought a woodland elf would – he was too fair, too pale and light.

“I’m Thranduil’s son.” Legolas whispered, screwing up his eyes and trying to ride out the pain. How was it, that something so seemingly small could _hurt_ him so much? He didn’t look at down at his hands, didn’t want to see his fingers twisted and broken. They throbbed, burning as though pressed against red-hot embers and Legolas came dangerously close to screaming again.

“ _Unda_ Thranduil.” There was no hint of shock or amazement in his voice. This time, Kili looked over at Azog, watching the orc’s face break into a smile. That same glee, _Kili had seen it before_. That smirk, that gleam in his eyes. Kili had seen that, through a thick haze of pain, when Azog learned of his relationship to Thorin. The plan fell into place before Azog needed to utter it. Kili balled his hands into fists; he couldn’t breathe and he struggled harder than ever before to keep that blank mask on over his face. It didn’t matter if the dwarves were friends or enemies of Thranduil. Not now. Azog had a ransom. “You have brilliant luck at times, Azog.”

“I can only hope that Thranduil cares more for his son than Thorin cared for you.” Kili listened to the stinging insult, biting the inside of his cheek as a white-hot rage seared deep in his heart. Kili fought it all back, his cheeks pale beneath the ash, although nobody could see it. “How big are the forces of the elf-king?”

“Thranduil’s army.” Kili repeated, Legolas stared at him, mouth hanging open as the horror of what he had done crossed his face. “How big is it?” He shook his head quickly, jaw tight as iron.

“No.” Legolas rasped. “Do what you like – I will _never_ tell.” Azog grasped his hand but Legolas didn’t stop speaking. “I _won’t!”_ the last word came out in a scream as the final finger on his left hand was wrenched, the bone angling crookedly from the second joint. Kili’s heart was growing sick, watching the elf-prince screaming in pain from his dislocated fingers. He chanced only a quick look down at them, four broken twigs that stuck out at angles. His stomach lurched, the back of his throat burning and sour.

“It’s only going to get worse.” Kili wasn’t going to be intimidating – he was almost _pleading_ for Legolas to give everything up. Nothing else mattered – everything else seemed to vanish in the firelight as Legolas shot the dwarf a dark glare, baring his even white teeth in a scowl. “How big is Thranduil’s fighting force, Legolas?”

“I don’t know who you are.” Legolas’ voice was shaking badly, and he stopped to take in a ragged gasp of air. “But you can tell your orc-leader that I will _never_ give up my father’s people!” His iron stare shifted now, to Azog, blinking back stinging tears of pain as he fixed his blue eyes on the orc. Ignored, Kili bit his lip as Azog returned the stare with hard, narrowed eyes.

“He’s not going to tell you.” Kili spoke softly, trying to fight back the rising nausea in his stomach as he took another brief, accidental glance down at the elf’s broken left hand.

“Oh, yes he will.” Kili stared down at the ground, listening wordlessly to the screams as Azog knelt down before Legolas and took his right hand. The elf’s pale show of defiance, the breaking down, it had all happened before, and Kili was on the other side of it. He couldn’t breathe, remembering the whip, the red-hot knives. But this - this was more brutal than anything Azog’s orcs had done to him. Azog broke the fingers slowly and methodically, one after the other, not pausing to give the blonde time to speak.

Kili knew that he had been _spared_ , those long months ago. Azog could have had his bony archer’s hands crippled and broken, without batting an eyelid. He could have been mutilated. What happened here, it turned Kili’s stomach and he was sure he was going to throw up. This wasn’t interrogation. This was brutality, simply for the sake of it. Azog didn’t care much about any further information – he had all he needed, now. He wasn’t particularly concerned with hurting Thranduil through the torture of his son. He did this simply because he _could_ , because he was an elf and a prisoner and gave Azog a sick pleasure to hear him screaming in pain, to have those delicate bones jerk and break in his monstrous hand.

The first break took Legolas by surprise – he screamed, horribly, the hairs sticking up on the back of Kili’s neck at the awful sound. He bottled the next two, choking them down with low grunt and groans. But with his little finger, Legolas couldn’t hold back a cry of agony, the bone wrenched from its joint, bent backwards. His hands trembled, a cold sweat broke out on his face and trickled down his back and Legolas was _afraid._

He opened his eyes, after screwing them up when he screamed, looking up at the orc’s face, less than a foot from his and wearing a smirk. He couldn’t move any of his fingers, his thumbs curled into his palm, tensed, trying to hide them. _This isn’t happening._ He couldn’t breathe, his vision was tunneling and the full terror of this, the horrific pain in his crippled hands, it whirled in his throat and he was going to cry, he knew it.

“How big is it.” Kili felt horribly dead inside now – Legolas struggled through the pain and terror and he was inches away from breaking. “Do you think this is the worst he can do?” He whispered the last words, their eyes meeting and for a moment that masked cracked – Kili’s dark eyes reflected the firelight and his lip quavered. Legolas looked the dwarf up and down, his iron cast, the bones sticking out in his neck, the scar on his cheek, the grey skin, and the horror doubled in his chest. He hung his head and closed his eyes, humiliation and agony tearing into his heart and leaving it bleeding and broken.

“F-Five hundred.” Legolas struggled to speak through the pain flaring in his broken hands, coursing down his limbs. “Fully t-trained soldiers. We could muster m-more if we had to... thousands.” Legolas gasped and his voice broke, unable to continue talking through the horrific agony of his crippled fingers. “Please – I can’t.”

“The dwarves.” Azog snarled. “Are they guests or prisoners?”

“Why does it matter?” Kili sighed, feeling like a soiled cloth that had been wrung out, stretched and worn and rumpled. “Thranduil will give them up for his son, no matter what they are to him.”

“ _Kili.”_ The breath died in Kili’s throat as Azog grabbed his broken arm, just above the elbow, squeezing him very, very tightly. Kili’s heart seized and he felt a cold rush of fear snaking up through his spine. _What are you doing._ He wasn’t sure if the snarl in his ear was real or imagined, but Azog’s tight grip on his arm just above the cast was enough to leave his tongue paralysed in fear. “Ask him.”

“The dwarves.” Kili repeated shakily in his stilted Westron, Legolas raising his head. His eyes were welling up – he would blink any moment and tears would fall down his face, glistening in the firelight. “Thorin Oakenshield and his company. Are they guests or prisoners within your home?”

“Wh-what?” Legolas gasped. He looked at the muddy, misshapen figure standing before him, eyes growing wide in slow realisation. _That was what he was._ Kili couldn’t look directly at him. “The dwarves?” He clenched his jaw and stifled another wave of pain, race reddening as the breath choked in his throat. “We took them prisoner.” He finally gasped, silver threads running down his face as he closed his eyes. “T-Two days ago.”

“They’re prisoners.” Kili breathed, only partly aware of a hollow ringing in his ears, vibrating in his head and leaving everything muffled and hazy and dull. “Thranduil will turn them over in a heartbeat.” He would give them up in exchange for his broken son. He would give them up and within a night Kili would stand here, before the fire, translating Azog’s twisted threats and demands while his kin howled in pain, kneeling in the dust. He looked at the elf’s hair, shining silver-gold in the fire. Fili’s lion mane, it would reflect the same dull orange light. His blue eyes would look up at Kili with that same hopeless agony and terror.

Kili’s heart _broke_ , his good hand curled into a fist over his worn vest and he felt a hot, sick horror swelling inside of him, a fire that raged out of control. This was nothing to Azog – only a warm-up, a preparation for the horrors he had planned. He was going to take _his brother_ and he was going to pull him apart. He didn’t have to worry about sending Fili along to anybody else, alive. Nobody was there to care for him. The reality of what was going to happen, it finally hit Kili as he stood opposite the tortured elf-prince in the light of the fire, seeing him screaming in pain as Azog methodically and mercilessly broke him. _This would be Fili, tomorrow night._ Or the night after. This would be Fili, and Kili would stand before him, powerless, at Azog’s right hand, muttering to him in broken Westron as his brother howled and screamed and cried for mercy, for help Kili could never give. And Kili would stand silently, without compassion or love in his cold dead eyes as he watched the one he cared for most of all, slowly torn into pieces.

And they would all be dead. They would be dead and Kili would be alone in the world. He wouldn’t have a brother anymore. He wouldn’t have kin. He would only have Azog. And his ugly transformation, his descent into darkness and anger and hatred, it would be complete. They would all be dead and Kili’s heart would die with them and the line of Durin would finally be broken.  

“Stand behind the elf.” Azog’s harsh voice struck against Kili’s head. He blinked, looking away from Legolas with slowly widening eyes. “Stand behind the elf and take his head in your hands. Hold it still.” _It._ Kili inclined his head in a short nod, Aanash shifting aside to allow Kili space behind the blonde’s kneeling form.

“What are you doing?” The terror doubled once more in Legolas’ voice as he heard the shuffle of clothing. Kili stood, a foot taller than Legolas on his knees. He gripped the elf’s head in his hands, pressing his palms against his temples.

“Don’t cover the ears.” Aanash muttered in his ear, speaking for the first time, knowing what Azog was going to do. It had become routine, with elf prisoners. “Keep your fingers clear of them.” But he said no more. It was obvious to all of them that this was Kili’s moment. Azog was _testing_ him, his ability as a cold interrogator, as Azog’s lieutenant, a loyal, willing servant. Legolas gasped at the words, trying and failing to look behind him. Kili grabbed handfuls of fine cornsilk hair, threading his fingers through it, pulling tightly, right down to the roots and leaving smears of ash through the elf’s smooth locks. It was so utterly different to Fili’s wild blonde curls, the ones Kili would subdue with braids and clasps. Kili didn’t like the feel of it, in his hands.

“Excellent.” Kili’s heart seemed to stop beating as the orc-king reached into the belt at his waist, extracting his favourite short knife. He crouched down in the dirt, his eyes meeting Legolas as his lips stretched in a fresh smile.

“What – _no!”_ Legolas screamed, trying to struggle. Kili’s fingers dug in hard and he did his best to stop the elf from moving. “I’ve told you everything – please!” Kili held his breath, looking down, eyes very wide with horror as Azog pressed the knife against the elf’s pointed ear. “ _NO!”_ Kili bit down on his tongue, terrified a whimper would escape from his mouth. His hands were plainly trembling as Azog drew the blade along the fair skin, Legolas screaming, trying desperately to wrench himself free from the grip Kili and the goblins locked him in.

There was blood _everywhere._ Kili fought a sick wave of nausea as the red spilled down Legolas’ neck, through his hair, gushing violently. He couldn’t close his eyes and turn his face away. He couldn’t look disgusted. Disgust was a sign of weakness. Kili kept his dark gaze fixed on his trembling hands as Azog approached the other ear, Legolas limp and still. It wasn’t the pain that crushed him. Azog was cutting off the point of his ears, the most discernible feature between elves and men. Elves usually wore their hair pulled back to show off their ears, and when they did not, the little points always showed through their soft locks. Kili swallowed very hard, sure that he was going to throw up. Azog had broken Legolas’ long, deft fingers, had ruined his ability to hold a sword or a bow, and now he had mutilated his ears, roughly dulling the sharp point, rounding it to an uneven curve.

The knife fell lax in Azog’s hand, and Kili released his tight hold. The blood-streaked gold hair slipped through his fingers and Legolas’ head fell forward, the breath tearing from his throat in broken gasps while his shoulders shook. Kili didn’t touch Legolas. He merely stepped back, watching Azog’s figure, searching the pale orc’s face for some sort of sign. An affirmation. He felt so _tired_ , so drained and colourless. There was blood on his hands, thick and red and mixing with the ash.

 _I’m already dead._ Kili didn’t want to cry. He didn’t want to scream or shout. He only wanted to sleep. It was a dull, dead feeling, blanketing his waning horror and sick shock, after what he had done. Kili’s heart had already died. He wasn’t Kili anymore. He was something else, something black and ugly, something that tortured and killed. Fili wouldn’t recognise him. His brother would look into his dark, soulless eyes and only see a monster staring back at him.

And then they would both be dead.  


	43. Blood for Blood

“Fili – goodness _please_ tell me I have the right room.”

“Bilbo?!” Fili jerked out of his stupor with a gasp, clambering across the room and pressing his ear to the door. “Bilbo – is that really you? What on earth are you doing here?”

“Oh, good.” Fili frowned as he heard the hobbit sigh with relief. “I wasn’t so sure – I’ve been looking _everywhere_ and they really have you locked up in the tightest cell they could find... you’re even bellow the cellars and _they_ lead straight into the river, I’ve been wondering if-”

“Bilbo, I’m _really_ sorry to interrupt.” Fili’s heart was pounding, in mad joy at having someone, a friend talk to him on the other side of the bars, and the crushing anxiety and nervousness that if Bilbo was here, then the others really had been caught too, they were within these walls and there really wasn’t a way out for any of them, other than through Thranduil’s grace. “But – when did you get here? Did they get everybody or is it just you? And why are you _there?_ How on earth are you not captured?”

“Well, one thing at a time.” Bilbo sucked in a breath. “The others are all here too – We were caught a few days ago now, early in the morning. They got everybody, Fili. I um, I managed to slip away, y’know how I’m small.” He coughed, hurrying on, wanting to change the subject and knowing very easily how he could distract the blonde. “Fili – er, Thorin’s awake.”

Fili closed his eyes. He leaned against the door and bowed his head with a moan, starting to feel his stomach tighten into knots. No no no _no_ this was exactly what he didn’t want. His heart raced and Fili could feel his breathing grow shallow as the panic began to set in. _No no Thorin was going to hate him for this._

“Does – does he know?” Fili swallowed. “How we got here. Does he know what I did? Do... do _you_ know what I did, Bilbo?”

“Um, yes, I know.” Bilbo kept his voice very small. “Thorin knows too. I told him in the night – I couldn’t keep it a secret Fili, it would all get out eventually.” He shuffled, and cleared his throat. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault at all.” Fili tried desperately to steady his racing heart. “It’s all me – I knew this could happen but I hoped that maybe the elves would be kind for once...” He swallowed. “Is he angry?”

“He took it well.” Bilbo tried to sound optimistic. “He didn’t scream or shout at me, if that’s what you’re asking. He sounded upset, but... I think he’ll be all right in a little while, Fili.” Bilbo lied. Fili dug his fingers into his eyes, trying to physically _push_ the tears back into his head. “He said he wanted to know ‘everything’, whatever that meant.” Fili sniffed, the sound very loud and abrupt to Bilbo, on the other side of the wooden door. “Fili – are you all right there?”

“He’s going to hate me.” Fili couldn’t fight the tremor in his voice. “I was desperate Bilbo – we were all just so tired and hungry and I know we couldn’t go on. I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought – I thought that even if we were captured and thrown into prison, at least we would be fed and that _had_ to be better than what we were going through.” His voice grew higher and tighter, like a loose string being pulled end to end, and now it was tense as a wire, on the point of snapping. “I thought that if we came in peace to the elves and asked for their help they would show kindness. I thought they would be nicer to us, than if we’d just blundered along into their home.” Fili tried to calm his rapid heartbeat, but now it hammered in his mouth and he felt an odd swelling in his head. “I thought I was doing the right thing.” He repeated. “I know it’s not noble and proud and I know that he’s going to be angry, but...” Fili took in a breath, he raised his eyes at the ceiling and steeled himself. “I’m not going to say sorry for this. _I did the right thing Bilbo_. I would rather be called a coward and have people spit on me if it meant we were alive. Do... Do you understand what I mean?”

“Fili, I know exactly what you mean.” Bilbo murmured, pressing his forehead against the door and simply _aching_ for the poor young dwarf. “I don’t think you were a coward. I think you were very brave.”

“I-I wouldn’t go that far.” Fili mumbled, feeling his cheeks grow very hot.

“No, really.” Bilbo argued. “I talked to Ori about it and he said you were strong and forward, you were like a prince.” Fili blinked through his panic and terror, feeling a warmth spread in his chest at the words. Good old Ori. At least he could always count on one person to still have unwavering loyalty in him, even if it was for a camaraderie that spat on half of their oldest laws. “He said Thranduil completely twisted everything around and you held your own almost until the end.”

“Almost,” Fili repeated, gritting his teeth at the thought of that _damn_ elf-king, who refused to believe that Fili cared nothing for the gold.  “Bilbo... What are we going to do? Thranduil won’t let us unless we _swear_ to leave through the west and never come back – I can’t do that. _We_ can’t do that. We’re closer than we’ve ever been and we’ve already lost so much, and-” Fili’s voice began to grow high again, gathering pace. “What are we going to do?”

“I’m going to get you out.” Bilbo whispered. “Fili, I promise. I’ll get you all out, somehow. I’ve had a few ideas but nothing solid. I just need a few more days to think of something and I’ll break us all out.” He gasped. “Someone’s coming – I’m sorry I have to go. Everything will be all right. Trust me.”

“I trust you Bilbo.” Fili leaned heavily against the door as he heard the hobbit whisper a short farewell, and scurry away along the dark little passage. He drew his knees up to his chest, staring at the wall opposite him with his hands clasped together.

 _I’m not sorry._ Fili repeated the words to himself, feeling a little stronger every time he repeated them. _I’m not sorry._ He was angry at himself, at Thranduil, and he was terrified of facing his uncle's anger. But he was filled with a solid resolution, at the thought. He knew he was going to explain himself to Thorin – but he would be _damned_ if he cowered on his knees before his uncle and begged for forgiveness. He stood by his decision and he would _not_ let himself buckle under Thorin’s anger. Not for a moment.

* * *

Thorin was sleeping when the elves came. They banged on his door and wrenched it open with an uncharacteristically loud noise, it jerked him rudely awake, the dwarf rubbing his eyes and muttering.

“Up.” The red-haired elf spat in his direction, hazel eyes narrowed and a scowl on her lips. Thorin rose slowly to his feet, hands pressed against the wall as he stared at her, so dark and angry. She was flanked by two more guards, each wearing the same grim expression, etched on their faces. He knew right away something was very, very wrong. Tauriel was not kind, her hands dug into his wrists as she clicked the manacles into place, dragging him by the elbow out of his dim little cell. Thorin had to run to keep up with her long strides, several times asking what was going on, never receiving any reply.

She dragged him for what felt like a very long time, further and further upwards, along spiralling staircases until Thorin’s weak legs trembled, a stitch forming in his side. The air grew lighter –  late afternoon sunlight began to filter through the windows and Thorin realised they must have been above the treetops in the woodland palace. There was only one person noble enough to have their quarters up this high.

Tauriel stopped quite suddenly, Thorin stumbling and leaning forward a little. He swallowed, trying to regain his breath. She rapped her knuckles on the wooden door exactly three times, shooting Thorin another filthy glare as she stood back.

“Enter.” Another guard slowly pushed the door open, Tauriel pushing Thorin across the threshold before following. Thorin bit back an insult, regarding the airy room with a heavy scowl. It was some sort of resting chamber, a light, open room that was made for sitting about and lying in. A long couch stretched against one wall, the carved filigree wood adorned with woven silks. Thorin took it all in, eyes drawn very quickly to a solitary figure sitting on a stiff-backed chair beside a game-table, turned to face the door, head bowed. Thranduil wore a magnificent robe of red velvet, threaded with gold. It was not the make of Mirkwood elves. Velvet came from the East, Thorin remembered quite distinctly, wrapped in hazy memory, beyond the Sea of Rhûn.

“Shut the door and leave us.” Thranduil murmured. Tauriel nodded silently, her shoes clacking on the polished wood as she backed away, the door closing with a squeak, a soft _click._ Thorin licked his lips, noticing for the first time a broken longbow lying in two pieces across Thranduil’s lap.

“What is it you want.” Thorin tried to speak first, tried to get some sort of upper hand. “Our position has not changed – unless you wish to give us further conditions-”

“Do not speak.” Thranduil lifted his head, voice as cold as ice. Thorin fell silent, realising with a shock that Thranduil’s eyes were red and watery. “Do not say a word, Thorin Oakenshield, until I demand it of you.” Thorin tensed his hands, bound in iron, discomfort growing at Thranduil’s words, at the broken bow.

“How many know of your quest to Erebor.” Thranduil’s voice was shaking. His knuckles were white around the pieces of the bow, the elf-king making no attempt to compose himself in front of Thorin. “What _creatures_ have you antagonized during your journey to Ered Luin?”

“None.” Thorin lied, eyes darting around the room. Thranduil scoffed at him, shaking his head and wrinkling his nose in a snarl.

“Do _not_ deceive me Thorin.” Their eyes met and Thorin found he could not look away. “ _Who have you disturbed?”_ Thorin swallowed, refusing to utter a word, to incriminate himself. “Speak!” Thranduil’s voice rose, cracking and he leaned forward, blue eyes flashing at him.

“We passed through goblin caves in the Misty Mountains.” Thorin spoke very low. “We – We killed their leader, the Great Goblin.” Thranduil’s jaw shook. “Azog the Defiler... He has awoken from beneath the stone. He followed us as far as the Eastern Gate by the Eyrie but we have not seen him since-”

“You _fool!”_ Thorin gasped as the elf-king rose to his feet, holding the broken bow-pieces in his shaking hands. “You arrogant _fool._ How dare you – how _dare_ you disturb ancient sources of darkness and drag them through my home! How dare you disturb our well-fought peace with your selfish quest!” Thranduil marched across the room as he shouted at Thorin, his voice rising into the vaulted ceiling.

“I have done no such thing.” Thorin growled in response, his own blue eyes hard and very bright. “We have not seen any orcs or goblins in months Thranduil.” Not since Kili... Thorin tensed his jaw and pushed it all back.

“And _we_ have not seen them for centuries!” Thranduil shot back, thrusting the two halves of the bow beneath Thorin’s nose. “This belongs to my _son,_ Legolas. He was last seen early this morning.” Thranduil took in a breath, steadying himself. “His horse returned alone and we have found no sign of him. Only this.” His voice broke, Thranduil swallowed, he raised his eyes to the ceiling for a moment, the blue shimmering. “This was found with the bodies of three goblins and two wargs.” Thorin couldn’t breathe, staring down at the broken bow. “ _Who took my son!”_ Thranduil shouted in his face, but Thorin didn’t pay him heed. He couldn’t tear his gaze away from the snapped weapon in the elf-king’s hand, a crushing horror rising in his chest, flooding him.

“I am so sorry.” Thorin whispered, feeling the backs of his eyes sting. “Thranduil I am so very sorry. I never-”

“Do not give me false apologies.” Thranduil spat, leaning down to growl close into Thorin’s ear. “I’m not interested your half-hearted empathy, Thorin Oakenshield. I want to know _who took my son.”_

“It’s not half-hearted.” Thorin replied softly, his memories filled with a wide smile beneath a tattered mop of chestnut hair. “Thranduil I understand-”

“You understand _nothing!”_ Thranduil’s voice dissolved, he stepped back and Thorin saw his eyes well up. “You know nothing of this loss.” He whispered, unable to reassume his usual stoic expression. Not when his son was involved – Thranduil was raw and open and he was unable to stop his heart from bleeding out.

“Surely you remember that I had two nephews.” Thorin’s voice was thick, the unusual shift in tone causing Thranduil’s filled hands to lower at his sides. “My youngest – Kili, wandered off alone one morning. We never found his body.” He lowered his eyes. “Only his clothes, within an orc-camp.” Thranduil stared at him, silent, understanding what would have happened to his bones. “Do _not_ say I know nothing of your loss.”

“Your nephew was engaged your foolhardy quest. My son is innocent, he has no part in-”

“Kili _was_ innocent!” Thorin shouted, he cracked under the strain and would not listen to a single word against him. “You will _never_ meet a person as good and pure as my nephew, Thranduil. He was everything – _everything,_ to me and he died for a single reckless mistake.” Thorin panted, his heart slowly crushed under the heavy weight of his grief. “I am sorry for what has happened to your son.” He tried to be diplomatic, tried to show that he was compassionate and he _cared_ , even as a prisoner, as a tentative enemy. “If we enticed the orcs into your domain,” Thorin would never admit guilt, not without definite proof, “Then I am very sorry. I can offer you nothing more than that, Thranduil.”

“If I do not find my son,” The elf-king’s voice shaking worse than ever. The grief had been eclipsed by a cold fury – he looked at Thorin with hatred. The lust for vengeance sullied the purity of his grief and he bent his anguish towards the dwarf that stood before him. “Or if I find him _spoiled_ – I will hold you responsible, Thorin Oakenshield. I will hold you _personally_ responsible for any evils committed against him.” Thorin stared at him, his face bone-white as a very ugly expression crossed Thranduil’s fine features.

“That is not fair.” Thorin whispered. “I have done nothing here – we have suffered enough at the hands of orcs.”

“No, you have not.” Thranduil’s voice was harsh, rough and bitter. Thorin had never heard him sound like this, in nearly two hundred years. He had never heard any elf speak to him with such violent hatred and fury. “If you had suffered enough you would have turned back. You would have realised that what you have lost is not worth the price you have paid.” Thorin gritted his teeth, taking the insult against him, and his nephew, in a hot, angry silence. “I put the life of my son above all the wealth in Middle-Earth, Thorin. You cannot say the same for your nephews.”

“How dare you.” His bright blue eyes narrowed, and he spat the words out with an edge of red-hot iron. “They are worth more to me than any hoard of dragon-gold!”

“Then _why have you come?”_ Thranduil was incensed at Thorin’s arrogant, blind hypocrisy, his blatant lies. “Do not stand in my chambers and profess you love your nephews more than gold, when you have _killed_ your youngest on an impossible quest for a lost fortune!” But he knew the moment the words had passed his lips that Thranduil had gone too far in his biting insults. Thorin growled, he was _smothered_ in blind rage and molten hatred at what the elf-king had said to him. Rage, hatred, and _guilt._ Because at the heart of his cold insult, there was a seed of truth in Thranduil’s words. Because Thorin never should have risked their lives for something as foolish and material as a hoard of gold. He fought with the guilt – he struggled for _weeks_ and told himself that it was Kili’s fault, for being stupid and reckless, for going off alone. But it wasn’t Kili’s fault for doing what he was always going to do. It was Thorin’s fault, for not being there for him, for not keeping a better eye on him, for caving in and allowing him to come at all.

But that didn’t stop Thranduil’s words from piercing his heart. It didn’t stop Thorin from rushing at him, bare-handed and bound, screaming curses in his mother tongue for his hideous insult. He reached out and he _hit_ Thranduil, he hit him hard in the mouth with his iron manacles, the broken bow falling to the floor as the elf-king fell backwards from the force of the heavy blow. Thorin stood over him, panting like a wounded animal with wild blue eyes. Thranduil stared up, dumb with shock and frozen for several moments, unable to believe what Thorin had done to him. He dabbed at his mouth, blood coming away on his fingers. Thranduil looked down at it in shock and confusion, as though the sight was something distant and alien to him.

“ _Never_ insult my heart.” Thorin’s voice was hoarse. “It is my love for them that has driven me this far.” But he thought of them now and his heart was in agony. One dead, one driven to the point of betrayal. He was anguished, enraged at what he had done to put them both, to put himself in this position, and he took his anger out on the one who pushed him over the edge, propriety be damned. “I did this for _them._ I did this to give them a _home!”_

“And now they are lost.” Thranduil’s voice had a new edge to it, one absolutely frosty, hewn from ice. It chilled Thorin down to the bone, and he knew he had made a mortal enemy of Thranduil with his angry blow, making him bleed on his velvet robe. “You will pay, Thorin.” Pressing a finger to his lip, Thranduil rose to his feet, towering over him with a new height. Thorin’s heart sank. “If your actions have killed my son, then you will pay in blood.”

“You cannot kill me for what a rabble of orcs have done!” Thorin’s voice rose, tempered with fear. He took a step backwards, eyes widening. There was an ugly snarl on Thranduil’s face, his ice-blue eyes completely devoid of mercy.

“I will not kill you.” He growled, shoulders heaving as he struggled to breathe through his shaking rage. “But I will not show mercy to your nephew.” Thorin let out a choked cry, the wild, keening sound of a dying animal. On the other side of the door, the elves stiffened and could not restrain themselves any longer. Thorin made to step forward, but before he could move, the door burst open, he was held on the floor by two pairs of hands.

“You _cannot do this!”_ Thorin shouted. “I have already lost Kili – you _cannot do this to me!”_ He struggled against their hands, their voices rushing over his ears, distant whispers, as though he were drowning.

“If my _son_ must pay for what you have done, then your nephew will settle the debt.” Thorin shook his head, unable to speak for the air had disappeared from his lungs and he could not take in another breath. Thranduil was cold, in his eyes and his stony face and his heart, as he stared down at Thorin. There was no trace of pity.

“I would sooner you had me killed than my nephew.” It was very, very rare, to see Thorin reduced to begging. But the horror of what faced him, of what faced _Fili_ , it was beyond comprehension to Thorin and he was desperate. He would do anything, _anything_ , for his Fili and he knew, looking up at the elf-king, a prisoner in his Hall, friendless and alone, that Thranduil would not hesitate to exact revenge on his son’s death. Thranduil was more dangerous than Thorin had ever realised. Gone was the elf-king of the woods who passed whole seasons in feasts and merriment. Thranduil here was the battle-hardened warrior, who had seen his people ravaged by war, his father killed and the body left to rot in marsh and mud, who stood now to lose his only son and would spill a river of blood in vengeance. “Do not hurt him.” He whispered in a low, broken voice.

“Pray, Thorin.” He dabbed at the slowing blood on his lip with a shaking hand. “Pray to whatever god you follow that my son is found safe and whole.”

* * *

“And just _what_ are you trying to do?”

“Don’t start, Azog.” Kili half-heartedly lifted his head at the orc’s voice, looking at the small huddle of figures beside the fire. “He’ll get infection if the ears aren’t covered up.” The dwarf watched as Nazarg sank to his knees before Legolas, the elf staring down at his hands, shoulders still plainly shaking. He tapped Legolas on the shoulder, silently bidding him to lift his head. Kili watched Legolas shrink back, turning his face away from the fire and ducking his head. With a sigh of annoyance, the orc-healer muttered at Aanash to hold him still. “Thranduil will not exchange a corpse for Thorin Oakenshield and his companions.”

Beside him, Azog growled. Kili lowered his gaze, balling his hands into fists and trying to shut himself out, to become deaf and blind to the unravelling horror that still played out before him. But there was no erasing what he had done – Legolas wore Kili’s brutality on his mutilated ears and it would be there _forever_. He squeezed his eyes shut, feeling them sting, feeling something sour and hot stick in his throat in the sick memory. He had tried to pretend that his heart was a black stone but it was burning, it cracked and broke and hurt in his chest and Kili knew that it was still beating. It would keep beating until Fili took his last breath and his blue eyes grew hollow and dull.

 _Help me._ Kili didn’t know who he was pleading to, in his mind. He bowed his head and tried to steady his breathing, but it rattled in his chest and burned as though he had been running for miles and miles and hadn’t stopped for air. _Please help me._ No one was going to answer him. Kili opened his eyes and looked down at his hands, the dried elf-blood all over his fingers, shining a dark brown in the firelight. He remembered looking down at his own hands, several days before, looking at his own red blood and being so overcome with disgust and hatred at himself. The nausea doubled and Kili thrust his hands underneath his legs, trying to hide them. He chanced another short glimpse of Legolas, held down by two goblins as Nazarg wound a bandage around his head, covering his clipped ears.

“Breathe.” Nazarg commanded, whispering in Westron as his bony fingers wound the cloth around the elf’s head. He wasn’t breathing – his lithe frame convulsed with sobs that he tried to push back, sealing his lips shut so a sound couldn’t come out. “Listen to me.” Nazarg shook his shoulder, blue eyes opening slowly. “Breathe.” He repeated, leaning in close. The orc-healer fixed his gaze for only a moment, unable to maintain his stare with those awful, broken eyes. They were dull, and uncharacteristically dark. “In and out, slowly. Just breathe.”

Legolas parted his lips and took in a deep gasp of air. A sob came out, choked and broken, his breath stumbling over the spasms that wracked his chest. He was in pain, _so much pain_ , his hands had been thrust into a furnace, they burned away down to the bones and everything below his wrists throbbed in white-hot agony. He couldn’t move his hands at all, his head pounded from his slashed ears and he couldn’t _think._ But he followed the orc’s command, breathing slowly, warm, wet air that smelled of blood. He couldn’t feel the heat of the fire against his side, the press of the bandages around his ears. Legolas felt nothing else, only the crippling pain in his hands and ears.

“Kili – Kili _are you listening to me?”_ Lost in his thoughts, the dwarf lifted his head with a start at Azog’s voice. “Lug’s going to ride with the ransom. I just need a lock of the elf’s hair.”

“What?” Kili’s stomach tensed further, heart missing a beat. “But... Surely you have his clothes.”

“Clothes mean nothing.” Azog growled. “Hurry up.” His voice was rough and harsh, as though he stated only a simple fact. Kili looked over at the long gold hair, trailing down Legolas’ trembling back, streaked with blood. He didn’t want to go near the elf. He didn’t want to touch him, didn’t want to be reminded of what he had done, how badly he had hurt him. _Please Azog don’t make me touch him again._

“Azog, I don’t-”

“Did I stutter?” Kili’s breath died in his throat at the voice. Across the fire and now alone with Legolas, Nazarg froze, gritting his teeth.

“I can’t touch him.” Kili choked out, sitting beside Azog in the dirt and looking up at him with very wide eyes. “Just get Nazarg to-”

“I didn’t ask _him_ to do it.” Azog’s voice was very slow and even, he pronounced each word with careful precision and Kili realised he was holding back a very hot fit of anger. “I asked you.”

“I already have his blood everywhere,” Kili splayed his fingers and he was fighting back tears. “I can’t do it. Don’t make me.” Azog fixed a cold stare on the dwarf, a vein throbbing in his throat. Kili was _disobeying_ him. He looked up at Azog, with very wide eyes, pleading with him, his lip trembling, beaten and broken down and grasping precariously to the last fraying threads of his soul. He always did what Azog said, _always._

“Kili.” Azog gave the dwarf one last change, rage boiling in his veins. He couldn’t give Kili an out. He _needed_ to push him, he needed Kili to return to what he had done and accept it or he would never be able to repeat his actions. He knew he was being cruel but it was _necessary_. Azog needed Kili to realise the magnitude of what he had done if he wanted him to participate in the final act of his grotesque little puppet-show. Kili had to learn how to smother his own remorse. “I said-”

“Azog, I can’t _please-”_ His voice rose and broke with the last word; Kili slipped into Westron, begging in a forbidden language because there were no words for ‘please’ in Black Speech. Kili realised his mistake a heartbeat too late – he tried to shrink away but Azog hit him, a heavy blow on the side of the head that left his ears ringing, the right side of his face throbbing. Azog grabbed the front of his vest, dragging him up so their noses were merely inches apart.

“Don’t attempt to sway me with this show of guilt.” Azog spat. “Accept what you have done Kili. You think this is the worst I will ask of you? He is nothing, an _elf_ who does not deserve an ounce of your compassion. Now, a lock of his hair.” An ugly, heaving gasp came out of Kili’s mouth as Azog let him go, sinking back into the earth, gripping the dirt with shaking hands. “Go.” He pressed his knife into Kili’s chest, coaxing him to take it. But Kili saw more than an offering. He saw a threat, with the steel biting into the little triangle of exposed skin over the loose ties on the vest. Kili’s trembling fingers closed around the handle of the blade, eyes not shifting from Azog’s throughout the entire exchange. He still begged silently for mercy, for a respite from his guilt and anguish, but there was no compassion in Azog’s glittering, cold eyes. There was only a raw anger, a frustration that threatened to spill over in a fit of rage.

As Kili rose to his feet, the tears spilled down his cheeks. He turned away from Azog, and the pale orc didn’t see them. But Nazarg did. He’d remained crouched in front of Legolas, pretending to fiddle with the bandage and stealing half-glances towards the orc-king and his mutilated little puppet, working very hard to keep a snarl from curling his lips. Kili’s face crumpled, he screwed up his eyes and bit down hard on his lip as the tears mixed with the ash and turned to grey. He walked with a stiff slowness, cold and in pain, sinking slowly to his knees behind Legolas.

“He doesn’t care for you Kili.” Nazarg breathed, in a low voice that only the three of them could hear. The dwarf didn’t respond, he bent his head and took a lock of fine blonde hair, at the base of his skull, where it wouldn’t be immediately noticeable. Legolas didn’t move, didn’t speak a word. He’d retreated inwards, shutting himself away from the outside world. “He never cared.” Kili’s head jerked up, eyes red, the tears leaving channels across his dirty, worn skin. “Tell me you see that.”

Kili didn’t answer. He couldn’t trust his voice to remain still. He knew if he opened his mouth, sobs would come out, he would scream senselessly until his voice was hoarse. He’d fallen. He’d fallen so far, now he had finally hit the bottom and his bones were broken. _He couldn’t do this_. He was trapped, backed into a corner with Azog leering over him with his eyes cold and a snarl on his face, with no trace of care or mercy. He coldly forced him to betray the innermost recesses of his heart and soul and pushed him on, pitiless, when Kili was beaten, lamed from his broken bones and unable to move.

“Here.” Kili held out both hands, the knife in one and the hair in the other. He whispered the word, a strained gasp of air, unable to speak another word. There was fresh blood on his hands now, bright-red against the brown. His desperate need to please Azog, to obey him and be _good_ , it couldn’t match the disgust and horror of what Kili had done in Azog’s name. He _hated_ himself for what he had done.

“Not so hard, was it?” What was Kili expecting from him? A smile? A pat on the head? Azog snatched the knife away, thrusting it in his belt and seizing the lock of hair between thumb and forefinger as though it was some sort of rotting, long-dead animal. Azog was distracted, he didn’t notice how close the dwarf was to breaking apart. Kili didn’t wait for Azog to turn around and leave him. He sank to his knees with his head in his hands, trying to stop the world from pitching and turning mercilessly beneath his feet, for the screaming in his ears to stop, for the smell of blood to fade. Kili pulled on his hair, right in the roots as though the needle-sharp waves of pain against his scalp would soothe the roaring in his head.

 _He never cared._ Kili let out a single, choked sob, the words echoing in his mind. He was in pieces. He couldn’t think, couldn’t move, he reeked of blood and the ground shuddered violently underneath him and nobody was there to pull him back as he fell away. Azog was too busy giving his orders to Lurz, Nazarg wasn’t going to come near him, the wargs had been penned up for sleep. There was nobody to hold him together as he crumbled and broke into tiny fragments. Kili moaned, he leaned forward on his hands and he coughed, his stomach heaved and he was going to throw up. He was throwing up. He’d thrown up. Kili closed his eyes and tried to inhale but the air was too hot and stale and bitter in his lungs and he couldn’t draw in a breath.

 _Fili help me._ He moaned, brokenly, coughing as another wave of nausea attacked his heaving stomach. _I can’t let this happen to you too._


	44. Full Circle

Burning burning _burning everything was burning._ Legolas squeezed his eyes shut and tried to breathe, tried to ride it all out as he knelt in the dirt. This wasn’t happening it couldn’t be happening _how could this be happening to him?_ He felt as weak and blind as a newborn kitten, lost and abandoned, unable to even crawl away. _How did this happen?_ Orcs weren’t supposed to be here – they had _never_ been seen in his home. Legolas only had a hazy picture, gleaned from stories and whispers, one that never could have prepared him for this horrific brutality. He felt so cold inside, as though he had been out in the darkness all night and it had settled, deep within his bones and refused to move. His hands. His _ears._ He bit back a moan and tried not to think about it – but they burned, every moment with an intensity that refused to subside and Legolas couldn’t think of anything else.

“Bite down on this.” The moment he knew he wasn’t being watched, Nazarg struck. He wrenched the leather cuff from his wrist, pressing it inside the elf’s mouth.

“Wh- _hmph!”_ Blue eyes widening, Legolas tried to spit out the dirty piece of animal hide, but the orc held it in his mouth, shaking his head. “ _Mph_!”

“Hold still and don’t spit this out. I’m going to reset your fingers.” Nazarg glanced quickly to his right, but Azog seemed busy enough. “These two are broken,” He touched the fourth finger in his left hand, and the third on his right, Legolas letting out a muffled whimper. “But the rest are only popped at the joints. If I push them back in quickly, you won’t lose the use of your fingers.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “But you have to be very, very quiet. Azog’ll have my skin if he sees me doing it.” He locked his gaze. “Can you promise that you’ll be quiet?” Legolas nodded silently. “Good. Just keep breathing.” He looked down at the elf’s hands, keeping his face impassive, as though it was something he dealt with on a daily basis. He had to keep calm, for the elf’ sake. Nazarg grasped his palm, closing his right hand around a swollen, purple index finger. And with a short breath of air, he pulled.

Legolas’ scream, muffled by the leather, rasped hoarse in his throat. He screwed up his eyes for a long time, trying desperately to bear in silence the wave of agony that coursed along his arm. Breathing very heavily through his nose, he slowly parted his eyelids, vision blurred with a hot stinging. He blinked, jaw trembling as he focused his gaze on the orc-healer. Nazarg held a finger over his lips, looking nervous.

“Five more to go and you _can’t_ make a sound.” He whispered, looking quickly across the fire. Legolas moaned, a low sound in the base of his throat, shoulders slumped. “I’ll try and get you something for the pain later but I have to do this now while Azog is distracted. He’ll start wondering why I’m still talking to you soon.” He grasped Legolas’ middle finger. “Deep breaths.” Legolas nodded slowly, a short, choked gasp coming out with a soft _click._ He bowed his head, shoulders quivering, bare toes curled and the arches of his feet tight as wire. “Good. Just one more on this hand.” Nazarg looked over his shoulder, faltering when he saw Kili doubled over on his hands and knees, shaking. _Oh no._

He almost dropped Legolas’ hands, ready to abandon him and run over to the dwarf. His knees locked up and his grip slackened, but before he moved, Azog was already there, crouching beside Kili with a hand on his shoulder, bending down to murmur in his ear. Kili was throwing up – he was so nervous, so scared and sick with himself that he was _throwing up._ Kili clung to the edge of a precipice and he had the nasty feeling that Azog was going push him over – no, he’d _already_ pushed him over, forcing Kili to return to what he’d done. The guilt had driven Kili to tears, tears he was too afraid to shed in front of Azog. And for a moment, Nazarg had caught a glimpse of the injured dwarf on the floor of his cave, holding his broken arm and whispering for his brother, broken down and isolated.

“Just this last one.” He whispered. Aching with pity, he turned back and took the elf’s little finger in his bony hands. He didn’t even know what he could do anymore. “Then you’re halfway there.”

* * *

He should have screamed. He should have thrown his mattress across the room, beat his fists against the walls and howled until his voice was hoarse. _You monsters_ , he should have cried out. _You cannot touch him._

But instead, Thorin sat on the ground in silence. He leaned against the wall of his tiny cell with his short legs stretched out before him, staring at his bare feet in the dim light with the most awful breaking feeling cutting into his chest. It was like something made out of glass had shattered and all the pieces had sliced into the defenceless flesh, making him bleed, making tears of agony gathered in the corner of his eyes. He held his hands together, clasped over his heart as though he could hold all those shattered fragments together, terrified that if he moved they would slip through his fingers and fall across the ground, too small for him to pick up in his trembling, clumsy hands.

 _How could I let this happen._ How could he accept such cold, terrible failure? How could he let _any_ of this happen? He had lost control, his grip slackened, he slipped and fell and everything rushed on past him, it was too late to haul himself out. It rushed over his head, dark and desperate and he was powerless to stop any of this from happening. Thranduil wouldn’t – he _couldn’t_ kill Fili, in some desperate, lust-fuelled grab for vengeance. He wouldn’t kill his _nephew_ , for something that was out of their control.

 _If he lost his son, Thranduil would._ It was a hot, fearful thought, stamped like a brand on Thorin’s mind. He closed his eyes and it burned behind his closed lids. _Thranduil would kill for his son._ He didn’t doubt it. He saw those cold blue eyes, that haunting reminder of the darkness and evil that Thranduil had suffered, through, one that remained only in soft whispers, ancient myths of dark powers in the deepest recesses of Mordor. A war unmatched in its terror and senseless cruelty, and Thranduil had lived through it. He was honed with black iron, just as Thorin had been heated with dragon’s flame.

“Thorin?” The dwarf almost _cried_ with relief at the curious little voice by the keyhole. “Sorry it’s been so long, things are hectic around here – have you heard about the prince? It’s all they can talk about but I’m still only catching the odd thing here and there.”

“Bilbo.” Thorin staggered across the room, leaning heavily against the door. “Oh Bilbo – you have _no_ idea.” He breathed, a long, ragged gasp that made Bilbo pause on the other side. “Fili... have you found Fili?” His hands pressed into the wood. _Oh Mahal please._

“Yes I found him eventually. Thorin he’s really not-”

“You have to get him out.” Bilbo took a step back from the door, alarmed. “I don’t care why, or how but _you have to get him out.”_ His voice was rough and jagged, sending a slice of fear through Bilbo’s chest.

“I’m doing the best I can, but-”

“No Bilbo,” Thorin gasped “listen, _he’s not safe_. He’s not safe where he is you _have_ to get him out.” He was near tears in his desperation, babbling, stumbling over his words as all the pieces started falling out and Thorin threatened to crumble. “Thranduil’s going to kill him – he’s not _safe_ in that cell.”

“What are you talking about?” His voice rose a note in fear. “Why is Fili not safe?”

“Because I’m a fool.” Thorin moaned. “I’m a _fool_ and I should have known – we were _followed_ , Bilbo. Either the goblin-king’s forces or Azog – I don’t know who but they followed us through Mirkwood and they’ve taken the prince.” Bilbo nodded silently – this much he knew. “They’re after _us_ , Bilbo. Those orcs want us and Thranduil – he’s going to make _Fili_ pay for whatever they do to his son.”

“It’s just an empty threat.” Bilbo said firmly, shaking his head. He’d seem glimpses of the tall elven-king and refused to believe Thorin’s words “He cannot be serious – he’s just wants to scare you Thorin. He wouldn’t hurt Fili, not really.”

“You don’t know him, Bilbo.” Thorin’s voice was partly muffled by the wood, as he pressed his face against the door. “You haven’t seen his anger – Legolas, his son, he means _everything_ to him. He would do anything to get him back and if he cannot, he will do anything to avenge him.” Thorin wished he could say the same for his nephews, _he wanted to so much_. But it was false, and hollow.

He hadn’t done everything he could to get Kili back. He didn’t do anything to avenge him. He held Fili back, he called off the first search in the interests of their own safety and by the time they emerged back into the wilderness, it was too late. They didn’t scour the countryside looking for goblins to exact their brutal revenge. They bowed their heads and moved on. Seeing Thranduil in his deepest anguish and grief, the violence and desperation that spurred on his bloodlust, Thorin realised with a sick guilt in his heart how badly he’d let Kili down. _You deserved so much more than I gave you._

“I’ve been fiddling with the locks.” Bilbo admitted after a long pause, still not entirely convinced of Thranduil’s threat. “I _think_ if I have the right tools, I can get them open. The only one with the keys is the guard-captain and I saw her riding out with the last of them just before – it’s why I’m down here, in the daytime.” Thorin jerked up, eyes wide.

“Last of them?” He whispered, eyes darting from side to side. “Last of the _guards?”_

“Almost all of them are out looking for Legolas.” Bilbo murmured. “They’re combing through the forests – wherever he’s being held, they’ll find him eventually.” Thorin made a noise in his throat, heart racing. “What?”

“Bilbo,” Thorin couldn’t _breathe_ , he wanted to cry and laugh all at the same time with anger, relief, crippling anxiety. “Please, in the name of Mahal, tell me you have just one, single idea on how we could possibly escape this fortress.”

“Actually.” Bilbo frowned heavily, staring down at his feet. “I do.”

* * *

 “Drink this.” Kili didn’t look up as Azog pressed the little flask into his hands. “It’s the very last of it. Won’t do the stomach any good, but it will help with the nerves.” Kili closed his fingers around the cool metal, staring down at the ground. He raised the flask to his lips after a brief pause, drinking the last of the amber liquor without a sound. Azog’s hand was on his shoulders, squeezing tightly, but Kili didn’t recognise his rare touch. He let the flask fall from his hand into the dirt, holding his stomach with one hand, pushing down the hot burning.

“You’ll be all right.” Kili closed his eyes, biting back a whimper at Azog’s voice, his pale pretence at comfort and compassion. It rang so false and contrived in his ears – did he mean it now? Did he _ever_ mean it? The hand on his shoulder didn’t feel warm and reassuring. It felt like a thinly veiled threat. “Just take things slowly. Stay by the fire.” Kili nodded silently, eyes still closed as his heart hammered in his ears, threatening to burst out of him, he was sure. Azog’s hand shifted across his shoulder, threading through his hair and rubbing a tight circle against his back. “I’ll be back soon.” Kili gave another wordless nod, face remaining blank and empty as Azog rose to his feet, and turned away from him. He clasped his hands together in his lap, trying to stop the desperate shaking of his limbs. He felt cold, so very cold, his shoulder ached from the slow-healing bite-wound and his stomach still churned. The mouthful of liquor did nothing to slacken the intense strain that pulled through his bones. His nerve-endings seemed on fire; his fingertips were too sensitive, touching cloth and skin and grass and metal.

What was going on? Kili kept staring into the fire, watching the embers writhe and flicker as the flames breathed in and out. He didn’t know what to think – who to _trust_ , anymore. He thought his heart was resolved, his loyalty proven and tested beyond all measurable doubt. But he crouched here now beside the fire, shivering and afraid and so desperately lonely. _He wouldn’t have threatened me if he cared._ He blinked as his vision wavered; Kili brushed his eyes dry with a wrist and turned away from the fire, so the light wouldn’t shine so bright in his dark eyes. He sniffed, looking away and seeing Nazarg’s pack, lying half-abandoned and rifled through on the ground three or feet from him. He saw the crumpled shape of white lying plainly in the leaves and his heart clenched, contracting painfully in his chest.

Kili crawled slowly across the earth, abandoned. He reached out and took the paper, unfolding it carefully and staring at the image of his brother in the shadowy light. He took no comfort from it now. It was only a painful reminder to Kili of what he had lost – no matter what happened, even if he somehow managed to save Fili, there could be no going back to those blissful airy mornings, kneeling behind Fili and listening to him babble about whatever dreams he’d had while he waved his careful braids. No lying side by side beneath the stars, holding hands and whispering to each other until Thorin muttered for them to shut up. No teasing and joking, no laughing or playful chatting. Those precious moments faded with the summer, they were lost and Kili couldn’t ever get them back. He was a twisted monster and no tearful apology or plea for forgiveness could _ever_ erase the darkness and evil he had committed.

He chanced another glimpse at the picture and Kili knew that he had made a terrible mistake. His fingertip brushed his own face, smearing ash across it and staining the page. His own smile was lost beneath the grey smudge, his eyes almost invisible. He was only an indistinguishable grey blob now. But Fili was still there, as clean and pure as ever, glancing backwards, smiling widely as he illustrated some stupid joke with his hands. Kili was gone but Fili was the same as he ever was. Kili gasped, shaking his head and raising his eyes to the treetops.

 _I can’t let them hurt you._ He waited until the fit of burning subsided, before he lowered his gaze back down to the page. Fili grinned back at him. _I can’t let them touch you._ Kili folded the page, and this time he didn’t shove it back into Nazarg’s pack. He slipped it inside his vest, feeling it rest snugly over his heart, as though it had never left. Kili swallowed, forcing down the last of his tears and staring around at the campfire. Nazarg had left to search amongst the tree-roots for useful mushrooms in the dark, Kabor was heating water for a thin stew over the fire, several had left to feed the wargs, Azog was muttering to Krûklak and looking at his arrows. Half a dozen other goblins were locked in a game of _bûth_ while a handful watched, and Legolas, slumped and unmoving, was tied hand and foot at the foot of a vast beech tree, Aanash whittling beside him and looking bored.

Nobody was watching Kili. His heart pounded, he bit down on his lip and began to get up onto his knees, into a crouched position. _I could go I could go now and run as far as I could-_

 _And then what?_ He faltered, sinking back down to his knees, rash plan abandoned as soon as it had been thought. _Run until their wargs get me. Nardur isn’t as fast as them, not by half, they’ll catch him and tear him to pieces and me too._ He knew too, that simply running away wouldn’t stop Fili from meeting his gruesome end. Kili looked at Legolas, the terrified elf he had mutilated, biting his lip.

 _I have to stop this from happening._ Lug and Lurz had already left with a note, with a handful of fine blonde hair. He couldn’t stop them now. It was too late. Kili leaned back on his hands, closing his eyes as he tried to think. He had to get out, he had to get them _both_ out, they had to leave, they had to leave and not get caught somehow – they had to vanish in the night and know they couldn’t be chased.

He couldn’t kill the wargs. He entertained the thought only for a moment. He couldn’t shoot them all quick enough, he couldn’t kill them quietly. They were too big, to fierce and loud for a silent kill.

Thirty-three. Thirty-three goblins. Kili tried to breathe slowly, tried to smooth out his crumpled, fractured mind. _He had to kill thirty-three goblins._ Yes. No. His head slumped forward, into his hands, and he muffled a scream. No one came near him. _Why was no one near him?_ He couldn’t do it, he couldn’t _ever_ do it, they were his friends. He ate and slept and drank with them for months and he knew them all by name. He mourned some of those who had died. He was in their company and he was _one of them._ Kili looked down at his ash-grey hands, spattered with dried blood. They weren’t innocent. They killed and mutilated and were _proud_ of it. They were rough and hard and cruel, they punished goodness and took pleasure from other’s pain (and he wasn’t like them _at all_ because he felt every blow he gave in his own heart). They weren’t innocent.

Thirty-three goblins. Or Fili.

And whatever happened, he was dead.

Kili bit down hard on his knuckle, shaking his head as he tried to bite back a scream. Everything, _everything_ had fallen apart, he sifted through the leaves looking for twisted, misshapen pieces of his soul that wouldn’t ever fit together again. Looking for pieces that were missing. He lifted his head, slowly, his gaze pulled across the campfire, to the huddled figure beneath the tree. Everything had come full circle. Kili looked at Legolas thinking about how the last few months were like a wheel, rising and falling and now everything had come back to the same point. But he was on the other side of it. _He_ was the villian, the monster. He was the one destroying something pure and innocent.

_Mahal, help me._

Kili didn’t know if his Maker was still listening – it felt like a broken, useless prayer on his lips and he almost regretted saying it. He wasn’t stone. He wasn’t unmoving. He wasn’t _worthy_ of invoking Mahal’s name. He wasn’t worth the red blood that flowed through his veins. Kili’s eyes lowered down to Nazarg’s scattered pack. And his heart began to pound, remembering that afternoon beneath the eaves of Mirkwood, where Azog and Kili sat together and made a _plan_ , speaking to each other as though they were equals. His last, happy memory and _how was that happy?_ How could that be something he treasured with warmth? _What was wrong with him?_ His heart stung at the memory and he clenched his bad hand around the tooth at his throat. _Fili you would hate me if you saw this. If you saw me helping him, being comforted by him. You would never forgive me if you saw how Azog cared for me._

 _But did he mean any of it?_ It was a question he could never ask. One that would haunt him, forever. _Did I mean anything to Azog?_ Did Azog _fake_ that hitch in his voice when he held Kili in his arms after leaving him to the spiders? Was that concern in his eyes, when Kili held the knife to his throat, really just an elaborate trick? Surely even Azog was capable of warmth and compassion. Surely it was not beyond him, to have genuine feeling.

 _Everybody breaks._ Kili remembered his own words, the upwards curl of Azog’s lip. And he remembered, with a gasp, a burst of clarity. _Poison._

His hands shook as he tore into Nazarg’s abandoned pack, rifling through everything, the scraps of cloth and wrapped parcels of food, the jars and bottles and stopped vials. He upended the woven bag, running his hands through it, looking at the motley collection of near-empty salves and potions and creams, dull and orange in the firelight. _No no no_ they weren’t there _where were they?_ Kili grasped the wooden box, wrenching open and shaking it all out. The bamboo pipe, wrapped fragments of Nazarg’s most precious drugs, his pliers, a short skein of sinew and a whetstone fell out, but nothing else. Kili threw the box hard against the ground, hitting a rock, a sob of frustration breathing from his throat. _Where did they go?_ His hard throw disrupted the false bottom of the box, and the brass hinge, already loose from months of hard travelling gave way as the wood splintered.

Kili’s heart hammered in his throat as he took the broken box. The little clasp broken, the bottom swung open, three small glass vials wrapped in brown cloth falling into the earth. Kili’s glance flicked upwards. Azog was shooing Krûklak away, walking towards the knot of goblins. _Am I really going to do this?_ He shoved the poisons deep within a small pocket sewn inside of his vest, pushing everything desperately back inside the pack and leaving it haphazardly stuffed, leaning against the rock, taking a small wooden cup that had been left abandoned by the fire. He only had one chance at this.

Making sure nobody saw, Kili took the glass bottles, uncorking them with shaking clumsy hands, upending the clear liquid, careful not to spill a drop. Between all three, the little wooden cup was almost half full. _No taste, no smell._ Kili remembered, his heart pounding. It was easy. He just  had to pretend he wanted a taste of the near-cooked stew. Just dip it in the pot, let the poison run out, and act as though he took a sip. Then claim that he was still too sick to eat after all. Kili was vaguely aware of an odd roaring in his head as he rose to his feet, hand shaking around the poison.

 _No taste, no smell._ They would never know. Nobody would ever know. It wasn’t a large pot tonight – no seconds for anybody, they would all scrape the bottom. Food was starting to get scarce again, beneath these spreading trees. Kili tried to keep a straight look on his face as he fractured and broke, biting back a scream, an apology. If he did nothing, if he stepped back, then he would watch, he would _participate_ , as his brother, his uncle, Balin and Dwalin and Ori and Bofur and all the rest were brutally pulled apart and imprisoned, sent beneath the Misty Mountains to be given a slow public death. There was only one way to save them, only one way out.

Kili had to make a choice – he _already_ made a choice, in his heart, when he closed his eyes and imagined his brother kneeling on the ground, bound and beaten and broken, Kili towering over him with no mercy in his eyes. The brutal image tore his soul in two and Kili knew he could never, ever face it. He had to do anything, _anything_ , to keep Fili safe. Kili couldn’t think about Azog. He was too afraid to. He couldn’t imagine what would happen _without him_ and it left Kili’s heart cold.

One way or another, _everybody was going to die._


	45. Massacre

“Kili – are you _sure_ you don’t want anything?” The dwarf looked up from his knees, throat closing as Azog held out the bowl of half-eaten food. “Take the rest.” His eyes not shifting from the stew, the stew he had poisoned, Kili slowly shook his head.

“I’m not hungry.” His voice small and pathetic, Kili hunched his shoulders. “I still feel sick.” And he wasn’t lying, crouched before the fire as he listened to the slurping, the sucking and biting and muttering around him, the retinue unwittingly killing themselves as they ate their thin, watery dinner. _I’m sorry, I’m so sorry._ Kili bit down hard on his lip, terrified something would burst out of his mouth, would give him away as he sat and listened to the camp eat. But Azog was staring at him, his usual cool, measured expression tense, jaw locked tight. _He looked concerned._ “I’ll try something in the morning. I think I just need some sleep.” Kili finished lamely, lowering his gaze to the dirt, small and withered and shrunken. It was a trick. It had _always_ been a trick, he tried to remind himself as he felt the heat of the fire on his face. A pretence. A mask. But Kili could feel those eyes staring into him, with his head tilted slowly to one side, as though Kili was a problem Azog couldn’t quite solve, brows knitted together.

“You’re not missing out.” Kili closed his eyes as Azog took a large gulp of the lukewarm stew, setting the bowl down in the dirt.

Kili couldn’t see it from his angle, but the stew had been left half-eaten.

“It’s _awful._ I don’t know what Kabor did but he’s not going near the cook-pot again.” Kili’s fingers dug into his trousers. No, he wouldn’t _._ Kili tried to keep his face normal while terror raged inside of him, burning white-hot in his stomach, making him feel sick. _He didn’t want to kill Azog._ After all of this, after everything that had happened to him, Kili didn’t want to kill the pale orc. He thought of Azog, dead, and a crushing terror threatened to overwhelm him, weigh him down and smother him completely. He didn’t want to do this, any of this. But Azog, he pitted himself against Kili’s brother, forcing him to make the decision in his own heart, a battle Azog was confident he would win. A battle that was over before it even began.

How could he feel like this? How could feel so terrified, so _sorry_ , at the thought of Azog dying? _He is a monster who has done nothing but hurt you._ Kili looked up, watching Azog yawn and his long white legs out before the fire. _You were never anything to him._ He told this to himself, again and again, but Kili knew the words weren’t striking him in the heart. They meant nothing to him, somehow. They didn’t feel _true_.

“Get some sleep.” Kili choked as Azog rested his hand on his back, between the shoulder blades, squeezing gently. “Go on.” He jerked his head towards Kili’s furs, spread out beneath one of the spreading trees, waiting for him.

“A-All right.” He rose to his feet slowly, joints stiff and cold, slow to move. He couldn’t look at Azog as he staggered across the clearing, feeling his heart sink further with every step. He couldn’t look at any of them, polishing off the last of the soup. He felt sick, listening to them.

“Oh, don’t _tell_ me I missed out.” Kili gasped aloud at the familiar voice, Nazarg scowling as he stepped into the clearing. _Oh no I forgot._ In the terror, the confusion and the crushing anxiety, Kili forgot about the orc-healer. He turned on his heel, watching Nazarg approach the cooking pot with wide eyes. _How could he forget?_ “Kabor, I hope you set some aside.”

“’s cold now.” Kili shook his head slowly, mind racing. _No I can’t do this._ He couldn’t let this happen to the one person in this clearing who didn’t deserve this, the only one who had ever been selfless. “Not much of it either.”

“No worries.” Kili’s stomach clenched painfully as he watched Nazarg lean in, taking a tentative sniff. He wanted to leap forward, to scream and knock the bowl out of his hands. _But he couldn’t._ Even now, staring at the orc-healer with such horror written in his face, Kili knew he risked giving himself away. He cast a quick glance to the left, seeing Azog stare thoughtfully into the fire, a knee drawn up to his chest. _Oh no please._ He watched Nazarg walk around the fire with the small bowl, the tight, sick terror rising like a tide in his stomach. Kili bent down, blinking rapidly as his fingers closed around a small stone. The orc-healer knelt before the fire, the bulging pack beside him in the dirt.

He dug a spoon in, but as he brought it to his lips, the little stone landed in his bowl, splashing the thin stew over his hand. Nazarg frowned, lowering his hand and looking up to see Kili staring at him, desperately shaking his head. He drew a finger across his throat, eyes fixed on the stew. He was a little grey smudge, half-hidden in the shadows. Nazarg looked down at the stew and back to Kili, who still shook his head, with a finger pressed against his lips. His blood went cold. Nazarg looked down at his food, running the spoon along the top, checking for a film or powder within the stew. _What had Kili done?_ He looked back up, but Kili had gone, retreating into the shadows to feign sleep. Mouth dry, Nazarg breathed in, trying to detect something off. But it smelled and looked entirely normal. He looked down to his side, eyes widening in realisation as he looked at the lumpy, misshapen pack that had been so hurriedly thrown together. He set the bowl down carefully, and unfastened the clasps on his pack and peering inside. Nazarg sifted through with his hands, a shudder running down his spine as his fingers brushed splintered, broken wood. He half-lifted it out, seeing the false bottom torn open, the twisted hinge hanging, letting it fall with a deafening ringing in his ears.

Kili had been through his things. He had been through his things _and taken the arsenic._ Fury and indignation flared inside Nazarg, he clenched his hands into fists, breathing heavily through his nose in an attempt to calm himself. _It wasn’t possible_. He fought to keep his face smooth and impassive as he set down his pack, hands shaking violently. He couldn’t breathe a word, utter a sound about this, to anybody. There was nothing he could do – there were unpleasant procedures to slow the effects of arsenic, to try and flush it out, but there was no known antidote. If he breathed a word of this, Azog would skin Kili alive. He would make him suffer. This was _murder._

 _Kili, what have you done?_ He waited until he was sure no one was looking, before pouring the stew into the dirt, brushing over the stain in the ground with scattered leaves. Nazarg’s sharp eyes caught Kili in the edge of the clearing, a tiny huddled lump beneath a thick layer of furs and blankets, the cold feeling sticking in his limbs, leaving them heavy and dead. A horrible realisation rushed inside of him, a wind that chilled his bones. All he could do was pretend to know nothing. Kili used _his_ poison and Nazarg didn’t touch the stew – for Azog that would be proof enough of collusion. They would both suffer. Azog would put them through unbelievable, excruciating pain, in his final hours. Nazarg sat still in the ground, cold and helpless.

At least Azog would be dead. Nazarg looked up, a rather unpleasant, grim smile crossing his face. It was very, very rare for Nazarg to wish death on his own people – but Azog, that was one passing he welcomed with open arms.

* * *

Someone was at the door.

Fili’s head jerked up, and with a rather clumsy scrabble, he got onto his knees, his feet, backing away slowly from his thin mattress, pressing his back against the wall. He bared his teeth and waited for the turning of the key in the lock, for the door to swing open and expose the red-headed elf in the low doorway.

Fili held his breath, and waited. And waited. The door wasn’t being unlocked – it sounded like _scratching_ , a low mutter, muddied through the wood. The blonde took a step forward, cocking his head slightly as he listened to the odd sound.

“Bilbo?” He ventured cautiously, pulling at the hem of his shirt. “Is that you there?”

“Not quite.” Fili jumped at the familiar voice, eyes widening, a grin sprouting on his face. “He’s at the end of the hallway, keeping watch.”

“Nori.” He breathed, approaching the door. “Oh Mahal – it’s so good to hear someone else’s voice.” Fili closed his eyes, pressing his hands against the weathered panels.

“Good t’ see you’re in one piece.” Nori muttered, on the other side of the door. “Gimme a mo...” Fili listened, cautiously. “These locks are tricky. You’d think something this light and thin would be a cinch, but they’re bloody clever. They know how to make a good lock, elves. I had to talk Bilbo through unlocking mine. He thought he could do it himself with a few bits of wire.” The thief chuckled. “I’d almost try breaking them outright, but the steel they’re made of is harder than anything we’d get our hands on.” Nori sighed. “This will take a few, Fili. I’d sit down if I were you.”

“I’ve never been so glad to have a thief in our Company.” Fili was unable to hold back the smile that stretched from ear to ear. They were going to get out, they were going to _escape_. Freedom was close, so close.

“Yeah, we’ll see if Thorin thinks so too.” Nori muttered darkly, squinting in the dim light. “Mahal, I’d give my teeth for a good set of picks.” He clicked this tongue, listening for the soft little _click_ beneath his hands. “Ten more to go.” He whispered to himself, with a shake of the head. All before dawn. Just ten to go.

“Who else is out?” Fili asked quietly. “Aren’t you all worried about guards? Surely we can’t have twelve dwarves blundering about through the Hall. Someone will see us.”

“There are no guards.” Nori said bluntly, as he worked. It was second-nature to him, requiring mainly his hands and freeing up his mind and tongue. “They’re all in the woods. Apparently the elf-prince got himself lost in the forest and picked up by pack of damn orcs.”

“ _What?”_ Fili hissed, eyes wide. “Orcs – what are they doing here? We haven’t seen them in months! We – we didn’t bring them, did we?”

“They’re certainly not passing through Mirkwood on a summer stroll.” Nori muttered dryly. “Apparently Thranduil’s lost his mind with grief and worry. Bilbo’s trying to keep a cool head but he said Thorin’s in a right state. Thranduil’s putting the blame on us, of course. Saying we led them all here.” Fili swallowed. “Bilbo said he’s going to take us through the Hall, one by one. You first, then Thorin, then he’ll start working through the closest cells. Nobody’s even in the same passageway, let alone the same cell. They split us all up so we couldn’t escape.” Nori smiled as the lock finally clicked under his steady hand. “ _Yes.”_ Fili straightened as the thief leaned against the heavy door, pushing it open. “C’mon.”

“Thank you.” Fili breathed, stepping into the dim hallway. Even the air somehow felt warmer, and brighter outside of his tiny little cell. “Where’s Bilbo?”

“I’m right here.” The voice came from the end of the narrow hallway. “Hurry up, while nobody’s around.” Fili froze, staring at the source of the noise, mind whirling because _nobody was there._

“Are you... Are you invisible?”

“How d’ya think he’s been sneaking around?” Nori pushed the door close, sounding bitter with jealousy. “Some magic ring he found in Goblin-town.” He grabbed Fili’s wrist, as though this was all normal, matter-of-fact to him. “He’ll explain soon but _we have to go.”_ Fili allowed himself to be pulled along silently, the blazing euphoria of his own rescue and escape dampened by cold, dark, slimy thoughts, about the orcs that lurked in the shadows, taking Thranduil’s son unawares.

He tried to imagine the elf-king afraid, bitterly mad with grief, mourning for his son, but he couldn’t imagine something as black and raw and jagged breaking that smooth, unblemished marble.

* * *

“Wake up.” Legolas groaned at the hand on his shoulder, eyelids flickering. He didn’t quite remember falling asleep. He remembered having something small and grey thrust into his mouth. He remembered eating it and feeling warm afterwards, floating, suspended in a lake during midsummer. His hands weren’t hurting anymore – it was a low, distant ache that thrummed in the back of his mind. He felt sluggish and slow. “Hey, wake up.” It was that worn, rusty voice, ragged and harsh. The not-orc. Legolas opened his eyes, adjusting slowly to the darkness. He saw only the whites of his eyes, wild and gleaming, the fire burned down to fading embers. They gleamed at him, impossibly wide in the gloom. “Stay quiet.” The glint of steel brought a gasp from the elf’s lips. He jerked back, thinking he was going to be hurt again. The little grey figure froze, the knife in his outstretched hands. Legolas glared back at him, in mistrust, pain. “I’m not going to hurt you.” He promised, lowering his eyes. He took the elf’s thin wrists, slicing through the ropes easily with his little knife. “Your fingers.” He muttered, obviously to himself. “They’re not so crooked anymore.”

“ _He_ fixed him.” Legolas whispered. Kili’s eyes snapped up. “The healer.” A muscle twitched in Kili’s neck, he looked down, and gritted his teeth as he sawed at the ropes around the elf’s ankles. “What are you doing?” His blue eyes caught a glimpse of firelight, shining in the dull red embers. Kili paused, knuckles white around the bone handle.

“I’m fixing this.” Kili thrust the knife into his belt, kneeling beside Legolas and taking his elbow. “Can you walk?” He stood up slowly, Legolas leaning heavily on the dwarf, wavering unsteady on his bare feet. He was several inches short of his shoulder, buckling a little under the lanky frame as Legolas tried to find his footing. “You need to stand up.” He whispered, unable to look at the blonde hair crusted with dried blood. Kili stepped back, holding his arms out, ready to catch Legolas if he stumbled forward. But the elf stood firm and sturdy on his own two feet, looking down at Kili with his breath trembling in his throat.

“What are you doing?” Legolas repeated, not understanding. He thought it was some sort of trick, a trap. He felt muddled and hazy. It had to be a trap. He couldn’t believe that this partner of Azog would for a moment truly attempt an escape. It was impossible.

“I’m getting you out.” Kili took the elf by the elbow, gently guiding him through the dark. Legolas stumbled and almost fell, the dull throbbing of his hands seeming so remote, apart from him. “I’m not – I’m not letting this happen again.”

“Letting what happen?” Legolas sucked in a breath of air, following Kili’s careful path around the edge of the campsite. The hand on his elbow shook madly inside his archer’s glove, and Kili paused, turning back to look at the elf for a moment.

“They took me prisoner.” Kili leaned in, whispering on the very edge of his hoarse voice. It struck against the elf’s blunted ears like a dull, notched knife. “In the summer – I wandered off alone and they got me.” Legolas released for the first time, head bent close to Kili, that there was a light dusting of stubble on his face. He couldn’t breathe. “I’ve been here for _months.”_ Legolas couldn’t tear his eyes away from the smeared grey face, so close to his own.

“They kept me chained at first. I was tortured – like you.” The scars were beneath his clothing, ugly white marks that were covered in ash and animal hide. “And – nobody came for me.” His voice broke, an ugly sob threatened to well over in his voice and Kili swallowed it back, taking a breath before continuing. “My family thinks I’m dead – I just did what I had to – to live.” He choked on the words, disgust rising as he tried to convey his pale justification for what he had done, as though he could eek forgiveness from this poor elf. “I-I had to be useful.” Kili didn’t shift his gaze, pleading with Legolas, eyes black in the night. “I had to stay alive.”

“What is your name?” Legolas whispered, his own voice wobbling. He couldn’t wrap his head around it. His heart had seized in his chest, he felt _sick_ with anger and pain and a creeping pity. “Who are you?”

“Kili.” He gulped down a ragged lungful of air. “I’m Thorin’s youngest nephew.” He continued in his trembling, clumsy voice. “The one who died.” Legolas stared with those impossibly blue eyes, Kili stumbling over his words, trying to absolve what he had done. He wanted to say he was sorry. He wanted to sink to his knees and _beg_ for Legolas to forgive him, for what he did. He wanted to throw himself to the ground before this stranger, sobbing and desperate, grasping at the last fragments of redemption. But Kili swallowed, blinking, knowing he couldn’t break down now, not when he was so close. He would apologise later. “Come on.” He forced it all back with an odd gasp, turning his face away, creeping around the edge of the clearing.

“Won’t they wake?” Legolas whispered, looking down at the snoring goblin just a few feet to their right. Kili only grunted, pulling him onwards. “We can’t outrun them.”

“They will not wake.” Legolas jumped at the voice, Kili tightening his hands around his elbow. “Sorry.” Nazarg whispered, his soft approach followed by the sound of rustling leaves, the snapping of twigs. “I’ve got the wargs, Kili. We’re ready to go.”

“Good.” Kili glanced back at Legolas for a moment. “Nardur, _skaat.”_ His voice rose, breaking above his low whisper. Legolas bit back a gasp as the warg padded quietly through the darkness, the elf catching an outline, a gleam of fur in the dying light. “Don’t be afraid.” Kili could feel him trembling in his hand. “He’s just a runty pup, never hurt a fly. Have you boy?”He rubbed the warg between the ears.

“I’ll take him.” Nazarg whispered in the dark. “Murûk can bear the both of us, he’s a big fellow.” He rubbed the brown flank of his beast, Legolas drawing back. “Do we need anything else?”

“I don’t think so.” Kili stared at the red, sinking embers. “Do we have enough to get by ‘til the Grey Mountains?”

“Yes, we’ll have enough.” Nazarg sounded so _sad._ He shook his head, although no one could see it in the blackness, and stepped forward, gently taking the elf’s arm. There were still a few hours to change Kili’s mind. “Come with me, Legolas.” He breathed, guiding him to the warg. “Kili, you go in the front. We’ll take it slow at first.”

“All right.” Kili swallowed, swinging his leg over the crouched beast. He chanced a final glance around the campfire, the low snoring and snuffling. “How long until they... Until it kicks in?”

“Not long now.” Nazarg grunted, helping Legolas into the seat. “It might wake a few of them up, but they won’t catch up to us. They’ll be too sick to ride.” Kili heard a sigh from his direction.

“I’m sorry.” Kili stared down at his hands, little more than vague outlines in the heavy shadows. Guilt and horror had bound his heart fast – he thought he was going to be sick again, listening to the goblin’s sleep. “I didn’t want any of this.”

“Let’s just go.” Nazarg jumped astride Murûk, hand closing around the battered leather horn. “Wrap your arms around me.” He whispered the command to Legolas, shivering behind him. “We’re going to need directions, when we get closer.” The elf nodded wordlessly. “How are your hands?”

“Fine.” Legolas breathed slowly, winding his arms around the orc’s waist, unable to hold on tight with his broken fingers. His mind was still thick, heavy and slow from what Nazarg had given him, the dull ache in his hands and ears hovering at the edge of his mind.

Kili’s eyes settled on Azog for a moment, his limbs red in the fading ember-light, wrapped deep in sleep. He forced back a choked sob, biting down hard on his tongue, terrified an outburst would give them all away. He looked at the sleeping orc-king, knowing he wouldn’t _ever_ see him again, feeling as bitter and anguished as though he was being torn away from a father, a loved one. His hand closed around the tooth at his neck, eyes stinging. _I’m so sorry._ He mouthed, a burning ember lodged painfully in his throat. _I didn’t want this._ His eyes welled over, and Kili felt the tears ooze silently down his face, heart breaking in his chest. He tried so hard not to think about everything Azog had said to him, the times he called him strong and fast and clever. He tried to tell himself that they were only lies, Azog only ever said those things to manipulate and gratify Kili, to keep him loyal. But he _meant_ them, Kili knew in the pit of his stomach. He was so sure Azog really meant them. Whatever his intentions were, whatever plan he had in place for Kili, he meant them. Kili been an equal, a partner, for the first time in his life. Azog didn’t baby and belittle him, like Thorin and Fili did. Not in the end. He looked at Kili with genuine respect, respect Kili had _earned._ And Kili repaid that trust with murder. He held his breath, terrified a whimper or a sob would come out.

 _Goodbye, Azog._ And with his bony shoulders shaking, tears streaking the ash on his cheeks, Kili turned away from the doomed orc-king towards the darkness beyond the clearing. Towards the Elf-Kingdom. Towards Fili. Towards a life that seemed little more than aged memory, dull and hazy and unreal. Towards a new destiny, one Kili would forge with his own hands, one that took no other maker.

He didn’t look back.


	46. A Farewell

“Fili.”

The blonde looked up from his half-eaten plate of food, appetite snuffed out quicker than a flame in water. Thorin stood silently in the doorway, hands loose at his sides.

“Get in, get in.” Bilbo urged, taking his ring off for a moment so the rest could see him. “The larder’s stuffed – eat as much as you can, but please don’t make a racket. Nobody is going to come around, not this late, but I still won’t want to take any chances.” Thorin let the hobbit guide him gently to the long, chest-high table. “I don’t know how long before we’ll get another chance, so take plenty.” He gestured around the brightly-lit room. It was the lowest room in Thranduil’s pantry, a cool room where things like cheese, cured meats, and vast barrels of wine were stored. “Don’t drink any of the wine though – we need to be on our feet. Nori and I will be back soon with a few more in tow. If you hear anybody coming,draw the bolt on the door. I’ll knock. Two short, three long.” The words all came out in a jumbled chatter, Bilbo wringing his hands. “Ori and Balin are probably the closest – we’ll be back with them shortly.” He flashed Thorin a smile. “I’ll have you all out of here by dawn, I promise.”

“Thank you, Bilbo.” Thorin murmured softly, eyes downcast. He listened to Bilbo go without another word, staring down at his shoes as the door closed with a low click, bathing the room in a heavy, strained silence. Fili broke apart a piece of bread in his hands, letting it crumble in his fingers, watching them scoot about on the plate. He remained silent, anxious, his head and heart rushing with everything he didn’t have the nerve to say. Screams, curses, apologies, pleas for forgiveness. He looked down at his shaking hands, not knowing where to begin, willing for Thorin to break the awful silence.

“Fili-”

“I’m not sorry.” He cut over his uncle, jerking is head up. It was like something had sparked inside of him, with Thorin uttering his name, speaking to him for the first time in weeks. He looked up and he remembered the last time they had spoken, Thorin desperate and in pain, crumbling under the promises he knew he wouldn’t keep. Fili remembered all of this and he felt _angry_ , humiliated, cold. Balin’s words, they echoed back at him. His fading memories of Thorin’s collapse, his overwhelming grief, holding on to a rotting body while the world fell apart around him. He looked at Thorin, stripped of his furs and mail, his hair dishevelled and face drawn and pale. Thorin looked so small, in the bright larder that night. Frail. And that frailty, that it was like a knife in Fili’s chest. He didn’t have to answer to Thorin; he didn’t have to beg for forgiveness. _Why should he seek the approval of someone so weak?_ “I believe in what I did Thorin – I’ll _never_ be sorry.” Fili kept his head held high, his chin erect. He looked noble, princely even, despite his tattered clothes, his missing beard, the hollows in his cheeks.

“You made me look like a fool.” Thorin whispered, his voice little more than a breath of trembling wind. “You made yourself look naive and juvenile, with what you did.” Fili stared back at him, wiping the breadcrumbs from his fingers. “Did you think you would look wise, Fili? Did you think it noble, to beg an old enemy for help?” With every word, Thorin felt his anger grow. And it was a rare anger indeed, cold and biting. Thorin was _never_ angry at Fili. Upset, yes. Disappointed, occasionally – but Fili had never done something so outrageously appalling as this. Nothing had filled Thorin with such icy rage. He remembered Thranduil, standing before him, _mocking_ Thorin for his nephew’s reckless, short-sighted actions. And nothing made him sicker, than being made to look a fool before someone who incited such hatred in his heart.

“Was I to let us starve?” Fili’s voice jumped, hands balling into fists, resting on the table. “To give up, to lie down and _die?_ It would unwise, Thorin, to ignore the elves and refuse their help!” He harboured a secret hope that perhaps Thorin would see the sense in what he had done. That he would bless his nephew. But he looked into Thorin’s cold blue eyes and saw nothing but anger. He knew he had driven Thorin to a very rare sort of fury, that he walked on hot coals and he was going to suffer for what he had done. Thorin put his grudge against Thranduil above the lives of his people – in Fili’s youthful, idealised mind, that was what it boiled down to. He ignored the subtle power-games and politics, the posturing, the honour and the carefully constructed cults of personality. That meant nothing to Fili. It was so utterly unimportant to him – and to have Thorin prize his stupid pride so highly, it brought out an outrage in Fili, a very rare assertion in his heart that Thorin was _wrong._

“You do not understand, Fili.” Thorin’s voice slowly rose, taking on a hard, serious edge he reserved for outsiders. “Thranduil thinks you are a child – that you are naive and ignorant and-”

“Let him!” Fili thumped his fists on the table, his mane shining in the candlelight. “Let him think what he likes! I don’t care! I would rather be an ignorant child than a cold, bitter _liar_ like you!” He gasped as soon as he uttered the words. Thorin reeled back, clutching a hand to his chest as though Fili’s words had struck him right in the heart, a heavy hammer of solid iron. “I hoped, Thorin, that you would at _least_ give me credit for standing in my truth.” The defiance shone in Fili’s eyes now, leaking out of his heart an ugly, red stain.

“Yes I made a mistake but I will _always_ stand by what I did.” His jaw was set. “But you – you turn your back on yourself. You put on airs that you are perfect – you’re not!” He wanted to close his mouth, but everything rushed out, hot and angry, and Fili couldn’t stop the raging flood. It gushed straight from his heart, raw and untempered. “You _never_ accept your mistakes – you blame everybody else, you push it down and pretend that nothing has happened!” Fili squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, feeling the all-too-familiar sting. “You lied about _Frerin_ to me.” His voice softened now, the plaintive cry of an injured animal. “You weren’t stoic and calm – you broke. You lost yourself and collapsed and they had to pry a putrid _corpse_ from your fingers.” Thorin still clung to his shirt, eyes fixed on Fili, mouth sagging. “You made me feel weak and pathetic.” Fili’s voice hitched as he struck a raw, exposed nerve, the heart of his anger and resentment. “When I had been _just_ like you.”

“I...” Thorin gasped for air, gaping at his nephew, a fish out of water. Fili stared back, waiting for a response, gripping the edge of the table as he fought back tears. His limbs shook inside the loose tunic, nails biting into the wood. Fili had _never_ spoken to him like this – even in his wildest fists of anger, he hadn’t been this cold, this deep and personal, striking like an arrow and piercing the dark, hidden parts of his soul, shame and humiliation and overwhelming grief rushing out. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t raise his defences against Fili. He was broken and exhausted. He looked at his nephew and he knew that Fili was _right._ For all of his ignorance, his recklessness and naivety, Fili was stronger in his heart than Thorin could _ever_ hope to be, tearing down the thin facade of propriety and acting in pure, innocent selflessness.

Thorin sank to his knees as the tears came out. Fili stood stock-still on the other side of the table, breath still tearing from his lips in broken gasps as Thorin gritted his teeth and bowed his head. He stood for some moments, trying to pretend that he was made of stone, that he was unmoving, impermeable. But it was little more than a veneer, paper-thin, and it cracked and fell when he saw Thorin dig his wrists into his eyes, letting out a choked sob, realising with a horrible lurch beneath his feet that he had driven his uncle to tears. His anger fell apart in that moment, disintegrating in a burning rush of guilt that set his nerve-endings alight.

“Thorin – no.” He ran around the edge of the table, sinking to his knees before the shaking figure. Their stupid, petty squabble was forgotten. Fili felt sick with himself, his unfair jabs at Thorin, kicking his uncle when he was down. “Oh Mahal – I didn’t mean it. I got angry – I’m sorry.” He tried to grip Thorin by the shoulders, holding him as he would a child, the hot guilt rising in his chest. “I just – I know I messed up Thorin, but I can’t back down – I knew this could happen and I didn’t _care_ , I just wanted everyone to be all right.”

“Who told you.” Thorin looked down at the ground, not trusting his gaze to meet with Fili, not trusting himself to hold on to whatever scraps of dignity hadn’t slipped through his fingers. “Was it Balin or Dwalin?”

“It was both of them.” Fili tightened his grasp, hands sliding an inch or so down Thorin’s back. He pressed their foreheads together, feeling his uncle’s skin cold, clammy against him. “Please stop crying.” He whispered, feeling those broad shoulders tremble in his hold. “Please Thorin.”

“I just wanted you to be strong.” Thorin murmured, his breath a gentle breeze in Fili’s ear. “But Fili – you _are_. You are stronger than I ever dreamed.” Fili snaked his hands further down his uncle’s back, holding him tightly while he listened. “You’re perfect.”

“I’m not perfect.” Fili closed his eyes. “Nobody is ever perfect. I just tried to do what was right Thorin – what _I_ thought was right.” He took in a breath. “You don’t have to agree with me – but can you please respect that I made a decision and I’m going to stand by it.” He dug his forehead in a little deeper, coaxing Thorin to lift his head as he opened his eyes. “Please?”

Thorin drew back a little, staring at Fili. Staring _beyond_ him, through those dark blue eyes, as he realised he would rather have a single Fili, headstrong, stubborn, angry and wild, who stuck to his convictions and refused to bow even to Thorin’s will, than a hundred heirs who blindly followed his beck and call.

“Don’t let anybody else tell you what is wrong and right Fili.” He loved his nephew more than he ever had before, in that single moment, an overwhelming rush that left his heart aching. “Not even me.”

* * *

“My Lord Thranduil, you’re awake.”

Thranduil lowered his eyes at the elf’s words, remaining still. He sat in his airy chamber, turned away from the door, towards the open archways in a simple wooden chair. He faced the forest, watching the moon’s slow dance across the sky, sinking down in the horizon, the stars that bowed in the inky blackness. An old sky he had seen more times than he could count. He knew every star by name, tracing their iridescent paths across the heavens, a swelling night sky that seemed endless, ageless, making even the immortal elf-king feel young and small. Young and small and _so_ lonely. He was reminded, looking at the stars, that he was a stranger in these trees. This wood was not his home, these half-wild elves were not his kin. Nothing remained of his former life, not even a vague reminder of what had existed, save a pair of bright blue eyes beneath a head of cornsilk hair.

“Andath.” He breathed, his gaze brushing the treetops spread before him, glowing silver. “Please tell me you bring news.”

“I do.” His knuckles whitened in his lap, finely-cut lips pursing tightly. “May – May I enter?”

“Of course.” Thranduil rose effortlessly to his feet, turning away from the wood. The elf-soldier stood in full armour, spattered with something black and thick, sticking to him like tar. His heart quickened in his chest, mouth falling slack. “You have been fighting.”

“Fighting isn’t the word for it.” Andath kept his eyes respectfully low. “We came across two riders about twelve miles south. We killed both wargs and one of the goblins – and took the other alive.” Thranduil held his hands behind his back, hiding the trembling. “We – interrogated the goblin, for some time.” He chose his words carefully. “The foul creature told us everything. He was under the command of Azog the Defiler.” Thranduil closed his eyes, the muscle twitching in his jaw.

“My son.” Thranduil’s voice trembled. ”Does he have my son.” Wordlessly, Andath held out his hand. The room was lit only by a single candle, the lock of hair gleaming softly in the dull light like spun gold. It was streaked with blood. Thranduil let out a groan, he reeled backwards from the sight, groping blindly for support as his legs failed him.

“My Lord-” Andath stepped forward, wide-eyed, but his meagre attempts to comfort the elf-king and help him stand were brushed aside. Thranduil collapsed quite clumsily into his chair, gasping for air. “Are you all right?”

“Where is he?” Thranduil snatched the lock of gold, holding it tightly in his trembling hands. “Where – have you found him? Where is that _foul_ monster holding Legolas?”

“He only said south.” Andath breathed. “He claimed he didn’t know exactly where. He said he followed his warg’s nose.” Thranduil’s clenched fist was pressed against his lips. “Legolas was – tortured, for information. The goblins intended to ransom him off to us.” He spoke softly, as though it would lighten the heavy burden of his words. But they only made Thranduil's blue eyes dull, darkening with every word that came from his reluctant mouth. “When we asked exactly what they had done, he only laughed. He said we would see soon enough, that he was alive, but not unspoiled.” Thranduil couldn’t fight a choked moan from escaping his raw throat.

“We questioned him on his retinue, he said – confusing things.” A frown crossed the elf’s face. “He claimed there were thirty-three soldiers, a healer from the Southern provinces, Azog himself, and a dwarf-prisoner named Kili.” Thranduil’s eyes flew open, remembering Thorin’s words within this very room, just some hours before. “Naturally, the mention of a second prisoner – it interested us. When we pressed further, he changed his story. He said the dwarf was no prisoner, that Azog treated him like a partner, and they worked together. Azog adopted him like some sort of son and took advice from him.” The elf swallowed. “He said, and I am quoting here, ‘Kili held the elf down while Azog held the knife’.”

 “Kili.” Thranduil repeated, white-hot rage swelling in his chest. The dead nephew. His eyes were open but he couldn’t see through a thick, heavy haze of red. _What had they done to his son?_ Blind fury clawed deep within his soul, roaring against the walls of his heart. “What else do you know?”

“Nothing of note.” He took no pleasure in relaying these words. His regret hung low and heavy, the words very deep. “We questioned him on his appearance within Mirkwood at all. The creature claimed Azog the Defiler was tracking Thorin Oakenshield’s company, intending to execute them for the death of the Great Goblin. Azog wants to personally end Thorin and his nephews, to settle an ancient grudge.” Thranduil bowed his head, the hot fury making it hard for him to _breathe._

“Bring them.” Thranduil growled. “Thorin Oakenshield and his nephew Fili – _bring them to me._ ” He lifted his head. “I trust you have sent soldiers in pursuit of Azog and his horde.”

“Yes, my Lord.” Andath nodded. “Tauriel is gathering as many as we can find, scattered through the woods. She wants to have an army big enough to swarm them, in the dawn.” Thranduil pressed a hand over his eyes, gritting his teeth. “Have you any other orders?”

“I want my son returned to me.” A single tear dripped down the elf-king’s cheek. “And I want those responsible for this to suffer.” Andath dipped his head in a low bow.

On the other side of the door, Bilbo bit down hard on his finger to muffle his choked gasps, listening silently to every single word.

* * *

“We’re close.” Legolas broke the still, pre-dawn silence, feeling the thin body tense in his arms. The warmth had faded; he felt only cold and tired, the dull pain sharpening to a knife-edge in his hands and head. He couldn’t forget them now, as the light turned grey around them, morning starting to break. The goblins had taken him farther than he ever realised, deep into the wood. “That tree, over there with the knot in the trunk.” He jerked his head to the left. “It means we’re about ten miles out.”

“That’s close enough.” Kili’s voice was hoarse. “ _Puzg_ Nardur.” He grabbed a handful of thick grey fur, commanding the warg to stop. “There’s bound to be scouts crawling around here.” He spoke to Nazarg now. “He won’t walk more than half a mile before somebody finds him, and we can’t get too close to the Hall.”

“No, we can’t.” The orc-healer murmured, bowing his head. Screams, cries, please, they were close to bursting through his lips. _Don’t go with me. Stay here. Save yourself. You’re not beyond redemption._ He didn’t know where to begin, how he could speak his mind without everything becoming a jumbled mess. Nazarg’s head was cluttered, desperate. _You’re better than this._ What did he even know, about goodness and light?

“Legolas – do you think you can walk on your own from here?” Kili rasped in his disused voice. The other two looked at him. “Do you know the way?”

“I do, now there’s some light.” Legolas was staring at Kili, a frown creasing his smooth, pale brow. It terrified him, the thought of going on alone. Even though these were his woods, even though he knew every tree, Legolas didn’t feel _safe_ here anymore. The shadows leered around him, branches reached out, clawing at him like bony goblin-fingers and he found himself shrinking away. He didn’t want to be alone, ever. “Where are you going?” Kili stared down at his hands, ignoring the blue gaze fixed on him.

“North.” The dwarf didn’t shift his eyes. “We’ll bypass the Hall and back to the edge of the forest. It won’t be hard if we remain hidden. The Grey Mountains are thirty miles north of Mirkwood. There’s orc-clans there. We’ll get by.” His hoarse voice was flat and dead. Nazarg swung himself down from Murûk, approaching him with hands curling into fists. _Enough of this._

“No, we won’t.” He said firmly, lifting his gaze to the thin grey figure astride the seat. This was his only chance to speak. “I’m going. Alone.” Kili froze, mouth half-open. “You’re going with Legolas. Back to your family.”

“No.” Kili’s voice hitched, he shook his head madly, flinching away from the orc. “No – I’m not going back. I _told_ you, I can’t. I can’t ever – do you think they would have me, after what I did?” Hs started to grow panicked, voice growing higher with every ragged gasp of air. “This isn’t about going back – I told you Nazarg. It was about keeping them safe.” He dipped his head. “I’m not going back.” He repeated, voice wavering.

“Yes, you are.” Nazarg reached up, seizing Kili by the arm. “Kili, they’re your _family._ How would your brother feel, if he heard you had the chance to return, to see them again, and you just vanished?” He tried to make Kili understand. “You said you didn’t want to hurt him – and yet, you’re going to just abandon him?” Kili tried to tug his arm free, but the orc held fast. “You need to go home.”

“Home? What _home?”_ Kili trembled, his voice breaking. “They n-never – they _left_ me – they left me to die!” Nazarg watched him, silently. “I can’t _– everything_ they did – they never even tried –” Kili broke off, the words running together in his mouth and mind, unable to speak.

“They didn’t-”

“I mean _nothing_ to them!” Kili croaked, the air fading from his lungs. Legolas stumbled clumsily from the warg, wincing as he jolted his hands. He remained back, silent, watching. He felt like an outsider, spying on this intimate parting. He tried to turn away, tried to warm his own heart with thoughts of his return. His father, overjoyed to see him. Tauriel. Galandur. His own nightmare was over – mere hours, a day and a night of pain and terror. Even though it had hurt him so much, and Legolas knew that he would _never_ be as sunny, as reckless and innocent and proud as he was just the morning before, he felt muted, looking at the little grey dwarf pouring his crushed heart out onto the forest floor. _His_ nightmare had stretched, from hours, to days to weeks, so _months,_ with hope fading, shrinking, until it completely died, a candle sputtering out in the darkness and leaving only a black, hollow void. And Legolas looked at what could have been, with disgust and terror. “Why should I – Why should I go back, when I’m so worthless?”

“Kili,” Nazarg pulled him out of the seat, Kili limp, not resisting as he was set down on the ground. “Look at me.” He grabbed Kili’s face, holding his jaw up, looking him in the eye. “I know you’re angry at them. I know they let you down. But if you come with me, you will regret it for the _rest of your life._ ” Kili’s eyes were wide and dark. “You have done nothing but suffer for months, it’s twisted you.” It sickened him, to think about how far Kili had fallen, how little remained of that innocent little _child_ that knelt on the floor of his cave. “But that doesn’t mean you’re completely dead, Kili. You did _this._ You’ve realised what you’ve done and you’re trying to fix it. There’s still so much good in you. Azog never stamped it all out.” Kili listened to Nazarg wordlessly, his lip trembling. “Please, go home. Make amends with your family. _Sleep._ Eat a decent meal and have a hot bath. The exhaustion and pain has gotten to you. You’re scared. I know it’s terrifying, to think about. But if you run away, you’re letting Azog win. You have to see that.”

“I’m not...” Kili swallowed, fighting back tears. “How can I just go back and pretend that this – all of this – that it never happened?” He shook his head, Nazarg’s thin fingers curling in his hair. “How can I be _normal_ again?” The dwarf sniffed. “How can I forget?” He slumped forward, lax in the orc’s hold.

“Oh, Kili.” Nazarg found his own throat was burning, as he stared into those wet brown eyes. It wasn’t anger that split Kili from his people. It was fear, fear that they would reject him, when they saw what he had become. Fear that he would never be _Kili_ again, just a broken, blackened ghost, a living reminder of what Azog had done to destroy him. His hands threaded through Kili’s dark tangles, and Nazarg wrapped his arms around those bony little shoulders, pulling him in for a rare hug. “You’re not irredeemable. You can still save yourself.”

“I’m lost.” Kili’s voice was muffled in Nazarg’s dirty shirt. “Lost and broken and I can’t _ever_ go back.” He moaned, grabbing handfuls of the worn cloth. “Please – I can’t.”

“It won’t be over in a day.” Nazarg tried to put some sense into the dwarf. “But it _will_ happen. You’re not half as bad as you make yourself out to be. Yes, you’ve done some awful things but you are _sorry_ for them. Owning up to what you’ve done and accepting you want to change – that’s where true goodness lies.” He tightened his grasp around Kili’s thin body. “You can’t wipe the slate clean, but you can paint over it.” He willed the poor creature to understand. “No one in their right mind could call you dark and evil, not after what you’ve been through.”

“They won’t understand.” Kili’s fingers twisted in the orc’s shirt, pulling the seams. “They’ll say – they’ll say I insulted my line. Th-that I’m no son of Durin.” It was an old fear, that tugged deep into his heart. And now – to think that he could return, could finally go back to his own people, the blind terror that they would abandon him, that they would find out what he really was and reject him for the shame he brought on their house, it left Kili cold with terror.

“They won’t.” Nazarg promised. But he couldn’t shake the uncomfortable tightness growing in his chest. _Why was Kili so afraid to go back?_ He thought Kili would have been overjoyed, desperate to return to his family. “They’ll never hate you. They’ll be so happy to see you again, they won’t give a damn about what you did.” He lifted Kili away, carefully unwinding his grey fingers. “Scream at them. Hit them if it makes you feel better. But don’t run away. You will hurt them, so awfully, if you run away.” He sighed. “Don’t you want to see Fili again?”

“More than anything.” Kili murmured, eyes lowered to their entwined hands. “I-I _miss_ him.” He swallowed. “I don’t want to be alone anymore.” He could feel tears welling up. “I should be happy.” Kili whispered. “I thought – I thought that once I was _free_ I would be relieved – but I’m just scared.” He pulled his hands away and brushed at his eyes. “I don’t feel free, Nazarg.” The dwarf swallowed sniffing. “I’ll _never_ be free of him.” He closed his splinted hand around a bony wrist, fingertips resting over the mark burned into his skin. “I could run, to the end of the earth and I’ll never be free.”

“The only chains left are in your mind.” Nazarg ached for Kili, watching him fight back his tears, hopeless and lost and heartbreakingly scared. “He’s _dead_ Kili. The only one who can sever that bond is you.” He forced a smile. “And you will. It will take a _long_ time, but you will.” Nazarg gripped his good wrist, very tightly. “Go with Legolas. I know they’re prisoners, but Thranduil’s not heartless. He’ll let you see them. You’ll be _safe_ , safer than with me. I can’t protect you Kili. Not like Azog could.” Kili nodded, silently. “This is your chance to make everything right again. Don’t let it pass by.” He drifted into silence, watching Kili’s soft brown eyes pulled downwards, slowly picking apart everything Nazarg had said, and putting the pieces all together, in his mind, willing himself to work up the courage and nerve to step away from him.

“You have to take Nardur.” Kili sniffed, gritted his teeth. “I can’t keep him – a warg – he’ll be shot on sight. C-can you do that?” He finally looked up. The light was starting to grow, and the orc-healer caught a glimpse of colour beneath the smudges of ash, Kili’s cheeks a rising pink. “Can you take care of him?”

“Of course I will.” Nazarg smiled. “I won’t let anything happen to him, I promise.” Kili nodded. He felt so dried out and tired and _empty_. “You need to go back to your people. And I need to go back to mine.”

“I’m so sorry.” His gaze lowered half an inch. “I’ve ruined _everything_ for you. Ever since I stepped foot in Goblin-town, all I’ve done is turn everything upside down.” Kili bit his lip. “You’re here because of _me._ How do you not hate me?” He couldn’t banish the flooding guilt. He couldn’t shake everything that had happened.

“Because none of this was your fault.” Nazarg forced a smile, pushing everything else back. He couldn’t bear to tell Kili the truth. There was no going home for him. How could he? How could he go back alone? _Where is Azog_ , they would demand of him. _How did you survive?_ _What happened to the rest?_ What reason could he give, for his survival? How long would it be before Bolg got wind of him, and demanded to know the exact cause of his father’s death? What if it got out, that they had all been poisoned? There would be no hiding from the truth; his hatred of Azog, his softness towards Kili, it had never been secret. All of this he kept locked inside himself, a dying ember lodged deep within, sparing Kili the crippling guilt. “You need to go.” He spoke after a long silence, squeezing Kili’s shoulder. “I’m burning daylight here.”

“A-All right.” Kili turned away, wiping his eyes as he stared at the grey beast settled on his hindquarters, licking a paw. _Oh Nardur._ He sank to his knees, burying his nose in the warg’s neck. “You idiot.” He whispered, breathing in the familiar scent of dirt and fur. Kili wrapped his arms tightly around Nardur, feeling his shoulders shake. “I’m going to miss you _so much._ ” He didn’t care if the warg was clumsy and stupid and got himself stuck in odd places. He didn’t care that he made a fool of them both, getting lost, once trying and failing to catch even a rabbit. He didn’t care that Nardur couldn’t howl like a proper warg could, that he was so runty and his teeth weren’t quite as sharp as they should have been. He’d been there, always. He was _loyal_ , affectionate, sleeping beside Kili when he felt cold and lonely. He was Kili's best friend.

“You’re such a good boy.” Kili breathed in Nardur’s ear, gently scratching the top of his head. The warg pushed his wet nose into the side of Kili’s face, sniffing. “Nazarg’s going to look after you, all right?” He took Nardur’s long muzzle, gently rubbing the fur with his shaking thumbs. He wondered how much the creature really understood, even in Black Speech. He always was a slow learner, driving Kili to frustration when he struggled to comprehend even the simplest orders. The dwarf screwed up his eyes as Nardur licked his nose and mouth, spitting out loose hairs. “Ugh.”

“Kili, I _really_ need to go.” Nazarg grew impatient; he didn’t want to get caught in the daylight, so close to Thranduil’s Hall. Time was already wearing dangerously thin and he only hoped that Legolas would be seen first, that the extensive search would be called off once the prince had been found and he could slip by unseen. He took Kili’s shoulder, the uninjured one, gently pulling him away. “He’ll be all right.”

“Don’t get mad at him.”Kili’s voice wobbled. “It takes a few tries for him to understand – but if you get mad he’ll just cower for hours and won’t do a thing.” He rose to his feet, Nardur thrusting his nose in the dwarf’s palm. “He – he drools a lot, in his sleep so don’t let him put his head on your lap. If he does something right, he likes being scratched just on top of his head – between the ears – and–”

“I’ve had plenty of wargs, Kili.” The orc smiled. “And lots of pups, too. I can take care of him. You need to go. Now.” Kili nodded silently, threading his fingers through the thick grey fur, one last time. He opened his mouth to say goodbye – but his hoarse voice choked on the words. It came out only as a rasp, one he uncomfortably tried to disguise as a cough. He felt awkward and tense, realising that he didn’t really know what to say. Farewells, thanks, apologies, they felt worn-out and meaningless. There weren’t any words that he could say, in any language, that truly expressed how he felt. He couldn’t explain enough just how much their friendship had meant to him, how much he owed Nazarg after long months of darkness – his life, his _soul_ and his heart, would have been forfeit, without the orc to care for him.

“Nazarg-”

“S’all right.” He knew it too. He knew every word that Kili could not say. It was so obvious in his wide eyes, his quivering lip. The gratitude and apologies didn’t need to be said. The silence didn’t need to be spoiled with any clumsy words. “I know.” And Kili nodded without another word. He stepped back, turning away from Nazarg with his shoulders slumped. He felt as though someone had held him down and ripped off his armour, his mail shirt, had torn the weapons from his hands and forced him into battle, weak, naked and defenseless. Nardur whined as Kili walked away to take his place beside Legolas, pacing the ground with gritted teeth, shooting anxious glances into the trees.

“Wait!” Kili turned on his heel, eyes widening at the voice. Nazarg’s hand was half-raised in a meek goodbye, the other tight in Nardur’s fur, holding the warg still. “Your arm.” The orc explained, giving Kili a real, warm smile that he could just make out in the grey light.

“My arm?”

“It’s been almost three months, Kili.” Nazarg had almost forgotten the muted conversation the pair had, the night they met in his warm little cave. “Don’t you remember? I said the cast could go after three months.” Kili closed his arm around his iron cast. Nazarg remembered those brown eyes, threatening to well over in fear, unsure if he would be alive after three months. But he was – he _was_ , he stood before the orc on his own two feet with an arm that was whole once more, beneath the leather and iron. “Get the damn thing off Kili.”

“I will.” Kili ran his fingers along the black iron, feeling the bolts fusing the plate to his arm, thick and starting to rust from sweat and rain and river-water. It felt like a part of him now, heavy, cumbersome, but _strong,_ able to withstand the fierce push of fists and wood and stone, if not steel. It was warm and familiar. But it also dragged his arm down, a constant reminder of when Azog pinned him into the dirt, snapping the bone in half in a show of strength, a _threat_ to Kili, punishment for acting on pure instinct. Anger and sick rage beat in his throat at the memory, and Kili tried to push it back. It didn’t matter anymore. Azog was dead – he was _dead_ and the damage he had done to his arm, it would be gone. It felt almost a victory.

“Goodbye, Nazarg.” Scars would eventually fade into burnished, weathered skin. He had two hundred years for them to vanish. Broken bones could be repaired. Ash could be washed away. Bony limbs could be pumped full of food. Tongues could relearn forgotten languages. _Nothing Azog has done will remain with me forever._ He tried to tell himself, tried to let the thought raise his spirits. He was indomitable and unmoving. He had _won._ In spite of the darkness, the pain, the grasping hands that tried to drag him down, Kili was alive. _He had survived Azog._ He survived him, when others far stronger and wiser had died. Kili tried to tell himself that he had proven his dwarvish heart, his will tested beyond the wildest extremes, not just because he was alive, but because he still remembered how to love. Because he still loved Fili.

And in that grey light, Kili hoped desperately, bitterly, with every fire of his being - like the scars, like the ash on his skin, the broken arm and the spider-bite and his clumsy, foreign tongue - he hoped the black stains on his heart, the foul corruption that putrefied his soul, they too, in time, would fade.


	47. A Death

_It couldn’t be true it couldn’t be true it couldn’t be true._ The mantra echoed in Bilbo’s head with every soft slap of his leathery feet on the ancient floorboards. The breath hitched in his throat as he ran, a spear digging into his ribs, head swimming. He ran heedlessly, with none of his usual cautious tip-toeing and looking around corners. The Hall was locked in a low, nervous night, with strained conversation whispered behind locked doors, punctuating occasional snatches of restless sleep.

And Bilbo ran. He ran from the suite of lofty rooms at the top of the Hall to the deep dungeons at the very bottom, sweat plastered to his tomato-red forehead. Time, Bilbo knew, worked against him. How long would it be, until the few lingering guards realised that Thorin and Fili were missing, sparking a huge search, turning the castle inside out? They had to escape – _now._

Only, they couldn’t. Bilbo paused to catch his breath, lurching forward with his hands on his knees. _They couldn’t._ The soft words of the elf beat like a drum against his throbbing skull. _A dwarf-prisoner named Kili_. Bilbo screwed his eyes up, shaking his head. It wasn’t true _it couldn’t be true._ Kili was dead – he had _died_ months ago, lost and alone inside the Wilderland forest. Thorin knew, Fili knew _, everyone knew_ that Kili was gone.

 _We never had a body._ Bilbo lifted his head, resting a hand against the wall as the sweat poured down his face. His lungs heaved, an involuntary groan escaping his clenched teeth. _We never had a body to bury. Only clothes, only weapons._ He started to walk again, the blood thick and slow in his shaking limbs. Balin had said that Kili couldn’t have survived, he said there were fragments of bones and cooked meat lying about, that he must have been – that they would have done what monsters like them were wont to do.

 _What if they didn’t?_ Bilbo’s head ached as he broke back into a light jog. What if they’d kept Kili – what if he really had been given to Azog as some sort of prisoner, and after all this time, he was still out there, still alive? _Still alive._ The thought terrified him, somehow. _How could he still be alive?_

Then he remembered the other half of the soldier’s report. _Not a prisoner._ The words left Bilbo cold, as he remembered them. _Partner. Son._ _They worked together._ These words, they were the ones that left Bilbo so tight and unsure. It didn’t make _sense_ to him – it didn’t connect in his mind. He remembered Azog; the white monster haunted his dreams. He remembered those cold eyes, the sharpened talons for hands, the mace, the fierce white beast he rode upon. Bilbo remembered all of it with frightening clarity, and it left his heart pounding. _It couldn’t be Kili that Azog has with him. It must be some mistake._ It was the only rational explanation in his mind. It was impossible to think that Kili would assume any sort of bond with somebody as violent and brutal as Azog, someone who had singlehandedly torn his line to shreds. Whoever they had with them, it couldn’t have been Kili.

Bilbo moaned as he slowed to another stop, shaking his head. He wanted so _badly_ to believe it. Kili – alive – it brought unbelievable joy in his chest, along with the sick, tight anxiety. _It can’t be anyone else. They said it was Kili. Where else would they get that name?_ Bilbo clenched his fingers in his ear, unable to take it. He couldn’t think this through, he couldn’t _comprehend_ it. There was only one who could, and he waited in the low, musty cellar, for Bilbo to come back.

He ran. He put _everything_ out of his head and he ran. There wasn’t long to go, just a few more flights of stairs, a long, high-ceilinged corridor, and a narrow passageway, before he was knocking on the thick cellar door; three short, two long. No – three long, two short? _Hang it all._

 _“_ Let me in!” Bilbo banged on the door, gasping for air. “Someone – please – it’s me.” He stumbled forward as the door swung open, Nori standing on the threshold with a heavy frown. Thrusting the ring into his pocket, Bilbo sank to his knees, shaking and coughing, struggling to get the air back in his lungs, limbs as weak and lifeless as straw.

“Bilbo, are you all right?” Thorin knelt beside the hobbit, arm across his shoulders. “Nori told us you left to follow a messenger – what happened? What did they say?”

“They – they –” Bilbo closed his eyes, panting. He couldn’t get the words out; they crowded at his lips, jostling for space on his thick, clumsy tongue. The cellar was filled now – Dwalin had been the last to be freed, and he and Nori were on their way to break the dwarf out, when the hid in the shadows, watching the messenger run breathlessly past with a handful of golden hair, and Bilbo knew he had to see what was going onHe sucked in another lungful of damp air, eyes darting across the room, settling on a wild mane of blonde hair. “Thorin.” He croaked, clinging to the dwarf. “Thorin – I need to talk to you – outside –” He wobbled onto his feet, hands curled in Thorin’s shoulders. He couldn’t do it – he couldn’t blurt it all out in front of Fili. He couldn’t.

“What’s wrong?” Thorin leaned against the door, studying the sweaty little face in the shadows. Bilbo wiped at his forehead with a sleeve, slowly shaking his head. “What can’t you say in front of everybody else?” A familiar, tense note crept into Thorin’s steady voice. “What did you hear?”

“Kili.” Bilbo finally gasped, forcing the air from his reluctant lungs. He reached out, closing his fingers around Thorin’s wrist, as though it could be of comfort. “Kili – Thorin – he’s _alive.”_

“What?” Thorin stared, trying to stop the horrible wheeling of the earth beneath his feet. “Bilbo _what are you talking about?”_ He croaked. No, Kili was dead Kili was dead _Kili was dead._ He had been taken from them, taken and torn apart with nothing left to bury.

“Kili’s alive.” Bilbo repeated, the air finally steadying in his lungs. He could see Thorin’s eyes,  gleaming bright blue, impossibly wide. “He – the elves, they caught a goblin – it said they had a prisoner, a _dwarf_ , c-called Kili.” He gripped Thorin by the arms as his legs gave out, sliding down the door, mouth open and slack. Thorin’s long curls fell across Bilbo’s arms as his head sank forward.

“No.” Thorin breathed, refusing to believe it. It _wasn’t possible._ Kili was dead – _he was dead_ , there was nothing left of him. _How could this be true?_ Balin was sure, Gandalf was sure, everybody was _so sure_ that he was gone. “No – it can’t.” His voice faded to a lost whisper, choking in his throat. He gripped handfuls of Bilbo’s ragged little vest, one of his last brass buttons digging into his cheek.

“I didn’t – I didn’t want to say anything in front of Fili in case it’s not true.” Bilbo whispered. He slowly wrapped his arms around Thorin’s shoulders, the dwarf a heavy, dead weight in his exhausted limbs. “But who else could it be? We never had a body to bury... is it possible that we made a mistake?”

“What exactly did they say?” Thorin lifted his head. There was a red mark on his cheek, where the little button had dug in, and his face was wet. Slowly, he relaxed his tight hold on Bilbo, wiping at his eyes with a worn sleeve. His voice shook violently; he tried to swallow it down as he stared at Bilbo, his face strained and white. He was too scared to hope. He tried to grab onto the last fraying threads of control and composure, to pull himself together. “What did you hear?”

“The one they captured.” Bilbo tried to keep his voice steady, comforting. But even though Thorin had lifted his head and looked at Bilbo with dry eyes, he gripped the hobbit’s wrists, fingers trembling as they dug into the soft skin over his veins. “They asked it about their tribe. It said – they had thirty-three goblins, a healer, Kili and – and Azog.” Thorin’s face cracked for a moment – he screwed up his eyes and shook his head, letting out a broken gasp. “They must – must have figured out who he was, and given him to Azog.”

“No.” Thorin closed his eyes to the nightmare. _No it could not be._ Not Kili, not sweet, innocent, bright Kili. Azog would have crushed him, would have stamped him out. He would have figured out who he was, would have taken him apart and destroyed him. Like Frerin. He felt a sick rush in his chest, unable to muffle a disconsolate groan. Not his little Kili. Thorin tried to breathe. His slow-healing heart cracked and shattered into pieces. “ _No.”_

“I heard other things.” Bilbo’s voice was very small. “Kili – if it _is_ really our Kili, he’s _changed_. The goblin said that Kili, he was _one_ of them, he and Azog were close.” Thorin’s eyes flickered back up to him, dull and dark. “Whatever they did to Legolas – Kili _helped._ ” He felt the trembling fingers tighten around his wrists. “I don’t know what happened – what they did to him. I don’t know anything more.” Thorin couldn’t speak. He looked into Bilbo’s shadowed eyes, his lip trembling, unable to utter a word. “They’re going to overrun Azog’s camp, with all their forces the dawn. Thranduil – he wants you and Fili. He’s sent for you.” He didn’t know what to do with Thorin, who was trying so _hard_ to stay together. But he broke apart before Bilbo’s eyes, shocked and overwhelmed, unable to believe what the little creature was saying.

“What do we do?” Bilbo tried to pull his hands free, but the dwarf held fast. “Thorin – do we stay and wait to see if it’s really him? I know the story doesn’t add up, but _who else could it be?_ ” Thorin swallowed, eyes darting from side to side in rapid thought. “We’ll risk getting captured again, if we stay. And Thranduil – he won’t show any mercy.” There was no doubt in his mind now, after hearing elf-king’s cold voice, bristling with anger.

“I can’t.” Thorin gasped, feeling light-headed. “Bilbo, I can’t fail him again.” He swallowed down a choked sob, trying to smooth out his face, trying to make sense of the insanity. Trying to believe the impossible. “We wait.” Bilbo nodded, biting on his lip.

“What do we tell them?” He coaxed the answers out of Thorin, feeling so small and cold and at a loss. Bilbo didn’t know what to _do_ ; even though it only brushed him, he buckled under the crushing weight of this decision. “And Fili – we can’t say anything, in case it’s not him.” Both of them lingered at the edge of hope. Bilbo couldn’t match that brief, eavesdropped description to his warm memories of the sunny little dwarf.

“No.” Thorin nodded slowly, feeling so _aged._ “We can’t give him false hope.” It was swelling inside of him, but the sick horror of learning that _Azog_ could have taken his nephew prisoner, it crushed his hope like an iron boot. Azog would have been cruel and brutal. Thorin tried to turn his thoughts away from it, but they tormented him; he had horrible images in his mind, of his nephew, his precious Kili, at the mercy of one who had torn apart kings and warriors and princes too, a monster who had sworn to end his line. Those half-shaped nightmares that bled inside of his brain, they were darker and sicker than the truths he had forced himself to accept. He felt as clumsy, as weak and helpless and ineffectual as a stumbling infant, kneeling on the floor of the dark passageway, half-hanging in the hobbit’s shaking arms.

“If you hide,” Bilbo suggested, “there might be a chance.” He watched the exiled king lift his shoulders, releasing the paralysing grip on his wrists. “If you wait in the barrels – even if they search the cellar, they won’t see you. I can try and make it look as though you slipped out some other way – hang a rope out a window or something, and draw them out.”

“It’s our best chance.” His hands were balled into fists, Thorin pressing his clenched fingers into the ground. The crushing pressure against his knuckles made his bones click, a sharp pain racing along the stressed bones. “There’s little else we can do – until we know.”

* * *

“Stop.” Kili’s hand closed around a thin arm, a frown knitting his eyebrows as he cocked his head. Legolas looked back him, eyes wide and curious in the early morning light. Kili only raised a finger to his lips, holding his breath, straining to listen with every fibre of his body.

It came again, a thin stretched sound from the south. Kili closed his eyes to better focus on the sound, heart starting to pound as his face grew red. It was a howl – the howl of an animal. Of a warg.

“Something’s coming.” Kili’s voice burst out of him, tired lungs gasping for air. “It’s not a wolf – it’s bigger.” He started to pick up the pace, heart now racing. It came from the direction, he was sure, of the abandoned camp. “We need to go – _now.”_ He cast a look down at Legolas’ broken, swollen fingers, purple and crooked, and at the smooth beech threes, branches sticking eight feet in the air. They couldn’t climb. He couldn’t trust the elf to hold on and he didn’t have rope to lash him to the tree. All of his supplies, even his weapons, Kili had given to Nazarg, leaving himself with only his little bone-handled knife, and the ragged, stained picture folded inside his vest. “Can you run?”

“If I need to.” Legolas’ face was pinched and strained. Their eyes met for a moment, Kili still holding on to him. His face looked so sharp and dark and angular in the grey light, the streaks of skin beneath the wearing ash the colour of bone. “Did they get loose?” He remembered the huge beasts, their forelegs and burning yellow eyes and snapping teeth, a cold trickle of sweat oozing down his back. Unarmed and injured, Legolas knew he wouldn’t stand a chance against even a single warg, let alone a wild pack.

“I hope so.” Kili whispered, lips barely moving. He broke into a jog as another howl came, louder this time, loud enough for Legolas to hear through the thick bandages around his ears. He gave Kili a sidelong glance, his blue eyes widening. “Keep moving.” Kili held on to him, wishing that he had held on to his bow. He could have fired a few shots, could have given Legolas, at least, the chance to run away. “Faster!” His voice was a low growl in his throat, like an animal, striking like a sharp stone against the elf’s heart. It was a harsh, grating sound, that made him feel _afraid._ He chanced another glance at the dwarf and saw in a heartbeat that Kili was scared too, as he started to run, eyes widening in his grey face. “ _Run_ Legolas!” He let go of him, breaking into a sprint, pushing his exhausted legs as far as he could, lungs burning for air as his eyes streamed in the wind.

But it was doomed; it was _always_ doomed and Kili knew it from the moment he first heard that high, distant howl. He knew there was no chance either of them could outrun a warg, and there was no way for them to climb to safety. Kili could only desperately push on, and hope they would find a scout-party, a guard, to save them. Another howl came, much closer this time, and Kili knew they were caught. No no _no_ – it wasn’t _fair_ , they had come so far, they were so close, _Kili was so close_. Legolas was ahead of him, taking long strides with his tall, slim legs, guiding Kili through what seemed like a maze of trees, inexorably pressing on for the safety of the Hall, a safety Kili knew was beyond their grasp.

He moaned at the howl that came behind him, not daring to look back as he ran. It was close now – so close, and Kili could do nothing. All he had now was his knife, the blade less than six inches long. It would be little more than a needle in the warg’s thick hide.

 _A needle can pierce the eye and leave someone blind._ Kili felt the breath hitch in his throat – he knew he couldn’t last much longer, he was too tired, too burned out and exhausted, legs threatening to collapse beneath him at any moment. He couldn’t keep this up.

“Go on!” Kili cried out to the elf. “Keep running!” He jumped over a gnarled tree root, watching the bloodstained locks of blonde hair streaming out behind Legolas. He ran twenty more feet, heart gaining momentum. He had killed a _dozen_ giant spiders, Kili reminded himself. He knew wargs, he knew to slice them open at the back of the foreleg, to go for the mouth and eyes. He just had to launch a single good strike, and he would fell the beast. Knuckles white around the knife, Kili turned to face the warg, jaw set and eyes hard, ready to fight to the very last breath. But the warg was not riderless; Kili hadn’t looked back at all, had known that taking his eyes from his feet meant tripping over a root or getting smacked in the face by a branch. But he should have looked back, an icy terror cramping in his gut, seizing his heart, the breath from his lungs. He should have looked back.

_Azog rode the warg._

His monstrous ribcage heaved in shallow, ragged gasps. He snarled at Kili, eyes looking glazed, _hollow_ in his face, sweat shining plainly his white skin. Kili froze in terror, knees locking into place. He couldn’t move. _How could this be?_ Azog was dead – Kili had poisoned him. The arsenic was potent enough to wipe out the entire retinue – Nazarg had said so. How could Azog still be alive? He watched mutely as Azog slowed his beast to a standstill eight feet from him, leaning heavily forward. Kili whimpered; the knife in his hand was as ineffective as a baby’s tooth, and he thrust it into his belt, taking a step backwards as Azog swung down from the warg.

“ _Uukhrat”_ Azog snarled at the beast, commanding her to leave, knowing that once blood was shed, she would be impossible to control. Kili watched her slink away, frozen. He didn’t try to run away – how could he run? How could he escape from those long legs? Once before, Kili had tried to escape after an attempt on Azog’s life – and he had paid dearly for it. The iron weight on his arm felt as though it weighed a ton, the socket straining under the weight of it. Azog was going to kill him – he was going to _kill him_ for this.

“No –” Azog lurched forward; he walked unsteadily, shoulders lopsided, arms hanging oddly. He looked like one of Kili’s old toys, the clumsy ones that didn’t quite work right, that walked or rolled crookedly for six awkward inches before tipping over on the cobblestones. The poison had sickened Azog, left him weak and slow, but Kili was still deathly afraid. He took another step back, the rough bark of the tree digging into his skin, into his scars, the near-healed welts and cuts. He cowered, shaking madly as Azog approached him, and as the orc-king grabbed him by the throat, Kili didn’t fight back. “Azog please-”

“ _You.”_ His voice was empty, hollow and hoarse. Tears pushed at Kili’s eyes, and he felt himself pushed upwards against the trunk, hovering uncertainly on his tip-toes. “You _scum_ Kili.” Azog spat as he leaned in, their faces very close. “ _How could you!”_

“I didn’t-” Kili’s nerve failed him; he quailed under that awful stare, closing his eyes and cringing away.

“ _Look at me!”_ Azog snarled, his hand tightened around Kili’s neck, cutting off the flow of air. Kili wrapped his hands around the orc’s thick wrist, not in an attempt to break free, but to brace himself, to relieve the overwhelming pressure at his throat that stopped his breathing and brought black spots on the edge of his vision as he opened his eyes, turning his face slowly to Azog. He dragged Kili up along the trunk; the dwarf now hovered half a foot above the ground, kicking out uselessly. Azog’s arm trembled with the effort of holding Kili in the air, and as he leaned in even closer, Kili could smell his breath, hot and rancid, as though he’d been eating garlic. “You treacherous, lying piece of _scum!”_ Kili didn’t dare to break his gaze, gasping for air as his cheeks turned red beneath the ash.

“Azog,” Kili begged, “Azog please, please I had no other-”

“ _How could you!”_ Azog repeated, spitting in Kili’s face. He arched his back against the wood, whimpering in pain. “After everything I have done – I _trusted_ you Kili!” Eyes fixed on the orc-king’s sagging face, Kili tried to swallow, his Adam’s apple crushed against Azog’s hand. “I gave you _everything!”_

“I had no choice.” Kili choked out. He would have sobbed if he had the air in his lungs – he convulsed in Azog’s grasp, clawing at the huge white hand. “I-I had to save F-Fili.” He stammered, the black spots growing, vision growing hazy and dull.

“Fili?” Azog’s hold loosened, his strength flagging. Kili took in a deep breath, toes curling in his boots. “ _Fili?”_ Angered, the orc-king spat on the ground, a very ugly expression stretching his loose skin. “You betrayed me for _Fili?”_ He roared, smashing his mace into the trunk, inches from Kili’s head. “You _killed_ my soldiers, you tried to kill me, for _Fili?”_ The _hurt_ of the betrayal burst out of Azog in a scream, his hand shaking around Kili’s throat. He lurched forward, a stumble, leaning heavily on the dwarf as he battled a fresh wave of light-headed vertigo.

“He left you to _die_.” His voice was a low hiss, very close in Kili’s cheek. Kili squeezed a moan out of his constricted throat. “He will not absolve you, when he sees what you are.” He continued, his poisonous breath leaking into Kili’s ear. “He will _never_ forgive what you have done. He will condemn you, Kili. They all will. There is no redemption for you.” Kili shut his eyes, biting back a sob as Azog reached into his heart, tearing out his deepest fears. “You think you can save yourself by returning to your kin? Do you think _Thorin_ will accept what you have become? Do you think Fili will still love you?”

“H-he’s my brother.” He tried to make Azog see, tried to explain that he couldn’t for a _moment_ , turn his back on Fili. That if there was only one thing that Kili could ever depend on in this world, it was that Fili would always love him. But Azog’s face contorted in a dark, ugly expression. He released his hold on Kili’s neck, and the dwarf coughed and wheezed, feet touching the ground in a short respite.

“And what is _this?”_ Azog’s hand closed around the tooth. He threw Kili to the ground. There was still a little strength in his shaking limbs. Kili fell heavily onto the dirt and leaves, coughing as he tried to sit up. Azog kicked him in the stomach, _hard_. A broken cry tore from Kili’s lips, rising into the spreading branches. He reached out and grabbed only fistfuls of rotting leaves, unable to move, to breathe. “We were _partners_ , Kili!” He kicked the dwarf again, Kili curling into a ball. “I – gave you – everything–” He drove his boot into Kili’s ribs and stomach with every gasp of air, the blood boiling over in hot, untempered rage. His pain at Kili’s unfaithfulness flooded out of him, and Azog didn’t even try to stem the flow. “You were a _lûk_ to me!” Kili was limp on the ground, face pressed into the earth.

It was like something had snapped in his chest, with those words. His eyes snapped open, and a hot rush seized his bruised and battered body. Although the implication had been made weeks ago, Azog had never made the comparison aloud. His _lûk._ His son. Kili rolled onto his back and forced himself to sit up, a rare snarl on his lips. He was _nobody’s_ son. He had no father – he _never_ had a father, and to think that this cruel, merciless monster could fill that gap, it left him throbbing with anger. Anger because a week ago _he wanted it._ A week ago, a day ago, Kili would have glowed with pride to hear those words spoken. Because he had never had anyone to call a father – and even though he had Thorin and Fili, and his mother and Dwalin too, it was a loss he had always felt, one that grew sharper with every reminder. But now that he knew who Azog really was, now that he was so sure that every compliment, every act of affection and kinship was only to drag Kili further under his spell, he felt _disgusted_ at himself, at Azog, at the bond they had fostered which now seemed so perverse and false.

“No.” Kili moaned. He looked up at Azog, leaning on his hands. “I’m not – I was _never._ ” Azog got down on one knee, grabbing Kili by the leather cord once more in a swift, deliberate motion. “I meant _nothing_ to you.” He finally found his voice, uttering the words which had been bursting at his throat. “S-Stop lying to me Azog. I was only ever just a toy – just a hostage!”

“Is that what you think.” There was a new tone in Azog’s voice, uncharacteristically soft and _hurt_. It was strange to hear, and Kili found it made his skin crawl more than the cold anger. “I _never_ thought you were nothing.” Kili’s hands were on his shoulders, pushing weakly at the orc. “I meant every word.”

“No – don’t _lie!”_ Kili shouted, beating his fists against Azog’s chest in a fruitless attempt to fight him off. “Just tell me the truth – just once!” He burst into sobs, infuriated, sick with guilt and horror. “ _Admit it!”_

“You want me to say I never liked you?” Azog’s lip curled in a familiar snarl. “That I thought you were nothing? That you were weak and pathetic?” He dragged Kili inwards, so close their foreheads brushed. “You want me to say you made a terrible orc?” His curled fist was under Kili’s chin, thrusting his jaw upwards. “That I didn’t consider giving you a place beside me?” His voice grew thinner; he weakened, his attack on Kili sapping the strength from his poisoned limbs. His head swam and an agonising fire licked at his stomach, one he knew had nothing to do with the anger. He was sure he was dying. _Kili had murdered him._ Azog’s trust in him as his downfall. But he was going to go down weakly – Azog had him, he had enough time to lay a final blow on his heart. Azog was going to tear his soul apart, completely, before he killed him. He was going to break Kili into pieces.

“You didn’t-”

“Oh, but I did.” Azog breathed. He knew how to make Kili howl in agony. He knew the very worst things he could say. “Every word is true. You were _perfect_ , Kili. You were loyal and fierce and cruel. You took a beating without flinching.” Kili’s bony fists crashed uselessly against him. “You killed and tortured for me. You ate man-flesh and learned our tongue. You were everything an orc-warrior should be.”

“No.” Kili tried to pull away from Azog, but the orc-king’s grip was hard and firm. “No – I’m not – _I’m not!”_ He sobbed, voice breaking into a hoarse cry. “You’re _lying.”_ He could feel Azog’s cold forehead pressed against his, the rattled, straining breath filling his ears. “ _No...”_

“You were _happy_ with us.” Azog hissed. “You were dark and twisted and you loved _every_ moment of it, Kili.” The smell of sweat and tears and ash rose, thick and acrid. Kili had stopped fighting. He hung limply from Azog’s hand, sobbing brokenly. And with a smirk, the orc released his hold, knowing he had conquered Kili completely. He stretched his long body, rising to his feet as Kili sank into the dirt, coughing and choking from his force of his crippling sobs. The stink of misery and grief hung in the air between them, Azog breathing in deeply and closing his eyes.

“Go then.” Kili’s rasping breath stilled at Azog’s words. He looked up slowly, with swollen red eyes. “Go, Kili.” Azog’s crooked smile grew. “Go back to your brother. Go back and show him who you really are. Go back to Thorin and tell him how you became an orc in all but blood.” Kili couldn’t see through his tears. He shut his eyes and groaned, fighting a wave of bile that beat against his throat. “Go back to them with grey skin and see how much they still love you.” Kili cried helplessly, Azog’s words driving like sharp nails into his heart, tearing the flesh, making him bleed. His hope and conviction, the pale encouragement that Nazarg had given him that he held close to his chest like shining jewels had been wrenched from his hands, thrown to the ground and buried in the mud and dirt. Azog had looked inside of his soul and torn out what lingering courage he could find. “Don’t you understand?” Azog’s weak voice rose, he held back an audible tremble. “Nobody forced you to kill that boy. Nobody forced you stick that goblin like a pig. I didn’t create the darkness within you.” The smile faded. “I only brought it out of hiding.”

“No.” Kili whispered. “No – I’m _not.”_ He wouldn’t – he _couldn’t_ believe that. It wasn’t _true._ The dwarf slowly lifted his head, weak arms trembling under the effort. Azog stared down at him, with no snarl or smile. His gaze was level and steady. “It’s not _true!”_ Kili begged, failing to convince either of them. “I’m not a monster – I’m _not!”_ He got up on his hands and knees, struggling to breathe. “You did this so me – _you_ – this was all you!” Kili stared down at his grey fingers. “I was never like this.” He sobbed. “I was good, I was _happy_. I never hurt anybody!” He gritted his teeth. “I-I n-never hurt anybody.” He repeated, fighting to speak through his tears. Azog took a silent step towards him, watching as Kili pressed his hands into his eyes, hyperventilating. “I – I was a _good_ person.” His voice cracked, a high, broken wail.

“I didn’t create the darkness.” Azog repeated, clenching his existing hand into a fist. His fingers felt thick and clumsy, as though he couldn’t hold on to anything. Kili shook his head, refusing to believe the orc. “This was _always_ inside you, Kili.”

“No – no it wasn’t.” Kili wouldn’t accept Azog’s cruel lies. They _weren’t true._ He’d been manipulated, brainwashed, beaten and tortured and broken to this point – he was _innocent_ , he deserved none of this. Azog had taken his heart, crushed it to a pulp and wrapped it carefully in black iron, breathing life back into it. He screamed, aloud or in his head, he did not know, twisting his fingers in his hair. The anger, the rage and pain and horror at what he had become, the stinging truth of Azog’s word had torn him to shreds.

“They will know what you did.” Azog leaned down, grabbing a handful of Kili’s tangled hair. “The elf-scum will go running to his father and they will all know what you did to him.” He dragged Kili upwards in a fading burst of strength, heaving the dwarf to his feet. “You’ll never see your brother.” Azog whispered the words, Kili holding his breath to hear them. “You will never have a chance to explain what you have done.” His torso convulsing with suppressed sobs, Kili opened his eyes. “He will think you a monster, Kili. He’ll spit on your memory.”

“No.” Kili moaned, knees weak. _No._ He realised now what Azog was doing. He was dragging Kili down, breaking his heart completely, before ending him. He was hurting Kili, mocking him, his brother, exploiting his vulnerable despair. “No!” Kili’s broken heart seized inside of him, a fire racing through his quaking limbs. _It couldn’t happen._ He looked up at the snarling orc-king, reaching into his belt as the misery bubbled over, seething in a hot rage, turning against Azog, at the one who had done this to him. “He will _not!”_

And he struck. Azog froze as Kili jerked forward, hair tearing through his fingers with a cry. The dwarf threw himself against Azog, catching him off-guard, pushing him to the ground. Winded, Azog landed heavily in the earth, only now aware of a very sharp pain beneath his ribs, contorting his lungs, making it difficult to breathe.

Kili sobbed as he pulled the knife from Azog’s side. He straddled the orc’s waist, pinning the amputated arm with his good hand, holding the writhing beast with all the strength he could muster. In that moment, in that flash of grief and shock, pain and anger and poison that enfolded the two, Kili was the stronger. Just for a single moment. He held the knife in his splinted arm, dripping with black orc-blood. His eyes met Azog’s, wide and bright, the whites shining with fear. Kili had never seen him _afraid_. He feared for his life now, pinned to the earth with the knife over him. His own vision blurring with tears, Kili thrust the knife blindly into the juncture of Azog’s neck. The orc bucked against the earth with a roar, his good arm grasping Kili’s throat in a final, desperate attempt to end him. Kili tore the knife through Azog’s tendons and arteries, tar-like blood gushing wildly over his arm.

Kili leaned on Azog, red-faced and gasping as the orc’s grip tightened around his neck. He slashed the powerful white arm, again and again, slicing through skin and muscle, the blood coating both of them as Azog held on relentlessly, a low gurgling issuing from his slashed throat. Kili tried to hold down the huge black mace, straining with every muscle to hold Azog down, keep him at bay as the blood burst from his throat. Azog’s violent thrashing slowly grew weaker and weaker, until they were little more than convulsions, reflexive twitching beneath Kili. His eyes closed, Kili kept holding Azog down, waiting for the jerking to cease, for the hand at his throat to fall lax.

And finally – _finally –_ all wasstill. The knife slipped from Kili’s shaking hand, he prised the fingers from his throat, and let Azog’s arm fall to the ground, slowly opening his eyes. The orc-king stared lifelessly at the tree-tops, mouth hanging open and slack, the blood sluggishly oozing from the gaping wound in his neck.

Azog was dead.

Kili slumped forward with a moan, his bruised chest heaving as the air returned to his lungs. He _clung_ to the lifeless body, pressing his face into the still-warm skin as he cried, exhausted, broken down and in scattered pieces on the forest floor. Kili’s cheek was pressed against Azog’s chest, unable to hear anything above his loud, heaving sobs. He didn’t hear the growl of the warg, cut off by a sudden whimper, a heavy _thud_ on the ground in the trees behind him.

 _What have I done?_ Kili’s tears leaked onto Azog’s lifeless white skin, running down in grey rivulets. He grabbed handfuls of the dead flesh, too weak to lift his own body away. Azog’s cruel words beat in his head, deafening him. _I didn’t create the darkness._ Shaking his head, Kili smeared a mixture of sweat, tears, ash and orc-blood across Azog’s skin. He was dead – he was _dead_ , and Kili had murdered him. Not a cool, removed death by poison – he drove the blade into his throat and dug the arteries out. Kili screwed up his eyes and buried his face in Azog’s chest, a desperate embrace, the sick guilt rushing in his ears. _I can’t believe it he’s dead he’s dead and I killed him._ He couldn’t even comprehend what he had done. It didn’t truly resonate with him, that the familiar white body beneath his arms had stopped breathing, forever.

He didn’t hear the gentle rustling of leaves as the wood-elf made her approach. She was too quiet for that, and Kili was too wrapped up in his overwhelming shock and grief, to hear anything else. His sobs stopped for a moment, punctuated by a sharp intake of breath.

And in that pause, Tauriel drew the arrow back to her ear, aimed at the slumped grey figure curled into the body of the orc, shaking and crying and covered with blood.


	48. Never Let Go

“Get up.”

The words cleaved through Kili’s skull like an axe. They were short, sharp words, dripping with anger, breaking through his thick haze of pain and grief. Breaking the spell.

He lifted his eyes slowly, unsure of what he might see. The ragged breath died in Kili’s throat at the sight of the notched arrow, two feet from his face. She crouched, every muscle a coiled spring in her body, a wolf ready to strike.

“Get up.” She repeated, flashing a set of straight, even white teeth. His hands still clinging to the lifeless body beneath him, Kili froze, eyes fixed on the slim arrow. “Get up and put your hands on your head.”

“Who-”

“ _I said get up!”_ She spat, hazel eyes flashing. Unable to think, Kili got onto his knees, very slowly, clasping his bloodstained hands together and resting them on his head. “Don’t move, Kili.” His stomach knotted as she used his name, the soft rustling of leaves sounding to his right, beckoning the arrival of more wild elves. “Don’t you move a _damn_ muscle.” She looked at him with a deep, violent hatred, her upturned nose wrinkled in a heavy snarl.

“Tauriel – did you find them?” Kili’s eyes darted to the side, wavering on unsteady legs. He couldn’t look at the body splayed out before him, glassy eyes staring blindly into the veiled sky.

“Yes I did.” Her scowl deepened as four more elves burst into sight, the bowstring pulled taut. They kept Kili on his knees, holding his hands behind him, binding his trembling limbs with thick rope. “Blindfold him.” She muttered, fingers itching to release the arrow, to watch the creature scream and write and cry out in pain. Kili ducked his head, catching one last glimpse of Azog’s body before the coarse green cloth came over his eyes, snagging his dark tangles as the knot was tied. He felt numb, in shock. It didn’t seem _real_ , these last few minutes in the grey dawn light. It couldn’t be real – Azog was _dead_ , he was dead and now Kili was bound and blindfolded, staring down the shaft of a deadly arrow aimed for his heart. He was forced roughly to his feet, two hands on his sticky, bloodstained, iron-bound arms.

And without another word, no curse or insult, they led him away from the corpse.

* * *

Bilbo was crouched in a low corridor beside the broad entrance chamber. He paced once in a while, getting the blood back into his stiff limbs, wringing his hands and resting his forehead against the smooth wood. Just trying to breathe.

 _Is this true?_ He still felt so unsure waiting in anxious silence for a return, a scrap of news. Could it be him? _Kili held the elf down –_ He shook his head, eyes snapping open as he pushed the words away. Thorin had refused to believe it all – he said he wouldn’t take the words of an elf, he would wait only until he heard it pass Kili’s lips himself. He said it was all gossip, that the goblin would have said anything under torture, anything the elves wanted to hear. Anything that would have shifted blame. Bilbo lifted his eyes to the ceiling, tracing the entwined carvings of leaves and flowers, snaked along the walls, trailing to the floor in thick clusters. It was beautiful.

The banging of the door drew him out of a pensive silence. Bilbo started, peering cautiously through the doorway, watching as the enchanted doors creaked open, bathing the room in a pale, watery sunlight. His mouth dry, Bilbo licked his lips as Tauriel came in first, her arm around a shaking figure with blonde, bloodstained hair. His breath died, fingers curling around the thick wooden beam. Legolas was leaning against her, his face turned towards her, begging in his mother tongue. He was white and brittle, the blood had seeped from his face and his eyes looked dark. She had her face set forward, jaw in a very hard line with her chin thrust up high. Bilbo took the hunched figure in, feeling his heart beat faster as he stared at the bloodied bandage wrapped around his head. Legolas was holding his arms oddly, he looked as though he wore thick black gloves – Bilbo squinted in the early morning light, a wave of sick nausea rising as he realised what was wrong. His broken fingers were swollen and bruised, two still sticking out at an odd angle, mottled purple and black. Bilbo clenched his own hands into fists, unable to muffle a groan of horror as he stared at the elf’s crippled hands.

It took a moment for him to realise that there were more figures entering the hall. A dozen armoured guards filtered through the open doorway in perfect unison, their swords hanging in their hands, ceremonious, gleaming perfect and unsullied. Even Bilbo’s untrained eyes could see they hadn’t seen a fight. The last pair of elves to enter the room, they had somebody with them. A small, grey figure, walking with his head bowed, coming up to the soldiers’ chests. Bilbo’s mouth fell open, he stepped into the chamber unseen, throat sealed shut in his shock and wonder.

It was _him._

Bilbo knew in a heartbeat that it was Kili. Even though his skin was smeared grey and black, even though he wore rough, orcish clothing that was lumpy and ill-fitted, even though he had something made of strange black iron strapped to his arm, and his eyes were bowed and head down, obscuring his face, Bilbo knew that it was Kili that walked in the elves’ grasp. He was so thin, so ragged and grey and _thin_ , like a disappearing shadow.

“Lock him up downstairs.” Tauriel’s barbed voice rang through the room. “Thranduil will want to see him soon – but first,” her hand clenched around Legolas’ shoulder. “I’m taking Legolas to the healing rooms. Let Thranduil know that we will-”

“ _Mellhên!”_ The tall figure burst through the waiting throng of servants, his brilliant velvet robe askew, fine blonde hair dishevelled. Thranduil pushed them all away, even Tauriel, in an effort to get to his son. Bilbo heard a muffled cry of _Ada_ , the elf-king lifting his son, squeezing the air out of him in a close embrace. “Legolas – _muin –_ oh I thought-” His face buried in the crook of the prince’s shoulder, Thranduil couldn’t speak. Bilbo drew back, watching as Tauriel signalled the guards to take Kili away, out of Thranduil’s sight, leaving the elf-king to his private reunion. Bilbo’s feet pattered anxiously along the wooden floors as he followed the guards, eyes never leaving the small grey lump for a moment. Kili was still blindfolded, shuffling awkwardly in his heavy boots, clumsy and unseeing. They passed through the reception halls, taking a minor side corridor, descending down a steep wooden staircase.

At first, Bilbo was surprised that they wanted to take Kili beneath the ground. He thought at first (with a nervous heart) that they would take him into the public halls, or worse, Thranduil’s private chambers, for the elf-king to extract his bitter vengeance. But he realised eventually that Thranduil was too clean and clever for that. He didn’t want an audience for what he was going to do. It was the sort of unpleasant punishments deserved for rooms secured with iron bars, for dark cells, steeped in secrecy. They hadn’t stopped looking for Thorin and his company – they _never_ would, Bilbo knew, but they looked in the wrong place. His distraction, leaving scattered plates and crumbs and a series of tied bedsheets hanging from the window of one of the servant’s rooms, it drew them away from the cellar. The few remaining guards had given the room a cursory look, as they did the rest of the grand Halls, but their attention was quickly drawn to Bilbo’s diversion, like a poultice drawing the poison from an infected wound.

“Will this room be enough?” One of the elves paused outside a small cell, a level above the filled cellar.

“It will do.” Bilbo swallowed as the door swung open. He reached into his pocket, feeling the scraps of metal sticking into his thigh. He was glad now, that he took them. He watched as the door was unlocked, and Kili pushed inside, still bound and blindfolded. “In there, you.” The soldier snarled, giving him an unkind shove. Kili was sent sprawling onto the ground with a cry, struggling to right himself.

“Easy.” The other elf frowned. “He’s not an _orc_ , Calan.”

“He’s good as.” Calan sneered. Bilbo held his breath, watching as the lock clicked into place. “Tauriel said she found him crying over Azog’s body.” _What?_ Bilbo bit back a cry, eyes widening. “I don’t know what else you’d call him.” He ignored the two elves as they began to bicker, tired and strained and sick of wading through the night. He paced the hallway nervously, reaching for the makeshift lockpick in his pocket, waiting for the air to fall silent.

He let out a breath as he jammed the pick into the lock, biting his tongue as he strained in concentration. He tried to remember everything Nori had told him, as he talked the hobbit through unlocking his down door. His hands trembled, slick with sweat, and he struggled to see in the dim light. Bilbo’s heart hadn’t stopped pounding, since he looked up to see Kili standing before him so broken down and small. He didn’t dare to hope that it was Kili, not until he saw the dwarf with his own eyes – but it was _true_ , Kili was on the other side of that locked door, colourless and bound and beaten – but _alive._

The door swung open with a long, low creak. Bilbo thrust the picks in his pocket and stepped inside, finding his hands cold and clammy as he looked at the dwarf, huddled on the floor. Kili didn’t try to untie the bonds at his hand or the blindfold over his eyes. He sat crumpled, a broken toy that had been carelessly tossed into the corner. Bilbo’s throat burned as he padded towards Kili, tangled locks shifting. His head rose several degrees at the sound, mouth tightening.

Bilbo couldn’t speak as he knelt down front of the dwarf, taking off the ring for just a moment. His voice was lost in his throat, he opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He looked at Kili, with his bowed head and slumped shoulders and all he wanted to do in that moment was just _hug_ him. His hands stretched out, touching the rough cloth over Kili’s eyes. He cried out, and tried to shy away from the hobbit. But as his eyes were freed and he was able to look upon Bilbo, Kili’s mouth fell open, breath tearing from his lungs in a rough gasp.

“Kili.” Bilbo smiled, fingers still touching his face, the cloth falling to the ground. He was grinning like an _idiot_ , from ear to ear as he stared at the dwarf. “You’re alive.” Kili’s head fell forward at Bilbo’s words, into the crook of his neck, his skin cold as ice. Bilbo reached for Sting, bringing the elven blade around to the ropes at Kili’s wrists. “We have to get out of here.” He whispered as the bonds fell away. He sheathed his sword, taking Kili’s hands and squeezing them tightly. “Kili, look at me.” The dwarf lifted his head slowly, eyes hazy and dull. He seemed disconnected from Bilbo, from the cell. He wondered what Kili was really looking at. There was awful black tar-like blood all over him, staining his arms, his torso, even his face. He looked like a starved, colourless shadow and Bilbo’s heart ached to look at him. “It’s going to be all right.” He tried to keep his voice calm, but the tremor slipped in. How could it _not_ , as his eyes raked over that bad copy of Kili? Bilbo knew Kili was going to be in a bad way – but he never expected it would be quite like this. “I’m taking you away.”

Kili allowed Bilbo to pull him up, leaning against the wall for a moment as he waited for the life to eek back into his shaking legs. He stumbled, every footfall a battle for him. Bilbo took his hand, the good one, fingers closing around his leatherbound wrist as he led him out of the cell and down a dark passageway. Kili walked with eyes half-lidded, Bilbo’s constant stream of soft chatter a dull buzzing in his ears. Everything was dark and shapeless. Kili closed his eyes for a moment and saw it again, Azog’s eyes widening with fear, fear at _him,_ his hands closing around Kili’s throat in an attempt to strangle him, to smother the life he had worked so hard to pull apart, blacken and destroy, before his own gave out.

Bilbo’s hand was like an anchor. It kept him from drifting away. A guide-rope, that held him close. Kili’s glove closed around the hobbit’s little palm, felling the pad of his hand under the naked tips of three fingers. Bilbo paused for a moment, casting a glance back at Kili. His eyes lowered for half a moment, faced etched with a horrible sadness. He forced the smile back on his face, but this time it looked thin and stretched.

“Come on.” Bilbo led Kili carefully down the narrow stairs, too big for the both of them. Kili kept his eyes fixed on the ground, Azog’s words not once leaving his mind. He remembered the very, very last thing that the orc-king had said, so clearly. _He will spit on your memory._ Kili bit back a wail of despair, his breath halted and he choked the cry down, shaking his head. It wasn’t true. Kili wouldn’t just a memory. He had Fili again – he was coming _home_. Home was at Fili’s side. Kili didn’t care if it was on the road, in a prison cell, or beneath a mountain. As long as he had Fili with him, Kili could be anywhere in the world and not give a damn. Nothing else mattered. He wanted to hold on to Fili and never let go.

“Everyone is already inside.” Bilbo breathed as he pushed open the unlocked cellar door. Kili let out a low, animal whimper and Bilbo looked back. He had the oddest image in his head at that moment. Kili looked like a dog, a beaten, starved, filthy dog. Anger and hatred flooded his stomach as he stared, cramping in his gut and making him feel sick. _This wasn’t Kili._ This dirty animal that stood before him, it wasn’t Kili at all. Only a broken, hollowed shell, with all the light and good drained out. He turned away, unable to look at the dwarf as he pulled him inside. He pushed Kili in the small of the back towards the corner, where a dozen barrels waited, sealed and filled.

“B-Bilbo, where-”

“Shh.” Bilbo hushed Kili, guiding him to the last remaining barrel. It was almost like carrying a child. He had to keep his motions smooth, fluid and obvious. He was a little surprised that Kili let Bilbo touch him at all. “They’re all in there.” He gestured towards the barrels. “We don’t have time. I managed to draw Thranduil away from the cellar but it won’t be long before he realises he’s been tricked, and we need to get away.” Bilbo clasped his fingers together, offering Kili a leg up. He braced his arms on the rim of the barrel, resting a heavy boot on Bilbo’s hand as he clambered inside. Kili was so _light._ Bilbo muffled his shock. He’d helped Fili into his barrel, and it was like lugging a sack of rocks. Even Ori, the smallest of the company, felt as broad and heavy as a brick wall in comparison to this feather-light creature. He was skin and bone.

“Bilbo,” Kili breathed, keeping his voice to a whisper as he stood inside the barrel. He looked Bilbo in the eye, stretching his good hand out. His own brown gaze was starting to become a little clearer, like a veil slowly being lifted from his eyes. “Did you wait for me?”

“Of course we waited.” Bilbo smiled. Not forced this time, but a real, warm smile. “We weren’t going to leave you behind Kili.” _Not again._ But he kept the second half of that quiet. Kili’s eyes lowered for a moment though, and Bilbo saw the same thought running through the dwarf’s head. He couldn’t even _begin_ to imagine how sick with betrayal Kili must have felt. This never should have happened. Everybody had messed this up – Kili for running off alone, Balin and Dwalin for jumping to such an awful conclusion, Thorin for accepting the loss so quickly, Fili for giving up without a fight. Even Bilbo could have tried harder to _just keep looking._ He felt horribly guilty now as he looked at the little scrap of Kili, skin and bone wrapped in rough animal hide. He caught the edge of Kili’s vest, beneath his throat. He wore a tooth, small and sharp, probably some sort of animal. His collarbone jutted out like two knives across his chest, the edges sticking through the black leather. Every muscle and bone in Kili’s throat was visible, a bundle of knots and ropes writhing beneath the skin.

“Put your head down.” Bilbo held the lid of the barrel. “You’re going to get knocked about sorry – but it’s the only way I could think of, on short notice. I tried to use empty wine casks for the most part, so you know at least they’ll be water-tight.” He grinned. “It seems Thranduil has a fondness for the Dorwinion drop.” It was supposed to be a joke, but it had the worst possible reaction. Kili’s face crumpled, he pressed a hand over his mouth and shook his head with a low moan. Stunned, Bilbo rushed forward. “Oh no – I didn’t mean it.” He whispered. “Are you – are you all right? What did I say?”

“Nothing.” Kili sniffed, trying so hard to hold back his tears. He remembered the child, bending down to whisper in his father with a scrap of paper in his hand. Feeling the arrow flee from the bow. The horrible screaming of the fiddler as his son died. He closed his eyes and sank to his knees, leaning against the concave wall of the barrel, wrapping his arms around his legs. He cried alone as Bilbo reluctantly fitted the barrel, leaving him in a stuffy, muffled darkness. Kili dug his face into his knees, the sobs bursting out of him with the horrible memory. Killing the child, trying to play his father’s battered fiddle, holding the knife to his own throat at Azog’s thinly veiled threat. Something had changed in him that night. Something had changed in Azog too – it was only then, when the pair truly started to work together, when Azog finally stopped treating it like a game, when Kili finally allowed himself to trust in him.

 _You fool._ Kili admonished himself, bitterly. _You stupid fool._ How could he have ever done it? How could he bring that terrible darkness into his heart? How could he allow himself to fall so far?

It wasn’t then, Kili realised quite dully, sitting alone in the muffled barrel as Bilbo started to lower the trapdoor. That night was only the last in a long chain, a descent that took Kili to the bottom. It had started a long time before then.

* * *

The sun was lowering in the sky.

Bilbo coughed as his head burst above the surface, battered, bruised, and _extremely_ cold. He’d clung for hours onto this barrel, fingers soft and spongy and white. He would have lost his grip before, but the cold seemed to lock his hands into place, as though frozen. They were cramped and stiff but he would not let go.

He didn’t realise quite how violent the River Running really was. The current was swift and strong, winding through tall cliffs of rock, forking through boulders that almost shattered a barrel once or twice. His only grace was that at least it meant they were travelling far from Thranduil’s Hall. The forest gave way after an hour or so to low bushes, open plains scattered with the very rare handful of sheep, the occasional bent tree thrusting gnarled branches into the sky.

The Lonely Mountain frowned down on him. It left Bilbo breathless, when he first saw it. It seemed that after Mirkwood, after Thranduil and their imprisonment, after the shock of Kili, Bilbo had forgotten about their quest almost entirely. It was like a jolt down his spine when he saw it, not as a distant snow-capped peak, but a vast mountain, wide and tall and impossible. Bilbo shivered when he saw it, not entirely sure if it was the cold that sent his limbs quaking.

As the afternoon wore on, Bilbo started looking for a place to stop. His plan was only half-thought out – he realised now, with a horrible dropping of his stomach, that he didn’t exactly know just how he was going to get everybody out. He wasn’t sure just how well the dwarves could swim, and he had the suspicion that after a day of being pushed, buffeted, and half-drowned by the barrels, the last thing any of them would want to do was to paddle awkwardly to shore. But the river finally widened as the sun began to cast long, evening shadows, and Bilbo knew he wouldn’t last the night submerged in the water. The left side of the river was edged by a low cliff, ten or so feet in height and dotted with trees, but there was a stony bank on the right side, water lapping calmly at the shore. Thirteen barrels – _thirteen_ – bobbed along in the slowing water, and Bilbo knew it was now or never.

“Hello?” He knocked on the barrel beneath him, not quite remembering exactly who was inside. “Who’s there?”

“Bilbo?” The voice was weak and muffled and he wasn’t sure who it was. It took a moment to prise off the lid. Bilbo looked in to see a very miserable Dwalin glaring up at him, folded awkwardly in the bottom of the barrel.

“Dwalin.” The dwarf nodded silently, taking in great gulps of fresh, cool air. “You have to help me, we’re still in the river.” He offered his hand, but Dwalin stood up of his own accord, legs cramped and trembling. He looked around him with wide eyes. “I didn’t think through the last part – we need to get everybody to shore while there’s an easy bank.”

“Aye.” Dwalin groaned, rolling his neck. “Give me a mo.” He stretched his arms out, trying to get the blood moving in his lungs.  “You all right?” He looked around, and for the first time Bilbo remembered that he still wore his ring.

“Sorry.” He took it off for a moment. “I don’t want to put it in my pocket.” Bilbo bit his lip. “I’m afraid it will fall...”

“Leave it on.” Dwalin grunted. “D’we get them open first, or just take them to shore?”

“Knock on them.” Bilbo said. “If they call out then get them to help – but I imagine a few of the older dwarves won’t be up for swimming.”

“Aye.” And taking in a breath of air, bracing himself for the cold sting, Dwalin plunged into the water.

It didn’t take long, in the end. Dwalin was a strong swimmer, and Bilbo found Ori and Fili yelling back at him when he knocked on the wood. The barrels only needed a good, firm push, and they drifted towards the bank. From there, the dwarves and Bilbo were able to wade to shore, Dwalin scooping a barrel under each arm. Finally, ten barrels dotted the stony bank, and Bilbo showed the sodden dwarves how to quickly break the seal of the lids by banging on the edge, getting a stone or stick under the lip to wedge it open.

Fili trailed a stream of water as he staggered along the stones. His boots were gone, and he winced as the rocks cut into his feet, soft and spongy from the water. He walked to the end first, working to free the last dwarf from his tight wooden prison. His fingers shook and he shivered with the cold, but Fili didn’t stop. He was simply happy to be _free_ , to breathe the fresh outside air for the first time in weeks, to look up and see the sky rather than a low wooden ceiling or a spreading net of trees. It had been far too long, since he saw the sky. Fili was practically smiling as he opened the first barrel, and peered inside.

“C’mon, Oin!” He offered the grey dwarf his hand. Oin muttered something quite unpleasant under his breath about barrels and hobbits and where he would jam his walking staff if he still had it. But he took Fili’s hand and clambered out of the lopsided barrel. He lay down on the rocks with his face turned to the sky, a hand over his eyes as he groaned. His joints ached, his head swam, he’d almost suffocated and he thought he was going to be sick. Oh, to be young again. He opened an eye, watching as Fili almost sauntered seven feet, where the next barrel waited.

“Hello?” Fili knocked on the wood before jamming the heel of his hand against it. “It’s me – Fili. We’ll have you out in a moment.” He paused, but there was no response on the other side. They were probably like Oin, old and groaning and unable to move or talk. Fili got the edge of a flat stone underneath the rim of the lid, and with a grunt, pulled it free. “Hi?” He ducked his head, trying to get a look at the dwarf locked inside.

Fili froze. It _wasn’t_ a dwarf at all. It was something small and grey, dressed in coarse black leather, with large, clumsy clasps of black iron. Arms like sticks flashed in the muffled light. Fili’s forehead creased in a frown, and he ducked his head in the barrel, trying to get a better look at the creature. It was honestly the strangest thing he’d ever seen – it looked like an _orc_ , with those grey limbs. The tangled mop of hair, falling over thin shoulders, shifted. Fili recoiled a little as the creature lifted his head, gripping the stone with the vague idea of using it as some sort of weapon.

He caught a flash of brown eyes.

The stone dropped from Fili’s hand, the world spun and his heart stopped beating as he looked into the creature’s face, into those wide brown eyes and he knew he _knew_ he knew in a heartbeat. There was the odd, keening sound of a dying animal coming from somewhere – it was _him,_ it was Fili, as he crouched before the barrel, gripping the edge and staring inside. Everything else stopped, the world grew dark and the talking around Fili was low and indistinct. He shook his head, his brain thick and slow. _It was impossible._ He gasped for air, nails scratching along the wood as his shoulders fell slack.

_Kili._

It was an explosion in his chest, bursting out of Fili in a cry. A cry that everybody heard, that sent those free dwarves rushing towards him. Fili was frozen, crouched before the open barrel, unable to move, to breathe, to _think._ It wasn’t true – _how was this true?_ Their eyes had locked, brown and blue, neither moving, neither daring to believe the sight before them. Fili’s clumsy arms fell, disconnected, not his own, and he stretched them out towards his brother, shaking from head to foot.

It was him _it was him it was him_ Kili crawled on his hands and knees and buried his face in the crook of Fili’s shoulder. Fili wrapped his arms around that skinny body, ribs pushing against his skin, with every ounce of strength he could muster. His lips were in Kili’s hair, his tangled, dirty hair, he breathed in and smelled _Kili_ , beneath the acrid stench of ash and sweat and orc-blood _he smelled Kili_ and Fili knew it was real.

He fell against the rocks, landing with a heavy blow that knocked the air out of him. Fili didn't even notice – he could have been hanging upside-down, a hundred feet in the air and he wouldn’t have spared a thought. He hugged Kili close to him, breathing in, breathing in his smell and listening to that soft little voice he thought was gone forever. Awful, animal sounds came from his mouth, a disjointed babble of broken words that didn’t feel like his own. Fili didn’t notice them at all. _He had Kili he had Kili._ It was real – the body in his arms moved and breathed, _his brother was alive._

How many nights had Fili lain awake, and wished for this moment? How many tearful prayers had been wrenched from his throat? How many times had he begged Mahal to bring his brother back, to take Fili instead, to give him back his life and soul? How long had Fili wandered in darkness and despair, with half of his heart missing, with the light inside of him snuffed out? How long had he nursed that horrific pain, that slow-healing wound that bled inside of him and poisoned his mind, which crippled him and left him bitter and angry and dark? He pressed his lips against Kili's scalp, again and again and again, getting hair in his nose as he felt that bony little chest quake and shudder in his arms.

Kili had only one thought in his mind and that thought was Fili. He was in Fili’s arms, he was _safe_ and warm and nothing else could ever touch him again. Azog’s voice vanished, the memories and darkness and cold, it all vanished for a delicious moment, inside Fili’s shaking embrace. Inside his big strong arms, as sturdy and solid as stone, wrapped around him, crushing him, protecting him. He wrapped his thin arms around Fili’s neck, twisting his fingers in those familiar blonde curls, feeling them spill over his hands, as soft and wild as ever. His nose thrust firmly in the juncture of Fili’s neck, Kili’s breath came out of him in great, heaving sobs, the last of his tears were wrung out of him, leaking along Fili’s throat.

“Fee.” And that small, childish voice, the one he hadn’t heard in months, the one he thought he would never ever hear again, sounded against his neck, in a juvenile nickname Kili hadn’t used in decades. Fili’s heart _broke_ , with a horrible crashing in his chest, he collapsed in a moan against the rock, Kili in his arms. He didn’t know if he was sitting up or lying down or in the water. He held onto Kili, his Kili, their legs tangling together. He held on to his dreams, his wildest, most desperate hopes, terrified that if he let go, even for a moment, his brother would slip away.

“You’re here.” He sobbed, wrapped in the euphoric joy that Kili was _here,_ alive and whole, in his arms. He couldn’t think about how very thin and filthy Kili was, how his skin was mottled grey and black, how there was a scar on his cheek and his arm was wrapped in iron. That all fell away. Fili peeled it back and held what was underneath – the heart and soul that he had lost three months before, when he woke up to find the bed beside him cold and empty. Kili lived and breathed, the impossible had happened, Fili’s most desperate and anguished dreams had somehow, miraculously come _true._

He would never let go again.


	49. Cursed Tongue

Ori couldn’t move. He couldn’t speak. He simply stood there, his hands balled into fists at his side, his breath a ragged quiver, soft and shallow in his throat. He blinked his stinging eyes, feeling the tears gathering on his long lashes.

_This can’t be true._

It was a secret, almost guilty hope that he had nursed inside himself, wearing down as the days turned to weeks and to months like an iron file on soft limestone. He kept his mouth shut and head down, reluctant to tarnish Thorin and Fili’s grief with his foolish optimism. Ori knew he hung on to that hope alone, and even he let go, in the end.

But he was _right._

There was no smug pride to be had in Ori’s secret victory. He didn’t feel triumphant as he stared down at Kili, so thin and grey and desperate, sobbing helplessly in Fili’s arms and refusing to let go. He felt cold, sick, and achingly sad. His racing heart, beating so hot and alive in him, a raw hunk of red-hot iron in his chest, was plunged into water, left to harden and cool. His memories of Kili were warm and bright, of smiles and laughter and silly pranks. Ori getting pelted with unripe apples as he passed beneath a forest canopy, unsuspecting. Waking up to find Kili trying to balance a coin on his nose. Losing his quill and finding it threaded in Kili’s hair. Kili drinking too much in Bag End and growing sleepy, resting his head on Ori’s shoulder because Fili was summoned to sit at Thorin’s side. Funny, stupid, beautiful Kili, leaving Ori’s chest tight and face red. It was impossible _not_ to fall in love with him. But this – he couldn’t reconcile those fond memories with this.

“Oh, Ori.” Dori came up behind his youngest brother, squeezing his shoulder tightly. Ori didn’t move or flinch at Dori’s touch, eyes trained on Kili’s quivering body, trying to make sense of what he saw. “You all right?”

“I’m fine.” His voice was a stiff whisper. Ori bit his lip and felt the tears spill over and he was _not_ fine. He wanted to sink to his knees. He wanted to scream. He wanted to rush forward and hold Kili in his arms. He wanted to kiss him, to carry him into the water and hold him tight until all of that awful grey stuff came off. He wanted to look into those big brown eyes and breathe Kili in. He wanted do hold Kili’s hands and swear his life to him, just how warriors in love would in his stories. Ori knew he couldn’t ever go back to simply looking in from afar, disguising his love as friendly camaraderie and nothing more. Not when he had lost him.

He couldn’t think about what this meant now. He couldn’t think about how Thorin’s paper-thin tolerance of him would tear and break, now that Kili was back. It was barely acceptable when he was in love with somebody dead – but now, _now_ , he wouldn’t allow any of it. Ori would have only the barest half-chance and the moment Thorin caught him, a look, a touch, a whisper of anything that bordered on the unnatural, he wouldn’t show an ounce of mercy. Ori gritted his teeth and tried to push it all back. He wouldn’t be allowed _near_ Kili, wouldn’t have a moment alone with him. He remembered bathing in the warm, shallow eddy of the river beneath the Carrock. Kili wrestled with him, trying to hold him underwater for laughs. Ori’s heart tightened in the realisation that he would _never_ have that closeness again. Kili may as well be dead to him.

It was his stupid, over-analytical mind. Ori _hated_ himself then, for jumping immediately to the worst conclusion, realising what this meant for him and how ruined his life had become, rather than allowing himself a singular moment of happiness. _Why wasn’t he just allowed to be happy?_ The sun was low and red, the sky lit with fire. Orange and red flared above them, stretching to a dull pink. Vaguely Ori tried to remember the proverb. Was a red sky at night a good or a bad omen? He shifted his gaze, watching Bilbo pull Thorin out of the remaining barrel. He straightened, and as his eyes fixed on Fili and Kili, he didn’t cry out in shock or sink to his knees or do anything that Ori expected. He simply closed his eyes for a moment, a smile trembling on his lips. Bilbo leaned in, whispered something in Thorin’s ear, and the smile faded. His expression grew dark and clouded. Ori remembered how Bilbo had pulled Thorin away from him, how he returned a few minutes later with red eyes and Bilbo had to speak for him, because he uttered only a word and his voice broke. He knew then. He knew before everybody, and he kept it quiet.

Ori looked away quickly, turning towards his brother and forcing a smile. He tried to keep a brave face, tried to hide the fact that his heart was breaking and he was absolutely terrified of what was going to happen. But Dori knew, he knew _everything_ and he didn’t say a word. He only wrapped his brother in a tight hug, murmuring in his ear that everything would be all right, neither of them believing it.

“Look at me.” Fili breathed, lifting his face away. He threaded his fingers through Kili’s hair and cupped his thin jaw, brushing the soft bristles with his palms. He wiped Kili’s tears with his thumbs, smearing fragments of ash away from his cheeks. Beneath the grey, the skin flushed pink and warm. He pressed his lips against Kili’s forehead, trying to control his breathing. Kili rested one hand against Fili’s collarbone in a balled fist, the other still tangled in his hair. “Oh Kili.” Fili’s voice trembled and he knew it would be a _long_ time before the tears dried out. He couldn’t bring himself to say anything else. He didn’t need to utter another word. Kili looked into his eyes and read everything, the inexplicable joy and relief and overwhelming shock, leaking down his cheeks. Fili kissed his brother’s eyes, each in turn, feeling Kili’s dark lashes brush against his lips. He stopped squeezing the life out of Kili; now he held him carefully, head in his hands like a thin crystal bowl that could shatter beneath his touch.

“I’m all right.” Kili whispered in a voice so strained and agonised, it sent a fresh knife of guilt and grief slashing through Fili’s chest. It was rough and hoarse, it didn’t sound like his own. Kili spoke slowly, as though he had to think about each word before he uttered it. They sat half in the river, the cold water lapping around their thighs, soaking Fili’s cloth pants. Kili’s leather trousers were sturdy and thick and didn’t let the water in. “I’m all right Fili.” He repeated, neither of them knowing quite who Kili was trying to convince. Twin gazes, brown and blue and wet, refused to shift for a moment, scouring their faces, eyes, for hints and clues about what the last three months held for each other. Kili noticed Fili’s cheekbones were just a touch more prominent than they used to be, his eyes looked a deeper shade of blue, his moustache was gone, the hair on his chin perhaps half an inch long, coarse and unkempt. Kili’s loss had hit Fili sharper than he ever could have realised. He looked at his brother, so messy and falling-apart and haunted and knew the last three months had been a hellish nightmare for Fili too.

 Fili saw the scar that ran down Kili’s cheek, a deliberate, methodical cut with what had to be a knife, straight and even. He saw the grey and black clinging to his skin, streaked and smudged and smeared from sweat and tears. He saw the hollows in Kili’s face, the angular jaw that looked sharper than ever. But what rocked him most of all was Kili’s eyes. They weren’t just darker than they used to be; they looked dead, two deep pits that light could not touch. There was no lingering softness there, no brightness or warmth. He knew Kili would never be able to express just what horrors he had suffered through, imprisoned and alone at the hands of such merciless brutality. They would have remained there for hours if they could, staring wordlessly into each other’s eyes, just breathing in and smelling and seeing and hearing something lost until the world turned to night around them. But Dwalin intruded, he had to, kneeling beside Fili with his stone facade crumbling, falling to pieces in the rocks around them.

“Lads.” And Kili looked up into the face of the one he called _Adad_ as a child, who he idolised and clung to, who taught him how to hold a sword and brought him on his first patrol, who ruffled his hair and said he was a cheeky little imp, who carried him on his shoulders and showed him how to build a fire with two sticks, who sat quietly and listened whenever Kili was angry and frustrated about his brother and uncle, who held him close the night of Fili’s eightieth birthday and admitted that while Thorin refused to play obvious favourites and claimed to love them both equally, there was no question who Dwalin treasured most out of every dwarrow in Ered Luin.

The closest thing he ever had to a father.

And Kili felt _embarrassed._ He ducked his head into Fili’s shoulder with a moan, hiding his face, curling his arms against Fili’s chest so Dwalin couldn’t see how grey his arms had become. He hid from Dwalin, ashamed to be seen like this, so black and broken and ugly. Fili murmured in his hair, tried to get him to come out, but Kili refused, gritting his teeth and trying so hard not to audibly cry.

“S’all right, Kili.” Dwalin muttered gruffly, shuffling a little so only Fili and Kili could look at his face. He reached out and grasped Kili’s shoulder in his great broad hand, fingers swamping the protruding bones. “It’s only me.” He knew in a moment what plagued Kili. Fili knew as well, giving Dwalin a brief glance, a hopeless shrug of his shoulders. He didn’t know what to do.

“He’s just scared.” Fili breathed, as though his brother was a turtle retreating into his shell. “This is-” He broke off, shaking his head as he realised how utterly useless the words had become. Dwalin knew in his heart. He didn’t need it read out to him. Kili’s shaking hand reached out, awkwardly snaking around Filis shoulder and grasping Dwalin’s arm. He kept his face hidden, but Kili held on tightly, fingers digging in as he bit back his hot, bitter shame. “Help me get him up.” Fili realised, like being pulled out of a dream, that the sun had died in the sky, plunging the bank in cool shadows as sunset faded into twilight. He was shivering, saturated from the waist down in the cold river-water. They stood up slowly, Dwalin taking Kili while Fili struggled to get the feeling back into his cramped legs. Kili tried to pull away and turn back to his brother, but Dwalin held fast, his grip like iron around Kili’s arms. He looked up briefly, hair falling into his eyes, at the weak, trembling smile on Dwalin’s face, threatening to dissolve.

“I’m sorry.” Kili whispered, like a little boy who had been caught stealing from the pantry. Dwalin wrapped an arm around his shoulder, drawing him in close. Kili leaned into the touch, resting his cheek against Dwalin’s chest and feeling the warrior’s heart thud within him. He didn’t know _why_ he apologised. It was a raw, childish instinct of his, to say sorry when Dwalin looked upset. His words had a profound effect; Dwalin pressed his nose against the top of Kili’s head, his heart began to race and Kili could feel his breathing come out harsh and quick and ragged. Fili threaded his fingers through Kili’s, their palms touching.

“Don’t be sorry.” Dwalin whispered, brimming with guilt. _He_ should be sorry. Self-loathing and anger rose within him with every passing moment, a flood. _How could this have happened?_ He recounted everything in his mind, that dismal little camp, finding Kili’s things, the orcs that they had slain. _How did we make such a horrible mistake?_ He pushed it down, lifting his head and pretending that his eyes weren’t red. “Go on.” He pushed Kili in the small of the back, onto the stony bank where the rest of the company stood in clusters, some whispering, a couple beaming, most staring in silent, open-mouthed shock. Kili stood with his hand clasped tightly in Fili’s, the water lapping at his boots, painfully aware of how thin and dirty and ragged he really looked to them all. He felt their eyes burning into him, tearing him apart and breaking him down he pressed his face into Fili’s shoulder.

“Make them go away.” His voice was muffled, but half of them caught it. Fili carefully wrapped his arm around Kili’s waist, holding him close. “Please-”

“Dwalin.” Fili begged, not knowing what to do. Kili was shivering in his grasp, forehead resting against his collarbone. “There’s too many people – he’s starting to panic.” It was like caring for a scared fawn. “He’s not ready yet.”

“No worry, laddie.” Dwalin turned away from the brothers, giving everybody a shrug. “We need to keep moving.” He tried to be calm and diplomatic, tried to keep his voice even. “Thorin, Bilbo, what’s next?”

“We need to get under cover, for a start.” The oddest thing started happening, when Thorin spoke. Kili went rigid, as stiff as a board in Fili’s arms. “Our best hope is Lake-Town. We’ll camp here tonight and follow the river in the morning. It can’t be more than two days’ march, if memory serves me well.” Kili’s nails bit into Fili’s palm, and the blonde was sure he felt his sharp jaw clench against his chest.  “It’s an easy walk, mostly plains and pastures.”

“Aye.” Balin nodded silently, rifling through his memories of a long-abandoned landscape. He shot Dwalin a glance, low and dark. He had different thoughts in his mind to his brother. Once the shock had died down, Balin’s first thought was dreadfully pragmatic. _How did Kili live for so long?_ He turned his gaze back to Thorin, finding none of the same thoughts in his brother’s face. His king stood tall, with his chin held high, but his eyes were dark and shadowed, his gaze always drifting back to Kili. There was something strange going on, an odd uncertainty in the way Thorin looked at his nephew. Why had Thorin not rushed for Kili, the way Dwalin had? Why did he linger behind? Why did he look so positively _sick_ and afraid?

“Go on ahead.” Fili frowned down at his brother, feeling the anger coming from him in waves. He was so _tight_ and tense and he didn’t understand it. What made Kili do this? He could read his brother like an open book but this was a mystery to him, his anger written in a language he could not read. “We’ll catch up.” He looked downward and waited for the rest to leave, waited for the tense silence to break into a nervous babble, for it to fade and die down. They all left, following Balin, across the stony bank and into the trees. Fili looked up for a moment and saw that Dori had to pull his youngest brother by the hand, Ori looking back at Kili with the most _heartbroken_ look on his face. Fili’s heart clenched in realisation, that Ori’s precarious attachment to the company, already in tatters, hung on a thread that threatened to snap under the weight at any moment. He turned away from Ori, shaking his head. He couldn’t think about it now.

Soon the bank was nearly abandoned. Only three souls remained on the jagged stones; Fili and Kili, locked in their tight embrace, and Thorin, staring at the ground as his fingers instinctively twitched at his side. Bilbo’s words echoed in his mind, one of the other, louder and louder, the last whispered statement screaming in his head. _They found him crying over Azog’s body._ Something dark and uncertain grew within Thorin, it sickened him and made him feel _afraid_ , just to look in his nephew’s direction. Anger and darkness lingered just beneath the surface, secrets that Thorin needed to draw out, while the wound was still open, while the memories were fresh. He needed to know what had happened between Azog and Kili.

“Kili.” Unable to bear the silence a moment longer, safe in his solitude, Thorin stepped forward, flooded with questions. The young dwarf broke away from Fili, and he caught a flash of Kili’s brown eyes, dark and cold and _hard_ in anger. His heart seized in his throat, Fili stretched out, but Kili had already burst away. He bent down, hands closing around a sharp stone. “Kili, I-I’m so-”

Thorin broke off with a cry as the stone flew from Kili’s hand. The throw was hard, sharp and accurate, with an archer’s precision. He reeled back, holding a hand to his throbbing temple where Kili had struck him. Bright blue eyes flashed; Thorin opened his mouth to speak but before he uttered a word, Kili was reaching for another stone, _screaming._

“How _could_ you!” From the moment he heard Thorin’s voice, he stiffened with anger and rage and hatred, everything that he’d forced aside and bottled up for weeks, for _months_ , the pressure grew and grew until he heard Thorin’s voice and it exploded. It burst out of him in a violent, misdirected rush. Fili’s shock and horror, the agony in his voice, Dwalin’s masked tears, the muted, judgmental silence of the company, his humiliation and pain and terror became bound up in a knotted bundle of anger, anger he threw at the only person he could. The person who left him to die. The person who swore to love and protect him yet thought him worthless. The person who was responsible for _all of this_ , who knew very well he was in the wrong and stood back while Fili and Dwalin poured their love and grief on to him. He threw another stone, and another, before Fili got his arms around Kili, pinning the thin body to his chest. “You _left_ me! You left me to _die!”_

“Kili-”

“You _left me!”_ Kili’s voice rose into a violet sky, his eyes black in the shadows. The exiled king froze, a choked gasp coming out as Kili screamed at him, writhing desperately in Fili’s hold. “You’re supposed to _gakhut_ – to _protect_ me and you left me to die!” The Black Speech fell from his mouth like a stone, landing between Thorin and Kili on the jagged rocks.

“Kili – calm down–” Fili grunted, elbowed sharply in his side. “It’s not–”

“How could _ut narfiklab_ Thorin!” His voice carried across the bank and into the trees; they all stopped and listened, Dwalin slowly shaking his head. _How could you leave me._ Kili’s Westron was slowly falling apart, as the rage filled him and he reached for the language that came first to his mind. “I thought you loved me – I thought – I thought you would have _cared_ enough to _laazg_!”

“Kili,” Thorin breathed, but his thin voice was drowned out by the shouting. He stared helplessly, feeling sick with the horror and guilt, taking every word Kili said like a blow with an iron hammer, frail and defenceless.

“Do you know what they _did_ to me?” Kili’s throat was raw; air gasped from his lungs and his head throbbed. Every nerve felt as though it was on fire. “How much they _lagut_?” Thorin took a step towards Kili, silent, face vague and dim in the grey light. Fili pressed his nose into Kili’s shoulder, clinging desperately as wave after wave of agony crashed into his heart. “I was _tortured_ Thorin!” Kili’s voice broke into a sob. “ _How could you do this to me?”_

“KIli please, I never–”

“What did I do?” Kili was crying now, so bitter and cold and _angry_ at Thorin. The hatred and rage gushed from his eyes. “What did I do to deserve this?” Thorin took another step forward in the gloom, as though he could soothe this. “Why did you _âdhnut!_ ”

 “I don’t know what you mean–”

“ _You abandoned me!”_ Kili tensed up as the anger burned fresh inside of him, enraged at Thorin’s supposed ignorance, his pretentions of innocence. He wanted to hit him, wanted to make him bleed and cry out, for what he had done. “You _never came for me!”_

“Kili, I don’t know what you want me to say,” Thorin begged his nephew to remain calm. Kili’s eyes were dark and dangerous in the dying light, sending his heart racing with a thrust of fear. “I didn’t _know_ , if I knew I swear to Mahal I would have done anything–”

“Don’t _lie_ to me you _skrithûrz zuzar!_ ” Fili let out a gasp, but he didn’t let go, fingers interlocked around Kili’s torso, arms still pinned. They all knew it must have been a terrible insult. Teen feet away, Thorin looked as though he had been struck in the chest; his face sagged in physical pain, he clutched a hand over his heart and shook his head as his limbs trembled. “ _Mokut lat!” I hate you._ “ _Nargzabut lat matûrz!”_ He screamed he wished Thorin dead. Kili’s voice was smoother, louder in the Black Speech. He didn’t falter over his words, the way he did in Westron. Fili couldn’t hold on for much longer; his arms shook, he tried and failed to muffle the sobs against Kili’s shoulder. Thorin straightened, his sagging, miserable features hardened in the twilight. “ _Sulstaaz grishûrz! Gâdhûmûrz dâgalûr!_ ” He hurled every insult he could think at Thorin, he called him a demon and a bastard, weak-hearted, foul and cruel. “ _Snaaghûn_ _horngaz!”_  Thorin had had enough; he closed the gap between him and his nephew. Fili dug in with his nails, every word from Kili’s mouth sticking like a knife into his heart.

“Kili _stop this!”_ He gripped Kili’s shoulders as he paused to take in a breath, screaming louder than Kili had ever heard him before. He looked at the shadow in the dying light, Kili’s black eyes in a smeared grey face. His lips were pulled back in a snarl, teeth looking very white and sharp in his grey face. He looked like a beast. Thorin stared open-mouthed, shaking violently. Both of them had fallen silent; the only sound came from Fili, crying with sick horror at the monster he held in his arms. Kili’s snarl deepened, fixing Thorin with a black, smouldering stare.

“ _Narlat kranklok._ ” His words were low and venemous. Kili didn’t regret them as they fell from his mouth. It was the worst the _worst_ thing he could have possibly said to Thorin and he didn’t regret it in the heat of his violent, bitter anger.

_You’re not my uncle._


	50. A Bed of Stone

She stood with her back to the bed, facing outwards. A blood-red sunset left the treetops shimmering orange and gold. Brilliant clouds of spun bronze and copper arched across the sky, gleaming in a final burst of flame before dying out. Tauriel didn’t look at any of it. Her eyes were fixed on the knife in her hand. A notched blade six inches long, well-tempered and sharp, encased in a handle of bone. It was clearly of orcish make; an odd mark was carved into the polished bone, too rough and crude to be a dwarvish rune. The knife was coated with dried black blood, that flaked off in her hands as she touched it. Tauriel turned the blade over and over in her slender fingers, frowning down at the bloodstained metal.

The more she thought about it, the further her original thoughts unravelled. She had seen Legolas running, he crashed into her, collapsing with a gasp and stuttering that he was being chased. As she shot the warg, all Tauriel heard was a gasp, a broken cry dissolving into tears. She assumed at first that _Legolas_ had killed the orc-king, that Kili, holding him and covered in his blood, had tried to bring life back to the corpse, had mourned his death. It was only as they laid Legolas out on the bed and held him down, forcing him to drink a heavy potion that made his speech slur and eyes lower, that she realised with an awful shock that there was no way that Legolas could have held the knife in his broken, crippled hands.

She pressed her thumb against the notched blade, fragments of black marring her fair skin. Tauriel ran downstairs afterwards, pushing past everybody in a rush to get to the marked dwarf with the grey skin. She thought the cell would be guarded. She thought they wouldn’t be stupid enough to leave him, after the other twelve had apparently escaped. The lock was picked, the door hung open, and Kili was _nowhere_ to be seen. She had cursed loudly, alone in the empty dungeon where nobody could hear her, fist thudding against the wooden wall.

Four soldiers came in the late afternoon, as the sky turned the colour of butter and sunlight gleamed through the open window. Thranduil was beyond speaking; they bowed and talked to her, instead. They had found a campsite, twenty-five miles to the south. Thirty-one goblins lay dead, without knife or arrow wound. Some had tried to crawl away, but most looked as though they died in their sleep, or just above it, faces contorted in pain, limbs twisted and gleaming with sweat. The soldiers suspected poison. The warg-pen had been broken open, and dozens of elves had been dispatched to hunt the beasts down and burn the bodies to ash. There was no sign of the dwarves. Tauriel listened to everything in silence, and as they left, she turned their words over and over in her mind, as she turned the blade in her hand.

Kili had done it. Tauriel turned her face to the side, taking in a short glance. Legolas rested in a heavy, deep sleep, hands at his side, carefully splinted and bandaged. His head was wrapped in soft cloth, the mutilation of his ears hidden from view. Nobody realised what those bloodstained bandages held at first. They laid him out, the healers, made him sleep before pulling the rags aside. They expected to find a head wound, a bleeding temple. But the ears, the clipped, rounded ears, it made them all draw back. Thranduil _screamed_ , throwing himself on the bed beside his son. They had to pull him back, press a cup of potent wine against his lips as the elf-king sobbed and moaned in shock. His breakdown was raw and primal; Tauriel ached to see him, to hear those awful sounds. She tried to turn away and cover her gaze, but at the same time, she was drawn to it. She watched in horror, unable to tear her eyes from those blunted ears.

Thranduil sat beside the bed on a low stool. He rested his head on the pillow, one hand stroking the soft blonde locks, the other wrapped around his son’s wrist. The three were alone in the room, father and son and closest friend, in a deep, sunken silence. Afternoon waned into evening and still neither of them could speak. Tauriel paced, from the bed to the window and back again, fidgeting, toying with the knife, with a loose thread on her skirt, the clasps on her leather vest. Her hands couldn’t stay still and her feet itched, longing to keep moving. She felt better when she moved, somehow. Sitting in one place, letting the blood pool in her hands and feet, it left her restless and tense, her flesh congealed with disuse.

But Thranduil, he didn’t move. As soon as the healers had done the best they could, he crouched beside his only child, wrapped in a warm, drugged sleep, eyes shadowed with grey in a bone-white face. If he was hungry, thirsty, tired or cold, Tauriel didn’t know it. He remained, still and white as though carved from marble. The only motion he made was the flickering of his eyes, from Legolas’ deft hands to his still white face, and the steady rising and falling of his shoulders. The only sound that came from him was an occasional long breath, punctuated with an agonized groan, as though he suffered his own heavy wound, deep within his chest.

The fire died in the sky. Tauriel turned towards the bed, soft leather shoes brushing the floorboards. She set the knife down on a spindly table beside the bed, getting down on her knees and closing her fingers around elf-prince’s free wrist. She rested her chin on his shoulder, and across the bed, a pair of brilliant blue eyes shifted from the splinted hands to her hazel eyes, seeming grey in the approaching night.

She opened her mouth after a long time, her jaw digging into Legolas’ collarbone. She longed to say _something,_ to offer even just one word of pale, soft comfort to the tortured soul who sat across from her. Propriety had been left at the door; they were almost equals here, standing shoulder-to-shoulder in grief and shock and bitter, overwhelming anger. She couldn’t say that Legolas would be all right. She didn’t know that. His hands, he could have lost the use of them forever. He could have had his hearing damaged somehow. She didn’t know anything. But she took in a breath, uttering the one thing she _did_ know in the fading light.

“Legolas didn’t kill Azog.” Thranduil’s face didn’t change, as she spoke. “Kili did. Legolas couldn’t have held a knife with – with those hands.” His eyes cut into her, two blue stones that pierced her heart. “I think he killed the goblins, too.” He remained silent for some moments, before those finely cut lips parted, moving a fraction before he spoke.

“Does it matter?” His voice was lifeless, as stiff and stone-like as him, sitting like a marble figure beside the bed. It was utterly meaningless to him, at that moment, who killed Azog. He was dead; the foul monster who did this was dead. His retinue was dead and almost all responsible had lost their lives. Only one had slipped through their fingers, vanishing with his kin into the forest. Thranduil’s face was set, hard and cold. It struck like a flint inside of her, and she realised with horrible thump that Thranduil had already set his sights on the dwarves – without orcs to pursue, he would exact revenge for his son on the ones who lured the creatures within his domain.

“No.” Her eyes lowered to Legolas’ face, brow creasing in some deep, forbidden nightmare. The only answers lay inside Legolas’ head, and it remained to be seen if Legolas would lock the secrets away, refusing to let anybody in, or if he would stand aside and fling the door open. “It doesn’t matter at all.”

* * *

“Balin, Dwalin.” Everybody looked up as Thorin burst into the little wooded clearing, his face a thundercloud. They all crouched on the ground in uncomfortable clusters, the joy at their reunion dampened by the horrible screaming that came from the stone bank. Kili’s hoarse voice, crying out in that awful black tongue, it had left them all blank, white and silent. A cheerless fire flickered in a meagre bed of damp kindling, but only a few attempted to warm themselves beside it. “Come with me.” Thorin didn’t pause and offer anybody a glimpse of his brittle expression, threatening to crack at any moment like a thin china plate. He marched straight through heedlessly, eyes fixed on the lopsided tree-trunks before him. The brothers, bowed and weary, gave each other a look, a momentary flash of muted resignation before rising to their bare feet.

Thorin heard the two walking behind him. He waited until the soft murmurs of the makeshift camp died completely before turning rapidly on his heel, pulling up with a start and fixing a steady blue gaze on the two shadows before him. The trees were thin; he made out two silhouettes in the deepening twilight, two sets of gleaming eyes.

“When you said you had proof-” Thorin spoke very slowly, articulating every word with a careful precision. He judged and weighed every breath of air that crossed his lips, in a calm, controlled facade that indicated he stood on the edge of a very real breakdown. “When you said you had _remains_ , that you could not bear to touch, what were they?”

“Thorin-”

“Did you have a skull?” Thorin’s voice slowly rose in volume. “Hands? Leg-bones? Anything to suggest a dwarf?” Dwalin’s heart beat a little faster within him; his bare feet shuffled in the ground and he couldn’t look Thorin in the eye as he spoke. “Anything to suggest a person?” The last syllable shook in his throat. He glared at them both, hands balled into fists as he awaited their response, their justification for this horrible mistake.

“No.” Balin admitted, after a long, painful silence. “We didn’t – didn’t see any obvious bones, but –” Thorin let out a groan, turning away from the both of them. “We thought – Thorin what else were we to think?”

“Do you know what happened?” Thorin couldn’t look at either of them, at the moment. He burned with bitter, hopelessness rage and betrayal. He couldn’t believe that _both_ of them had made such an awful mistake. “The orc-pack that found him, they realised who he was. He had our family device all over his weaponry.” Thorin’s lip trembled. “They handed him over to Azog the Defiler.”

Dwalin closed his eyes and lurched forward, leaning heavily on his hands as the words hit him over the head, a hammer that crushed his heart. Balin gripped his shoulder, fingers curling around the broad knot of muscle and bone. _No._ He remembered those soft words to Fili, whispered in the firelight. _Thank Mahal that Kili met his end at the hands of mere goblins._ He fought to suck the air into his lungs, head and heart pounding as horror washed over him a long, slow wave. They had delivered another heir of Durin into Azog’s waiting grasp, Dwalin and Balin. They had sacrificed the youngest, the brightest, the most innocent of the Royal line to be corrupted and broken at the hands of their sharpest foe.

“Azog did something to him.” Thorin whispered into the empty night air. “He turned Kili against me.” His voice shook with grief. “After murdering my grandfather and brother – he turned my nephew against me.” His eyes were trained on the ground, tracing a line with his bare toe. The sons of Fundin stared silently through the dark. “Kili thinks I left him to die.” He turned back slowly, the outlines of Balin and Dwalin starting to disintegrate. “Do you _realise_ what you have done?” He had _never_ been this angry before, not to his two closest friends. “Do you understand how much you have failed him?”

“Yes, Thorin.” Balin spoke for the both of them, Dwalin’s voice stuck behind his lips. Thorin made a low sound of anger, in the base of his throat.

“I _depended_ on you.” The knife on the edge of his voice sounded dull now, blunted. He felt betrayed. “My entire life – I’ve needed you. Both of you.”

“Thorin, we didn’t-”

“I don’t want apologies.” Thorin cut over the grey-haired dwarf, clasped hands shaking. “Apologies won’t fix this.” He paused in the silence, heart dropping even further as he heard Dwalin’s rapid, heavy breathing. “Azog is dead.” He tried so hard to keep his voice steady, but he failed. “There is no vengeance to seek.” He pushed his hair back, a disembodied voice in the dark. “I can’t go near him. My nephew – I can’t touch him. I can’t see him.” He had to stop speaking as a sob rose in his throat, burning him. What he wanted, more than _anything_ at that moment, was to hold Kili, to whisper half-forgotten lullabies in his ear and fall asleep with that skinny little body in his arms. But he was robbed off that closeness; Thorin could only look in from afar, reaching out with shaking hands and receiving only insults and blows in return. The helplessness and agony left his stomach churning _._ He wanted to hold Kili. He wanted to _love_ him. But those soft dark eyes, turned on him in violent anger and hatred, the hurt sharper than any knife cutting through his skin. It turned his soul inside out, to see Kili snarling at him like a beast, _screaming_ at him in the language of orcs. He couldn’t stomach it.

“Dwalin, you need to stay with the boys.” Thorin pressed a hand to his eyes, feeling so very cold and empty. “Kili can’t stay with us – not yet. He’s too angry. Stay with them on the bank and send Fili to us in the dawn.”

“Aye.” Dwalin’s voice was thick and stuffy. He took in a long breath as he straightened, trying to regain control of his racing heart. “Thorin, I-”

“Just make sure they get some sleep.” He didn’t want to hear pale excuses. He was so _angry_ , at the both of them. Thorin wore their mistake –Kili hated him, a deep painful hate that bored down to his heart. He knew, in the back of his mind, that it wasn’t fair to heap the blame on them. This was _everybody’s_ fault. Thorin could have tried harder, Fili too. They all could have tried a little harder, could have pushed on before giving up. But the evidence, which looked to paltry and hollow now, had seemed so rock-steady and conclusive on that summer afternoon. Nobody had expected that Kili, silly, ignorant and reckless Kili, could have beaten such overwhelming odds.

But they didn’t bear the brunt of Kili’s dark, twisted anger. Thorin did. And to see that hatred, that primal, animalistic rage on his youngest nephew’s face, to see the memories of warmth and brightness that he tried so hard to hold close in his heart blackened, scattered in pieces at his feet, it was a death to him. He felt that softness shrivel and die, crushed with heavy, orcish iron.

* * *

Thorin ran away. He dropped his hands and he _ran_ , far away from Kili, from Fili, away from his nephews and into the trees, leaving them alone to the sound of rushing water, Kili’s hard, ragged breathing, Fili’s half-muffled sobs. He turned and fled, Kili shouting more curses after him, dragging Fili three feet along the stone as he staggered, bent under the weight of his brother, walking until he fell to his knees, Fili draped across his back, a blanket of skin and hair.

“ _Adhnsûr.”_ Kili’s harsh voice grated in his throat. He swallowed, trying to shrug his brother from his back. “Get off.” He muttered in Westron, shaking hands pulling at Fili’s wrists. “Get off me.” He repeated, teeth still set and bared. Slowly, Fili sank to the ground, eyes fixed on Kili as he dragged his trembling body across the stones, until they were face-to-face. He reached out and took Kili’s hands, squeezing tightly. Kili stared down at the entwined fingers, shoulders heaving from his rough gasps of air.

“Kili?” Fili raised the clasped hands, coaxing his brother to look up. He pressed his lips against Kili’s cold, dirty fingers, trying to breathe life into them, send the blood racing and warm the chilled flesh. Kili lifted his eyes at the touch, staring at his brother as the light sank. He made out those dark blue eyes, a mane of hair; vague shadows in the growing gloom.

“How could he leave me?” Kili pressed his tongue against the roof of his mouth, trying to reacquaint himself with a language he almost let slip through his fingers. “And – you let him.” Fili’s eyes widened with horror, he leaned in a little, listening to his brother’s soft whisper. “Fili – I would have done _anything_ for you.” Kili closed his eyes. “I would have died for you.”

“Kili, we didn’t know.” Fili tried to speak sense into him. “If I thought – If I _knew_ you were alive, I would have gone to the edge of the world for you.” He stumbled over his words, voice thick with tears as he tried to guide his brother away from the dark path he marched down. Kili couldn’t hate him too. Fili wouldn’t let it happen. “You have to understand – we were sure, we were all so sure-” He broke off, his excuses weak and pathetic.

“What are you _talking_ about?” Kili snapped, pulling his hands away. His brother froze, breath dying in his throat. “Azog’s ransom came just a day after, how could you not-”

 _“Azog’s ransom?”_ Fili jerked forward, he grasped Kili’s shoulders tight, his face very close. “Kili – _Azog?”_ He stared, openmouthed, scanning his brother’s smeared face in the gloom. “ _You were with Azog?”_

“Of course I was with Azog!” Kili wrenched himself free, forcing down a scream as the still-healing wound flared with agony in his shoulder. “You think he was going to let me go, just because Thorin didn’t bother to show up?” Fili bowed his head, fingers threaded through his hair. “I might be _worthless_ to Thorin but I’m still Thror’s descendant.” Fili let out a moan, a low horrible moan, that made Kili pause in the dark.

“Azog.” Fili breathed in horror. “Kili _– no –_ it can’t. It can’t he can’t he can’t he _didn’t.”_ He reached blindly for his brother, a sweaty, violent grasp. Kili endured the touch in sullen silence, a frown deepening on his face. “Oh _Kili,”_ Fili choked on his words, struggling to breathe. “ _No.”_

“You didn’t know.” Kili looked down on his brother, Fili’s hands closing around his arms. Fili’s raw, open grief, it struck a deep revelation inside of him. “Fili... how do you think I died?”

“Th-The orc-pack.” Tears dripped down Fili’s face as he lifted his head. “The one in the woods with all your clothes – they told me – they told me that they would have – you would have become – become a meal to them.” Kili stared wordlessly. “Just another – another casualty of an orc-hunt.” Fili screwed up his eyes, chest constricting in unbelievable horror. He had taken some sort of cold comfort in the fact that Kili would have had at least a mercifully quick death, but he had _suffered._ He remembered Kili’s screaming at Thorin that he had been tortured. With a moan, Fili wrapped his arms around the younger dwarf, burying his face in Kili’s neck. “Oh _Kili.”_

“You didn’t know.” Kili repeated, feeling cold inside, struggling to pick it all apart. Who knew then? Who knew what had really happened to him? Did Thorin nurse the secret inside of himself, playing dumb and feeding lies to his kin, or were they all in on it, excluding Fili, sparing him the horror of the truth?

The approaching footsteps on stone made him start. He jerked under Fili’s limp hold, balling his hands as he steeled himself. If it was Thorin – he would _really_ give it to his uncle then. He wouldn’t hold back, he would beat him into the ground until his body was bloodstained and broken against the rocks. He looked up to see a broad figure with a torch in his hand, yellow light sputtering on his face. Dwalin. Kili’s hands fell loose, and he wound them around Fili’s waist, pressing his cheek against the soft mane of blonde curls.

“Come away from the water lads.” Dwalin’s deep boom sounded twenty feet away, teetering gingerly on the rocks. “Help me build up a fire and we’ll get some sleep.” Fili made a sound, lost against Kili’s shoulder, clinging limply to his brother.

Somehow, they both stood up. Fili was left white-faced, shaking as every story, every sick recollection that he had of Azog beat over and over in his head. Frerin’s death echoed loudest of all, Balin’s ragged words recounting the slow, methodical torture of Thrain’s youngest son. That was on the battlefield; Azog had the luxury of time, with Kili. He had him, powerless and alone, his for as long as he liked. He didn’t kill Kili – death would have been too good for him. He would have kept him broken and cowed, _this_ _entire time_. Fili staggered over the rocks, Kili’s hand in his. He couldn’t comprehend how much his brother had suffered, what he would have seen.

“Dwalin,” Kili whispered as he approached the dwarf he once called _Adad,_ voice trembling with _fear_. Fear of the truth. Fear that Dwalin had been in on the conspiracy, that he had left Kili to die, had lied to his brother for months while the guilt tore inside of him. “Where do you think I was, all of this time?”

“Oh, lad.” Kili watched Dwalin’s face very carefully in the torchlight, as he set off in a slow, heavy walk. He didn’t look as though he masked a hidden secret. Dwalin’s pain was obvious, etched deeply into his face and Kili knew in that moment that Dwalin had been in the dark, as much as Fili. “We just learned the truth.” Kili gritted his teeth, forcing down a fresh wave of hot anger. _You bastard Thorin. You bastard._ “I’m so sorry.” Fili’s hand tightened against his palm. “We’re all so sorry. We didn’t abandon you Kili. _We didn’t know.”_ He willed Kili to understand, that they didn’t _leave_ him, they simply made a mistake, all of them, even Thorin, one they strained to fix before the damage was irreparable.  

“No.” Kili looked down, trying to fight the horrible rushing in his head. _No._ _No it_ _wasn’t possible._ He couldn’t add the pieces together in his mind. _Thorin couldn’t have kept it a secret from everybody._ The old, slow-healing hurt in his heart burned freshly as he tried to pull out the knots and tangles that cluttered his head. He didn’t know what was true anymore. Azog, Thorin and Fili, their stories didn’t match up. Somebody, somewhere, was lying to him. Kili felt sick. His mouth was a wrinkled knot. His heart quaked with fury inside of himself, hand held by Fili _._ He tried to line it all up, side-by-side, sorting through the confusion and agony. He couldn’t understand it – either Thorin was a master of deceit, fooling even his closest friends, or Azog had made an unthinkable mistake. Both seemed completely impossible. “You didn’t know.”

He sat with Fili as Dwalin built up a small fire, sparking the tinder with his torch. Fili rested his head on Kili’s shoulder, one hand running along the iron splint that encased Kili’s arm, the other resting in a clenched fist on his knee. Something had broken inside of Fili, with Kili’s words that _Azog_ had held him prisoner for so long. He felt like a piece of him had fallen away and he would never get it back. He stank of shame and failure, looking into the tiny fire, watching the twigs and branches buckle and curl in the heat of the flames. This never should have happened. Fili was supposed to protect his brother, to watch over him. _This never should have happened._ He felt that thin body, so strange and alien to him pressed against his side, and knew he had failed.

“He’s dead.” Kili murmured after a long time, trying to put his thoughts away, for just one night. Trying just to sit here with Fili and feel the warmth of his brother, leaning against his side, holding on to him, closing his eyes and remembering countless nights of this soft, comfortable embrace, before everything had happened. It wasn’t the same – it would never be the same. They were too different now. The real horror of what had happened began to drive between them, a wall rising, made from Kili’s pain and Fili’s guilt. But even though he knew it wasn’t the same, Kili felt warmer than he had in _months,_ crouched beside the river in the last gasps of a cold autumn. He turned his head, pushing his nose against Fili’s hair for a moment, breathing in. “He’s not going to hurt us anymore.”

Fili tightened his grip around his brother’s splinted arm, and said nothing.


	51. In the River

Fili opened his eyes to a grey dawn.

The night had been strained and lonely; Kili and Fili sat in silence, side by side, watching Dwalin feed the swelling fire. Questions clustered on Fili’s tongue, scraping uncomfortably against the roof of his mouth. He turned his every few minutes, opening his mouth in a tentative attempt to release them, nearly always falling silent. Eventually, he asked two-

“Did you go through Mirkwood?”

Kili was leaning against him, their arms still entwined, his face flushed red beneath the streaks of grey. He drummed his fingers on his kneecap, considering the question for several moments before finally speaking:

“We took the Old Forest Road, down south.”

Fili waited, but Kili considered the question answered. As the fire rose, and Fili’s cheeks grew warmer, his stomach became cramped and tight. He was so hungry. Kili had lifted himself from his brother’s shoulder – he sat with his knees drawn up to his chest, chin resting on them, staring into the fire with heavy, black eyes. The firelight deepened the hollows of his cheeks and Kili’s naked arms looked like two grey branches, curled around his legs.

“We ran out of food.” Fili admitted slowly. He ran his fingers up and down Kili’s back as he spoke, feeling the ridges of his spine beneath the leather vest. “Did you have enough to eat?” It was a stupid question, one he regretted as soon as it left his mouth. Kili seemed almost insulted by it; he lifted his head, turning away from the fire and casting half of his face in shadow. He looked elongated, angular in the light, face stiff and blank as though it was carved from stone.

“Does it look like it?” He gave an odd snort, a shake of his head, and he turned his face back towards the fire. He didn’t lean into Fili’s touch when the blonde rested his chin on Kili’s shoulder, running his hand over the bones protruding from his skin. But he didn’t shrug Fili off, either.

They tried to sleep in each other’s arms. Fili lay on his side, and Kili curled into him. He wrapped his arms tightly around his baby brother, nose pressed into the top of his head and their legs tangled together. It was a fitful, restless attempt at sleep; neither of them were comfortable, lying on the chilly earth with no blanket. Fili’s hair tickled Kili’s nose, it got into his mouth and he spat it out. His breath whistled too loudly in Kili’s ear. Kili’s iron cast dug painfully into Fili’s side, and his left arm was falling asleep underneath the mop of dark hair. Several awkward hours passed, of restless shuffling, of drifting off and starting awake and numb limbs, before Kili finally lifted his head, whispering apologetically in the dark and turning away on his side.

Fili cried.

His head pillowed on a folded arm, he reached across the dirt. Kili lay just beyond his reach, turned away from him on his side, an outline against the sinking red embers. He stretched his arm out but his fingertips fell just a few inches short. His tears were silent, gathering in the corner of his eyes, trailing down his skin and falling to the cold dirt. He listened as Kili’s breathing slowed into a deep, even rhythm, aching with grief and frustration. Dwalin slept beneath a gnarled old tree, head drooping against his chest, a low, steady snore grumbling in his throat. Fili lay awake and listened to them both, Kili’s soft, breathing, Dwalin’s deep snore, it chorused in his ears like a lopsided lullaby.

He must have fallen asleep. He woke with the sound of crashing wood in his ears, a swelling burst of warmth against his face. Fili’s eyes snapped open in that grey, early light, to see the fire breathing new life, a handful of branches dropped on the fading embers. Kili was nowhere to be seen; Fili jerked upwards, instantly awake with a familiar sick terror flooding in his chest. _Where was Kili._

He jumped to his feet and saw Kili’s form retreating across the stones, towards the river. Casting a look back to Dwalin and finding him asleep, Fili silently made his way across those jagged rocks, light and silent as a cat on his bare feet. The blood throbbed in his fingers, heart still racing from that single, horrible moment of shock, of waking and finding the ground empty beside him, as he had those long months before. Kili walked carelessly along the bank, thudding his heavy, orcish boots over the rocks. Fili followed behind, soft and silent – he didn’t call out to his brother, he didn’t try to catch up. He crept along like a spy, intruding on Kili’s solitary walk to the river’s edge. Kili was building the walls up around himself, refusing to let anybody close, not even Fili. The secrets inside his mind were locked away, and Fili picked uselessly at the edges with his nails. He wasn’t allowed in.

When he reached the water, Kili kept walking along the edge, his boots dry, peering down at the water as though he looked for something. Half of the barrels had floated away, left floating in the water. Kili walked until the stones gave way to clusters of hawthorn and bugleweed, clinging to a low bank. Fili lingered behind, gritting his teeth as he trod carefully across the stones. Kili pushed his way through the bushes without abandon, the grey figure disappearing for a moment in the gloom. Fili picked up the pace, wincing as he dislodged a small stone, pausing for air as his heart hammered in his throat. But he heard no sound; Fili continued his near-silent creeping until he reached the bank, climbing gently up the dirt, grabbing handfuls of coarse grass that rasped against his palms. Lifting his arms, Fili whispered through the bushes, thinking his movements when undetected.

But Kili stood with his arms crossed, back to the river. There was a small clearing, a shelf of dirt and low, scrubby grass, backed with rising bushes and shrubs. Kili stood in the middle of it, clearly waiting for his intruding brother to approach him. Fili stopped as soon as he passed the hawthorn, mouth falling open as his cheeks flushed in the grey light.

“Following me?” Kili cocked an eyebrow. “Afraid I’ll run away again?” He looked oddly sardonic, his lip twitched in a tiny smirk as he regarded his brother. He didn’t _look_ like Kili there, with his raised eyebrow and sarcastic little smile in his grey face.

“I didn’t realise you saw me.” Fili murmured lamely, eyes lowering to his hands for a moment. He picked at a nail. “What – what are you doing, Kili?” He looked up, and his blue gaze was wide, almost frantic. “You’re _not_ running away – are you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Kili bent down, fumbling with the clasps on his boots. “I need to wash.”

“Wash?” Fili blinked. “Kili – the water will be freezing. Wait until we get to Lake-Town, you can have a hot bath and-”

“I can’t go to Lake-Town like _this_.” Kili flung out his arms, extending his grey fingers towards his brother. “ _Look at me_ , Fili!” That cool, uncaring look cracked – Kili’s eyes were wide, he stared at Fili with fear written on his face, catching in the grimy edges of his skin.

“You’ll freeze.” Fili stepped forward, shaking his head. “At least wait for the sun – they won’t care Kili, they’ll understand-”

“No they won’t.” Kili spoke roughly, kicking off his heavy boots. “I saw the rest looking at me. I saw your face.” His hands paused on the ties at his vest. “When you first saw me – you didn’t see _me_.” A fingertip gently touched his grey face. “You saw _this._ ”

“Kili, I –”

“I’m going to get undressed.” Kili turned away, facing the river. “Can you – please I need a little privacy.”

“We’re brothers.” Fili took another tentative step. “It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.” Kili bowed his head, hunching his bony shoulders at Fili’s words.

“You haven’t seen this.” His hands shook as he fiddled with the front of his sleeveless vest. “Fili – please.” He took in a breath. “Because you’ll cry when you see it. Then I’ll cry.” He stared down at the water, hearing Fili’s breath quicken behind him, growing ragged. “And I don’t want to cry anymore.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” Fili sat down, crossing his legs and gripping his bare ankles. “I’m waiting right here Kili. I’m not leaving you for a moment. Not again.”

“Fine.” Kili gritted his teeth, defeated. And he let the vest fall from his shoulders and along his arms, the paper drawing stuck to the leather as the ragged clothing crumpled to the ground.

Fili pressed a hand quickly over his mouth to muffle the involuntary groans. Bile rose in his throat and his stomach heaved. He got up on his knees, scanning Kili’s naked back, eyes wide in horror. The grey ash and black orc-blood that mottled Kili’s limbs stopped at his shoulders around the edges of his vest. He was _thin_ – thinner than any dwarf Fili had ever seen, with every rib visible beneath the skin. The protruding bones of his spine reminded him of the tiny skinks and lizards they would catch as children, with sharp spikes running down their scaled backs. His shoulder blades jutted out from the skin, looking so awkward, almost broken. All of this Fili took in, and all of it he ignored in a moment as he looked at the pale skin of Kili’s back.

It was _covered_ in scars. They shone on his white flesh, long, silver gouges running parallel along his back, from the nape of his neck to the base of his spine, too many to count. Over the long, methodical marks lay newer scars, soft and pink, ragged and lopsided, without the same even symmetry. He’d been beaten, whipped – more than once. _Horribly._ Fili’s arms strained; he longed to reach out and take Kili, to run his fingers over every single one of those awful scars and press his lips to them, as though his soft, apologetic touch could peel the marks from his skin.

“You better not be crying.” Kili whispered, his voice almost drowned out in the gentle rushing of the river. Fili gritted his teeth; he swallowed the burning lump in his throat and rubbed quickly at his eyes with his wrist.

“I’m not.” Thank _Mahal_ his voice held up. Kili turned, intentionally giving Fili a look at his chest. His eyes fixed on his brother’s face, he watched Fili’s blue gaze trail down his jutting collarbone, his ribs, his thin, wasted stomach. He was black and purple with bruises from Azog’s heavy boot. The burns had healed over the long slow months, but the scars stood out plainly on his skin, pinkish and wrinkled, nestled amongst the scattered dark hairs on his chest trailing down his stomach. Fili tried to catch his face, but the grimace of pain stretched his features before he realised what he was doing. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to force the sick, smouldering horror swirling in his chest back down into his stomach.

“Get used to them.” Kili masked his own tears by putting on a rough, jagged voice. He sounded hoarse, using the same tone he used to around the goblins. The sky broke open, fingers of gold raking across the heavy grey and he cast his eyes up to it for a moment. “They won’t go away.”

“Kili.” Fili couldn’t say anything else. He couldn’t _breathe._ “How – when – when did they –”

“About two days after I was found.” Kili cut over his brother, roughly. He turned away from Fili with that, back towards the river, his hands on the rough clasp of his thick belt. His eyes lowered with the dark memory, the smell of smoke rising in his nostrils, even though their little reborn fire was so far away. He pulled down his trousers, naked beneath them, and without another word, plunged into the river.

The river was _cold._ It hit his skin like a thousand needles, robbing the air from his lungs. As his head broke above the surface, Kili choked, spitting out brown water as he gasped for air. His feet touched ground, and the water lapped at his chest.

“Kili,” Fili leaned over the side of the bank, two feet above the icy water. “Are you–”

“I’m fine.” Kili’s teeth chattered, already quaking as he lifted his arms out of the water. He still wore the leather glove on his right hand; he couldn’t bear to take it off, and risk Fili seeing the brand on his wrist. _Nobody_ was ever going to see that. He held his arms out of the water, watching the grey rivulets course down his skin. His real skin started to emerge, fresh and white and clean. He cupped water in his hands, splashing it over his face. Kili dug his fingers into his eyes, his nose, the skin behind his ears, trying to rub away any lingering trace of ash or tried blood. He raked a hand through his tangled hair, stripping away the dirt, the fragments of leaves and branches and whatever else had managed to snarl in his dark locks. Kili stayed in the water as long as he could, rubbing his hands along his arms, his shoulders, his neck, anywhere he feared a fragment of the awful grey stuff could possibly still cling to his skin. It had been worked in deeply in places – Kili reached out, grabbing a handful of scrubby brown grass clinging to the shallow bank. He rubbed it against the skin above his cast, where the ash seemed to stick, rubbing and scratching until his skin was red and stinging.

Fili clutched the edge of the bank, shaking his head slowly as he watched his brother’s frantic efforts to get clean. His heart welled up with horror and spilled over, chest flooding with agony as he watched the water run down Kili’s limbs, grey and clouded. The ash still clung persistently to the creases in his joints, the weathered skin that had been exposed for those long months in that crude, orcish vest. As Kili grabbed thick handfuls of grass and tried to scrub the lingering grey from his body, his heart broke completely, a sob rising in his throat. He bit down on a finger as it came out, leaning far over the bank and stretching out his hands.

“Kili,” His voice quaked, fingers trembling, reaching for his brother. “You’re clean.” He sniffed. The wet clumps of grass slid from Kili’s fingers; chest-high in the water, he stared at Fili’s hand, uncertain. “Come out now. Please.” His limbs trembled and his lips were purple, threatening to darken to blue in the freezing river-water. After a pause, Kili’s wet fingers circled Fili’s wrist, the blonde bracing himself on the edge of the bank as he hauled Kili from the murky water. Like a white, slippery eel, Kili was dragged onto the bank, his limbs shining under the light of a soft golden sky. Shaking on his knees, Kili hunched over, spine protruding as he breathed into cupped hands. His hair was plastered across his face, a black curtain that Fili pulled aside. And he smiled for a moment, as Kili raised his eyes and looked at him, his eyes looking softer in the dawn light, framed in his clean, white face. This was Kili. Fili cupped his jaw, smile wavering as his lip trembled. This was Kili, all pale and wide-eyed, with the stubble so marked against his cheeks. Kili gritted his teeth as a particularly violent tremor overtook his bony frame, jerking Fili out of his dream, into the reality.

“N-No.” Kili swallowed, watching Fili lift his shirt over his head, “F-Fili, you’ll get it wet-”

“Shhh.” Fili pulled the shirt down over his brother, wringing Kili’s hair out onto the grass. “It’s just a shirt, I’ll live.” Kili’s eyes fell to his throat. The pendant rested against Fili’s chest, as it always had, white and gleaming, a tiny fragment of a lost fortune. Beneath the shirt, Kili’s hand clenched into a fist around his tooth, filled with a sense of loss he could never explain. Beside the pendant hung a small silver hair clasp, part of a matching set.

“Fili,” He stared as Fili clumsily threaded his thin arms through the loose shirt. “Is that,” once his fingers peered through the sleeve, Kili reached for Fili’s neck, “is that _mine?_ ” Fili looked down as he grasped Kili’s splinted arm, dressing him like he used to when Kili’s fingers were too small and stubby to work the ties on his shirt, when his mother would sometimes close her eyes against a thin wail she could never possibly sleep through.

“It is.” Fili rubbed his brother’s arms, swamped in the grey fabric of his long-sleeved shirt. “Here.” Fili grabbed a messy handful of dark tangles, still dripping all over his hand. He leaned in, taking the hair clasp from his neck and fixing it around the lopsided piece of hair. It was too tight; it pulled at the hairs on his right temple and it hung crookedly. A hand rose to Kili’s hair, brushing the familiar weight on his scalp with cold, trembling fingers. He looked at his brother, his unshakeable, shirtless brother, shivering himself in the dawn air, forcing another smile on his face as he tried to be strong for the both of them. Kili was crumbling under the cold – the water had cracked that shield he tried to cast around himself, and Fili beat at it with his hands until it broke, reaching in and pulling Kili out. He fussed about, brushing back a stray lock of hair, straightening the crooked neckline plastered to Kili’s wet collarbone, taking his good hand and rubbing it briskly between his fingers, trying to summon the blood forth. Fili was doing what he did best – he took care of his baby brother, the only way he knew how, by cleaning him up after he made a mess of himself.

“Come on.” Fili gathered up Kili’s things, draping the pants and vest over his arm and taking his boots. He held out his free hand, smiling down at his brother’s clean white face, the hair pulled back in his familiar clasp. “You can do mine if you like, by the fire.” Kili rose to his feet, pulling the grey shirt down his legs. The hem stuck to his wet thighs, thin and pale in the rising light.

“Thank you.” Kili’s good hand wove through Fili’s fingers, water squeezing from the wet leather as he fixed his grasp. His fingers were too cold and clumsy for the sort of perfect, intricate braiding Fili’s hair deserved. But his heart swelled at the gesture all the same, pulsing warm blood through his frozen limbs.

“I didn’t look at you – like that.” Fili recalled Kili’s cold accusation while they trod through the low hawthorn bushes, Kili wincing as the jagged leaves scraped his soft, naked legs. “I didn’t.”

“You didn’t know it was me at first.” Kili looked down at the ground as they started to walk across the jagged rocks. “I saw your face – I know you didn’t.”

“It shocked me.” Fili admitted. “But when you looked up – the moment I saw your eyes, I knew.” The first rays of golden-dawn light began to brush the tops of the cliff-face across the river. “I knew it was _you_.” Kili’s hand tightened around his brother’s and it took some moments for him to speak.

“They didn’t make me do it.” Kili’s eyes were fixed at a point in the distance, beyond the fire, beyond the trees, beyond sight. He stared into memory, blood curdling as his lips trembled. “I did it myself. I wanted to hide my smell.” Kili tottered over the rocks, unsure on his soft, bare feet. “I wanted to look like them.”

“It’s all right, Kili.” Fili wanted to reach inside and tear the bad memories out, to scour the black from Kili’s heart. But it couldn’t come off with a handful of grass and a cold morning bath. It was a stain, it leaked against the flesh and became one and there was no way Fili could ever, ever wash it away. All he could do was stand on the shore as his brother tried to scrub at that awful black stain, and offer his hand when the washing was done. “It’s gone now.”

“Is it?” He didn’t look at Kili. He looked ahead at Dwalin, still snoring beneath the tree as the fire cheerfully burned a handful of brushwood to crumbling fragments of ash.

“Yes.” Fili tightened his grasp, willing himself to believe it.

* * *

“Thorin?” His head jerked up as Fili entered the small camp, somewhat breathless from his run. “Dwalin said you wanted to see me.” Thorin stood up, the others lowering their soft patter of talk, or falling silent completely.

“Come.” It was a short, clipped command that Fili silently obeyed. Thorin walked into the cover of the trees, secluded and private. The blonde followed, rubbing his bare arms. Thorin waited until the fire was a gleam through the shadows before he paused, holding his arm out and taking Fili by the elbow.

“Your shirt.” Thorin frowned at his half-naked nephew. “What happened to your shirt?”

“Kili was wearing it.” Fili looked down at himself, giving a shrug. “He got it wet – he went in the river this morning.” He sighed. “He wanted to get clean – he said he couldn’t go to Lake-Town looking like he did.” Fili’s shoulders were bowed and heavy. “He’s right – but the water was so cold. He was still shaking when I left – it’s why I’m late.” Fili stammered over his words, oddly nervous. “I didn’t want to leave him.” He grabbed a handful of his trousers.

“I know.” Thorin’s other hand grasped Fili’s shoulder. “How did he sleep?” The exiled king squeezed, his lip trembling.

“Not well.” Fili admitted after a pause. “We tried sleeping together – but it didn’t work. I don’t know why, something was different.” His eyes lowered to his bare feet. “We didn’t fit together, like we used to.”

“Did he say anything?” Thorin pulled on Fili’s arm, coaxing his nephew to look up. “Anything at all?”

“Not a lot.” Fili couldn’t look Thorin in the eye. He settled for staring at the dwarf’s shoulder, the juncture of his neck, watching the muscles clench while Thorin listened to him speak. Nerves bundled in his stomach, as he remembered Kili’s screaming the evening before. “He said – He said he was handed over to Azog, he said something about a ransom.” He looked at Thorin’s face now, watching those bright blue eyes cloud and turn downwards. “But I don’t know what he was talking about – there was no ransom. We never got anything.”

“No.” Thorin breathed, feeling old and weathered, bent under the weight of his nephew’s grief and anger. “We didn’t receive a word.”

“But – Kili thinks there was.” Fili’s voice was low. “I tried to tell him – but he doesn’t believe me.”  He kept looking into Thorin’s eyes. “He thinks –” And a cold, sick, _horrible_ feeling struck in his stomach, as he watched Thorin stare down at the earth. “He thinks you covered it up.” Thorin’s head snapped up at Fili’s words. He stared at his nephew, deep into his eyes, into the question that burned on his lips. “Thorin,” and Fili’s voice had faded to a soft, frightened whisper, “you _didn’t_ – did you?”

He slapped Fili.

The sound came first, a terrific clap against his ears. Fili staggered back under the force of the blow, pressing a hand to his throbbing cheek as he slowly straightened his back. Thorin’s hands shook at his sides, his jaw tight. Tears glistened in his blue eyes. Fili met his gaze, his uncle contorting in rage, in horror, in blinding outrage at what Fili dared to suggest.

“How could you.” Thorin’s voice trembled in his throat and Fili wished in a heartbeat he could take the words back. “How _could_ you Fili.”

“I didn’t mean it, I just-”

“Kili is _everything_ to me.” Thorin took a step towards the young dwarf, looking down at him. His heart burned with anger and he couldn’t _see._ It was a cruel, barbed charge, and it stuck into his soul. _How could Fili ever think that._ “He is _everything_ , Fili. He is my _heart!_ ”

“Uncle, please.” He couldn’t remember seeing Thorin this openly upset. His heart pounded inside of him; guilt and humiliation set his nerve-endings alight along his hands and feet. “Please I didn’t mean it –”

“I have _always_ loved him with every fibre of my being.” He gripped Fili by the shoulders. “ _Always._ ” Fili tried to pull away, but Thorin’s grasp was rock-hard.

“No – Thorin I’m sorry.” Fili screamed curses in his head. Curses at himself. How could he _dare_ to suggest Thorin capable of being so cruel and heartless? _How could he?_

“Even when others didn’t – I _always_ loved Kili!” Fili turned his face away, screwing up his eyes. “I _always loved him!”_ He shook Fili, voice rising. “You will never understand what I have done for him – for _you_. And he hates _me!_ He blames _me,_ the _only_ one who has never left him!” He pushed Fili away, his nephew reeling back. Thorin’s heart was crushed under the overwhelming rage and grief and _guilt_. “And you – you _dare_ suggest that I left him to die in Azog’s hand?” He was roaring now, roaring at Fili who cupped his hands over his ears, trying to block out Thorin’s awful, deep voice. “I would sacrifice _everything_ to save him!”

Thorin didn’t know who he tried to convince as he screamed in Fili’s face. The tentative accusation had left his blood boiling, the hot outrage exploding his head, tainting his vision red. He was forced to remember Thranduil’s words, locked within his luxurious Hall, his condemnation of Thorin’s actions as he declared the dwarf prized his quest above the lives of his precious nephews. _You _killed_ your youngest on an impossible quest for a lost fortune._ Was that what Fili believed? What that what _everybody_ believed, when they looked at him? The thought left Thorin cold. It was _not_ true. He grabbed Fili’s wrists, pulling them away from his face. Thorin leaned in, their faces close.

“If I had to choose between Erebor and Kili,” tears dripped down Thorin’s cheeks, into his beard. Fili’s shoulders heaved with fear, with guilt and shame at Thorin’s words. “I would choose Kili.” Fili stared at him, lip trembling. “I would choose Kili in a heartbeat.”

“I’m sorry uncle.” He was so tired. So brittle and stretched and _tired._ The left side of his face shone bright red, where he had been hit. Thorin stared at him in a long silence while his beard grew wet. “I didn’t mean it.” He begged, one last time as Thorin fixed his scrutinizing gaze.

Mahal, he looked so young. He wasn’t ready for what the last three months had thrown at him. Thorin hadn’t prepared him for this – he _never_ could have prepared him for this. Fili was so scared, so young and so painfully naive. The hard lines of anger wavered on Thorin’s face; he leaned forward in a deep sigh, their foreheads touching.

“Don’t you ever say that again.” He breathed, feeling tired and deflated. The fire died inside of him, burning out. Fili nodded silently against his uncle. “I have always loved you both, more fiercely than dragon’s flame.” His fingers around Fili’s wrists, Thorin closed his eyes. “You two are everything to me. _Everything_.”

“I know.” Fili felt cold, in Thorin’s tight embrace. He withered at the touch. It wasn’t fair to blame Thorin for this. They had both failed him. “And you’re everything to us. Both of us.”

“I need you Fili.” Thorin whispered. “I need you – to love him.” He slowly lifted his eyes, aching. “Love him – for me.”

“I’ll fix this.” Fili promised. “I don’t know how – but I’ll fix this Thorin. Azog – I don’t know what he did to Kili.” His face was hard and set. “But I can make it right. I’m going to get him back.” He drew in a deep, shuddering breath. “I know I can. _I_ _have to.”_


	52. Unbound

Legolas awoke in the dawn.

Tauriel jerked up at the sound, the soft gasp that could not be from any nightmare. She rested an elbow on the bed, propped her head against it as the night wore on, feeling sleep creep up on her. Her eyes snapped open in a reflex, she turned to see Legolas’ eyes fluttering, broken hands trying to clench around the blanket. Thranduil already leaned over his son, whispering softly in his ear and rubbing wide circles across his chest. Tauriel wondered if he had slept at all, in the night. Every time she opened her eyes, she saw him staring at his son, stiff and unmoving.

“ _Ada_...” She gripped the edge of the bed, watching as Thranduil got an arm under the prince, helping him to sit up a little on the soft bed. He pressed his lips against Legolas’ temple, straightening the covers over his chest.

“Hush, _Mellhên._ ” He whispered into the elf’s hair. Tauriel slowly sat up, backing away from the bed. She felt like an intruder. “Don’t speak.”

“ _Ada_ ,” Legolas stirred, restless. The heavy potion that had been forced down his neck still ensnared Legolas, but he was starting to fight back. “Where am I?”

“In your room.” Tauriel’s eyes lowered to the small, blood-stained knife, brimming with questions. Legolas looked up at her, his impossibly bright eyes dull and hazy. He tried to sit up, a frown knitting his dark eyebrows, but Thranduil pushed a hand on his shoulder, trying to pin his son to the bed. “Stay still my son, you need rest, you need-”

“Where is everyone?” Legolas shrugged his hand away. “Kili – where did you put him?” He remembered now, how Tauriel had roughly dragged him out of the dark shadows, Kili limp and unmoving and covered with orcish blood. She had hit him. She screamed in his face and for a fragmentary moment lost control of herself completely, blinded in her protective rage. She brushed Legolas aside when he tried to defend the dwarf, assumed he was lying or that he lost his mind or both.

“He’s gone.” Tauriel whispered. Legolas’ eyes grew very wide, he strained against his father with an odd noise in his throat. “No – he’s not gone,” she realised her mistake, “he’s missing. They’re all missing. All thirteen.” Her lip curled at the thought. Thranduil’s eyes flashed at her, dark and angry. “They escaped somehow.”

“How?”

“I don’t know.” She breathed. “It doesn’t matter – we’re looking for them, we’ll find them and we’ll make them pay.” Legolas shook his head, wincing at the dull throbbing in his mutilated ears.

“Tauriel no, you don’t understand-”

“Quiet, my son-”

“No, _Ada!”_ He wrenched himself free, biting back a cry of pain as he jolted his crippled hands. “Tauriel, he saved me – you can’t hurt him you don’t understand-”

“Legolas, hush.” Tauriel’s throat closed as Thranduil gripped his son tightly, coaxing him to lie down. A muscle throbbed in his throat, pulsing with anger and Tauriel couldn’t shift her eyes from it. “Not now.” He just wanted to hold on to his son, to feel him warm and breathing and awake in his arms, but Legolas wasn’t having any of it.

“Don’t hurt him.” Legolas begged. Even though his mind was thick and hazy and clouded with pain, he couldn’t shake those wide brown eyes ringed with grey, fixated on him, begging for forgiveness. _I had to survive._

“Lie down.” Thranduil pressed his hands into him, hard. “Please, Legolas, _Mellhên,_ lie down.” Everything was fighting to burst over, he felt as though he stood in the middle of a crowded room, screaming at the top of his lungs and nobody was listening to him. He felt tired, broken down, worn out. Oh, his hands _hurt_ so much. Legolas lay down defeated, staring up at Tauriel with vacant, half-lidded eyes.

She looked at him without a word, eyebrows knitted in a low, heavy frown.

* * *

Kili started as he always did. He ran his fingers through the thick blonde tangles, gently working out the knots and snarls while his brother sat before the fire, still and patient. His hands were heavy and clumsy in Fili’s hair, as though he had almost forgotten how. He snagged a particularly bad tangle, and Fili winced in pain.

It felt to Kili like some sort of dream. Any moment now, he would wake up with Azog sitting beside him, with the firelight in his face and low murmurs of Black Speech against his ears. He felt himself tightening with every hour, a red-hot hunk of metal, pulled and stretched into a loop of wire, thinner and thinner and thinner, close to breaking under the pressure. It still seemed so impossible to find himself _home_ again after so long. But it wasn’t home. Not really. Kili had told himself that ‘home’ was only a meaningless construct; it didn’t matter where he was as long as he had Fili – but he _had_ Fili again, his brother followed him like a shadow and didn’t leave him alone for a moment.

So why did he feel so cold?

Why did he feel so dull and dead and _lonely_ inside beneath those low trees? Why was his stomach so tight? Why did everything feel so distorted, so wrong? Ever since he had crawled out of that barrel, as weak and helpless as an infant, Kili had felt cold. It was as though ice had settled in his bones and would not move.

He ran his finger along his brother’s skull, just beneath his ear. He sectioned a handful of gold, glistening in his hands from the light of the fire, a pale shadow of the brilliant sunrise that arced across the sky above them. Kili’s eyes remained lowered on his brother’s hair, taking in none of the beauty and radiance of the sky. He smoothed the lock of hair in his fingers, feeling it shift and spring back against his touch. Kili rested on his knees and Fili stretched his legs out before him.

Both were silent – but it was a different silence than before. It wasn’t like last night, when the two of them had been too strained and desperate, to talk. When Dwalin had withdrawn, leaving the boys alone, watching from the shadows across the fire, giving them space to have a heart to heart that never came that night. Fili’s dark blue eyes stared at the ground, his face brittle and pale, chewing on his lower lip. Kili didn’t have the strength, the will, to talk. It was horrible, that cold silence. It hurt the both of them. Kili kept his head bowed, feeling the sharp edge of the tooth bite his index finger. He blinked away the tears before they could gather and roll down his cheeks, his chest growing sicker and tighter and colder, even as his cheeks flushed in the heat of the fire. The longer he sat, in that lonely, hungry silence, the worse that tight feeling grew.

Fili asked him a couple of stupid questions, and Kili gave him equally stupid answers. He glanced to the side and saw that he hurt his brother with his cold, mechanical replies. But Kili didn’t feel sorry for them. It was a pathetic attempt on Fili’s part to fix that splintered bond between them. It was breaking apart and neither of them, it seemed, could hold it together.

It grew worse between them, that night. It had fallen beyond words.  Kili grew angry as that stiff silence wore on. _What do you want from me?_ He balled his hands into fists and gritted his teeth in the blinding frustration. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do, what he could say to make Fili’s open, obvious pain go away. _This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen_. Fili was supposed to be strong for them – he was supposed to be comforting and warm, he was supposed to tell Kili that everything would be all right and he would look after him. But Fili, he looked so small and sad and frail, curled into a tight ball before their little fire. He didn’t look like _his_ Fili, at all. Fili wasn’t supposed to look so miserable and afraid. He was so different, so shrunken and pained and _different_. It stung Kili like a betrayal. He wanted to shake his brother, scream in his face. _Stop this. I need you Fili I need you._

 _And what are you?_ Kili looked down at his bony hands, wrapped in leather. Was he still Kili? Was he the same? Was he still bright, reckless, innocent? _Of course not._ Kili’s lip twisted, bitterly. Kili had changed, he had been driven to this darkness and corruption, a black seed that took root in his chest and grew. He wasn’t Kili anymore. Why should Fili still be Fili?

Kili divided the soft handful of hair into three parts, gently twisting the gold into a familiar braid. The anger stuck with him all night, a sharp, unfair anger bred from mistrust and fear. He never realised just how deeply his loss would hurt Fili. He didn’t quite understand just how much Fili needed _him._ He didn’t feel honoured at his brother’s intense, painful grief that lingered on even though Kili had returned to him. He felt afraid. Fili was broken-down and weak and the thought left Kili’s heart racing with terror. Fili wasn’t strong enough to help him. Kili screamed at Fili during the night, in his head. _You’re not supposed to be like this!_ _I thought you were brave, I thought you were perfect! What do you have to cry about? What did they do to_ you? They were dark thoughts, bitter and angry. Kili’s tongue prickled as they ran through his head, remembering those deep accusations. _What right do_ you _have, to cry?_

Kili tried to sleep in Fili’s arms, he really did. But it wasn’t just the rising disappointment and anger in his heart that dug in like a wedge between them; it was physically uncomfortable. Fili’s breath and hair were ticklish, his legs were wound too tight around him. Kili was tired, so very, _very_ tired. A lifetime had passed in that long, painful day. The night before, he was a loyal partner of Azog’s, committing his atrocities without question – and a day later, he laid in Fili’s trembling arms, with nothing left of the orc-king in the whole world but a lifeless body and a cluster of black, tainted memories. And in that moment, all Kili wanted more than anything else was to bury his nose in Nardur’s neck, to have Nazarg crack a stupid joke at his side and sneak him a crust of bread. But they were gone. The only two souls who knew everything about him and didn’t _care_ , who were judgeless and warm and compassionate, they were gone and Kili would never see them again.

He pulled himself away from Fili and slept alone. He couldn’t do it – he couldn’t lie comfortably in those arms drift off to sleep. He wasn’t a dwarrow anymore. And this wasn’t his Fili. This shrunken, miserable shadow of a dwarf _was not his brother._

Kili picked up the first clasp, fixing it carefully on the end of Fili’s golden braid. He let the hair slip through his fingers and drape across Fili’s shoulder, critically examining the evenness and tension of the braid. It wasn’t right. Kili’s lips clenched in a scowl and he pulled the silver clasp free, unravelling the rope he had spun and starting again.

He had to be strong himself. It was a revelation that came to Kili in the last throes of night as he lay on his back, listening to Fili and Dwalin sleep. He heard Fili cry when they separated, and Kili knew that if he tried to hold on to his brother, they would both drown. He _couldn’t_ throw himself in Fili’s arms and let everything spill out. He couldn’t admit the truth. Even just knowing Azog had Kili, it almost destroyed his brother. How would Fili react if Kili told him just how much he had been tortured and beaten, again and again? What would Fili say if he learned his brother had become an orc in all but name, that he killed and talked and dressed and looked and _ate_ like one? Could Fili ever come to terms with the fact that Kili had killed a child, had held Legolas down, the elf screaming in pain while Azog mutilated his soft, unblemished ears?

Kili held his hands out in front of him alone, two shadows in the rising grey light. The ash clung stubbornly to the creases in his knuckles, beneath his nails, jammed in his cuticles. Dried blood stained the skin and when he rubbed at it, the marks would not come off. He swallowed and closed his eyes, tried to ignore his awful grey skin. Kili remembered when Fili first saw him, how he tilted his head and frowned in confusion for that split moment, not knowing, not _realising_ that his brother crouched in the back of that barrel, unidentifiable beneath the grey.

He didn’t want to pull away from Fili. Not at all. Kili kept his eyes on his work, feeling his brother’s shoulders ripple in a soft shudder at his touch. He didn’t want to _hurt_ him.  And Kili knew in his heart if he was to open his soul Fili and tell him everything, it would break him. Fili wasn’t strong enough anymore. Kili just wanted things to be how they were. It was why he jumped in the water. The cold still clung to him; even now, dried and redressed before the fire, Kili’s fingers were stiff and icy and there was a chill inside of him that wouldn’t shift. He just wanted to get that ash and blood off of his skin. He just wanted to be _Kili_ again.

And Fili – for just a few moments, when he fished his brother out of the water and pulled the shirt from his back, Fili had been Fili. When he wrung Kili’s wet hair onto the grass and fixed the clasp in a lopsided knot, when he helped Kili back to the fire, forcing him to kneel down and laying out his things so they would be warm when his limbs dried, Fili was his big brother again, and they could both entertain the illusion. Kili felt those thick, broad hands on his shoulders and felt safe and warm, felt like nothing could touch him. But it fell away, like every other dream, when Fili left to visit the main camp, when he came back with glimmering eyes and his cheek red, muttering to Dwalin that Thorin wanted to see him for a few moments, that they had to leave soon. Fili tried to indulge his brother, smoothing his crumpled expression, but it was a mask that hid nothing.

“Damn.” Kili’s lips moved in a low curse, he gritted his teeth and combed the half-formed braid out of Fili’s hair. “I can’t – _ishi_ I can’t do it.” He rested his forehead against Fili’s soft blonde hair, that tight wire in him about to break. He was going to cry, in his anger and frustration. He knew it. _“Why can’t I do it?”_ His voice wobbled, high and frightened. His heart pounded inside, frantic. _What was so wrong with him?_ Kili screwed up his eyes and sniffed, winding Fili’s long curls around his shaking, leatherbound fingers.

“Kili–” Fili jerked in his hold, carefully taking his brother’s hands. He shifted, turning on his side with Kili’s cheek resting on his shoulder. “It’s all right.” But his voice was low and aching, sick with disappointment. Both of them knew it wasn’t. “Look – your hands are just cold.” He wrapped his hands around those chilly fingers. “And these gloves – you always used to it with bare hands, remember?” He tried to keep his voice calm and rock-steady. “This... thing.” He ran his fingers along Kili’s iron splint. “What is it? Some sort of arm-guard? A brace?”

“It’s a splint.” Kili’s lips barely moved. He looked down stiffly, watching as Fili turned his arm over, fingering the thick bolts that bound the iron tight. The crude metal was rusting; it would take more than a wrench and some grease to get it off now. Much more.

“A splint?” He frowned. “Did you break your arm?” Fili had to lean forward, to hear him. Kili didn’t look at him – he looked down at his arm, watching Fili’s thick fingers fiddling with the rusted bolts. He wanted to tell Fili to shut up, wanted to say that it was none of his business. He didn’t want to see Fili’s eyes well up, _again,_ in that hurt and pain. “Kili?” Fili’s hand paused on his arm, his voice hitched and at that moment everything hit Kili, it crashed into him at full speed and made it hard to breathe.

The worst thing, the _very worst_ thing he could do to his brother was shut him out. Nothing would hurt Fili more than to be pushed away. Fili wanted to be there, he wanted to take _care_ of him and the only time he was strong, the only time he forced the tears from his eyes and the quaver from his voice, when his hands were resolute and didn’t shake was when he held his brother by the river, taking the shirt from his back and giving it to him. He couldn’t make the scars vanish from Kili’s skin, but he could cover them. Fili was trying to fix everything, to undo the damage Azog had done and make it all better.

And who was Kili, to say that it was hopeless? Who was he to look his brother and the eye and say not to bother, say that he was beyond redemption? He wanted Fili, he _needed_ him more than ever, he wanted those strong arms around him, Fili’s voice in his ear saying everything was going to be all right, taking the broken pieces of his soul and putting it all back together, stitching up that terrible would Azog had scored in his stained heart.

“I did.” Kili tried to keep his voice calm as he lifted his eyes. “But it’s all right now. We can take it off in Lake-Town.” He didn’t tell his brother that Azog held him down and snapped the bone in his monstrous fingers. He didn’t tell Fili that the orc used it to torture him, twisting his arm after he broke it with a rush of agony so terrible that he lost consciousness. He told Fili only what he needed to hear – that he could fix it.

“All right lads,” Dwalin stomped out from the thicket of low trees, but Fili ignored him. He was looking at Kili with an unsure, tentative smile on his face, one that wobbled and threatened to spill over into a sob. “The others are heading off now, so if we wait a few moments and set out, we’ll stay close, but not _too_ close.” Fili nodded silently, and Kili clung to him for a moment, breathing in and feeling the rough stubble of Fili’s shorn beard scraping against his forehead.

“You’re going to be all right.” Fili breathed into his ear when he stood up. “Kili – we’re going to be fine.” Kili nodded. He didn’t know who he was trying to protect as he kept his mouth closed, allowing Fili to quickly fix his tattered brown hair, letting his own wild curls fall in his face without a thought. He didn’t have to fool himself – Kili _knew_ that it wasn’t going to be all right, not ever. He knew there was no going back from what he did – that he hadn’t seen the last of Thranduil and that wild, red-headed warrior; they would come for him. He knew that Azog’s son would learn what had happened and the name _Kili_ would sound on his bitter, vengeful lips. He knew the goblins beneath the Misty Mountains would remember his beardless face. He knew Thorin would be so violently angry with him when he found out, and Fili wouldn’t be able to save him without drowning.

But he held on to his brother, and tried so hard to forget all of it.


	53. Keeping Secrets

Ori knew it was coming. The first night, he expected Thorin to drag him away from his brothers and into the shadows beyond the fire, where no one could see or hear them. He expected to be banished on the spot, told _get_ _out_ without saying goodbye, to disappear in the night with nobody to defend him. But Thorin was either too tired or hungry or angry to worry about Ori, at that moment. He hid through a restless evening, undetected. He sat between his brothers, the three of them wrapped in a warm, peaceful silence. Nothing needed to be said between any of them. Nori held Ori’s hand tightly around the wrist and wouldn’t let go.  

They rose in the morning, and again Ori thought he would be pulled aside. He caught only a glimpse of Fili, dashing through their ragged little camp without a shirt on. He came back with wet eyes, his cheek very red, not looking at anybody. He slunk off, a wounded animal. Thorin returned several minutes later with a jaw as though carved from stone and still did not ask for Ori. They straightened their fraying underclothes and curled their bare toes and began the march, walking as close as they could to the river. The sun was pale and weak; autumn was waning, and they all read the chill in the morning air. Thorin was tight and strained. Kili’s reappearance took the edge off the company’s tentative happiness – only Bofur was able to crack a smile and his was false, painted on his brittle face. That image of that awful little grey creature sobbing in Fili’s arms hung in the air around them, refusing to leave anybody alone. Ori remembered the screaming in that awful black tongue from beyond the trees, the way Kili curled into his brother’s side and refused to look at anybody. 

Ori tried to keep his head up, tried to not to look particularly miserable. But he must have given off some sort of air because when Bofur found a thicket of whortleberries, he battled the bristly thorns for the sweetest, juiciest berries the sparrows couldn’t quite reach, promptly giving a thick blue handful to Ori with a little, sad smile. They poked and clambered and got themselves scratched and stabbed until the cluster of bushes had been well and truly stripped of even the hardest little green berries. Ori held his stomach and felt the whortleberries churn and writhe, sour bile rising in his throat. He couldn’t look away from Thorin, he watched the dwarf’s back, leading their exhausted company with his mouth set in a grim, hard line. They were three short, and their king suffered the loss of his nephews, of his close friend. Ori felt like he walked on a piece of string, wobbling unsteadily, about to fall at any moment, sink into the grass and crumble into pieces. He wanted to hold his hands over his face and cry, bitter and lonely and afraid.  

But night came and still Thorin did not try to pull Ori away from his brothers. Ori dared to hope he’d been forgotten, that in the midst of all this, Thorin had forgotten about the unnatural, disgusting feelings that Ori kept locked away in his chest. He allowed himself to relax, staring up at the sky with Bilbo sleeping beside him, wrapping a loose thread around his finger. For a moment, he dared to wonder if perhaps he and Kili could still be friends. Ori would have given _anything_ to go back to how it was that summer, to hear Kili’s stupid jokes and have him stealing his things and playing pranks. The little dark-haired idiot never dared to pull the same tricks on any other member of the company; only Ori, because he was younger and he knew Ori would never speak out against him.  

A tight feeling grew in Ori’s chest as he allowed his mind to wander. Guilt had left him wracked with agony. _He had done this_. It burned freshly, when Ori laid eyes on Kili and saw what had resulted of his lovestruck silence. Kili was so lost, so damaged and broken and he knew how hard it would be for all of them to come to terms with what had happened. But Ori would be there, he would – he would do _anything_ for Kili. If he needed a shoulder to cry on, a punching bag, an ear, a helping hand, Ori would do it without thought. He would stretch his body over hot coals for Kili to walk upon without flinching. Ori curled up in the earth without his scarf and mittens, feeling very cold and small, alone in the dark. He tried to be sensible, tried to tell himself that this happened because things got out of hand, Ori had let his love cloud his judgement and let the one he adored sink into darkness, and the worst thing he could do was let it happen again but he could not stop his mind from creating those soft images in his head. 

He was like his mother, Ori supposed. She let love and lust conquer her soul and in the end had three bastard sons and a tarnished name. He was heading down the same obscene path, trudging reluctantly and dragging his feet but always moving on towards that terrible cliff at the end. He deserved it; he was the fatherless son of a loose dam and Ori knew he was destined for the same sticky end.  

But it was all right – Ori didn’t _care_ , he thought of Kili’s smile, the way his eyes lit up and his cheeks crinkled; it made his heart thump in his chest and he knew in that moment just how his mother had allowed all those horrible things to happen to her. He knew that Kili was going to be the death of him and he didn’t care for a single moment if it meant he could make Kili’s face come alive with that wonderful smile, just one more time.  

And just as he let that small seed of hope grow in his heart, Thorin crushed it between his fingers.  

The morning after the second night, when the company awoke buried beneath a carpet of dew, and everybody stamped their bare feet and wished for hot bowls of soup and stew and steaming mugs of strong tea, Ori withdrew into the trees to relieve himself. He came back to find Thorin, standing with his arms crossed beneath the eaves of the dense little forest. His eyes were flat and cold, his mouth set in that hard line and Ori felt something snap deep in his chest, looking at his king.  

“Ori.” Thorin’s voice was low and deadly serious. Ori tried to keep his face still and smooth, tried to keep the tears from stinging in his eyes and his hands from shaking as everything warm and alive inside of him turned ice-cold and lifeless as a winter frost. “We need to talk.” Ori nodded, holding his tongue. He wasn’t expected to respond. He was expected to listen, silent and alone. Thorin was clever, cornering Ori when he was alone. His brothers weren’t here to stick up for them; even if they flanked his skinny arms, Ori doubted they would. “The events of the last two days have... changed things.” He tried to keep his phrasing elegant, but Ori saw right through all of it. “Now that my nephew has... has returned, you must understand things must be made very clear to you.” Ori stared down at the ground. “Are you listening Ori?” 

“Yes, Sir.” He didn’t know where the _sir_ came from. It wasn’t even the right title, it came off as sullen and childish. Ori looked up to see Thorin’s expression had darkened. “Yes, Thorin.” He whispered, hunching his shoulders and trying to seem as small as possible.  

“Good.” Thorin took half a step towards him, his bare feet shuffling across the leaves. Ori bowed his head, squeezing his eyes shut. “I won’t be unreasonable, Ori.” His voice had a hard edge to it. Not angry or full of hatred. Just hard. But it still made Ori’s skin crawl, to hear it used on him. “I won’t send you away, nor will I bar you from speaking to my nephew.” He paused for a moment, as though he expected something from Ori. But the scribe kept his head bowed; his jaw clenched and he found his nails digging into his clasped hands. What did Thorin want? A thank you? Gratitude, for being so very generous? Ori only gave a short nod, waiting for Thorin to continue. “When we arrive in Lake-Town, Fili will rejoin us, and Dwalin will take Kili separately, without fanfare.” Thorin’s voice caught, bitter with helpless anger. It was not how his nephew should ever arrive in the home of their old allies, ready to claim his birthright. But Thorin couldn’t risk an outburst from Kili, in front of the people he wished to curry favour from. He couldn’t.  

“We’re going to work to integrate Kili into the company, quietly and privately.” Ori nodded, knuckles white. “I know you were friends Ori, and I know he is confused and afraid at this moment.” Why did he talk so stiffly? Ori’s nails were etching deep red crescents into his palms. _Just get on with it_. “You may talk to Kili but beyond that, I want strict restraint.” Thorin’s voice was clipped, harder than ever. Ori looked up, mouth dry. “You will not touch him. You will not be alone with him. You will not sit directly beside him at meals. You will not say anything that alludes to your unnatural feelings.” Ori’s lip trembled. “You will be civil and courteous and _nothing_ more. Am I understood?” His hands clenched inside his fraying sleeves, the marks on his palms stung, and Ori knew the hot welling in his eyes were about to spill over.  

“Yes Thorin.” His voice wobbled and Ori knew there was no masking the complete misery. Thorin’s eyes held no pity or kindness for him; they were two cold, sharp blue stones. “I understand completely.” His lips were stiff, the words creaked out of him and Ori felt the tears on his face as he blinked.  

“Good.” Thorin’s eyes lowered, the muscle in his cheek twitched as he turned away and Ori wasn’t sure if he heard his king heaving a long sigh as he walked back towards the camp, or if he imagined it. He remained in the trees, staring ahead, watching the sunlight through the web of slim trunks, waiting for his eyes to dry and his hands to stop shaking before stepping into the cool air, and pretending that nothing at all had happened.  

 

* * *

Fili caught up in the mid-morning. Thorin felt his heart swell inside of him, a smile breaking across his face as his nephew jogged lightly across the grass, his braided mane streaming out behind him. They all waited for him, a tight cluster with Thorin standing at the fore.  

“You didn’t have to run.” Thorin remarked as the blonde slowed in front of him, leaning forward onto his knees. “We would have waited.” Fili wiped his face with a forearm, pushing back the wild curls. “You need to save your strength.” 

“Oh, we ate.” He lowered his eyes, apologetic. “Um, Kili – he found these roots in the ground. We baked them in the fire last night. They were all right – sort of like potatoes, but sweeter.” 

“Bugger.” Bofur groaned. “Y’know what we had? Berries. Not even good ones – whortleberries are all that’s growing, this close to winter.” 

“The leaves look like this.” Fili pulled one out of his pocket. It was the size of his palm, dark green and forked. “We could try and find some if you like.” 

“We’re close enough to Lake-Town.” Thorin muttered. “Let’s just press on.” Bofur took the leaf from Fili’s hand, turning it over and holding it up to the light. 

“Huh. Sweet, you reckon?” Fili nodded. “Did he know what it was called?” Bofur lowered the plant, noticing Fili’s eyes lower, shoulders tense. “Fili?”  

“Um...” He licked his lips, and found he couldn’t look at Thorin. “ _Maathbughnrakh_.” He’d asked Kili to repeat it several times, struggling to get his tongue around the complicated sound. Thorin’s head jerked up, face bone-white. The Black Speech on Fili’s lips dropped like a stone on the ground and they all drew back a little from it. “He must have learned about it when he was with… with… them.”  

“Let’s just go.” Thorin turned away roughly, tense and pale. The word was like a blow to him. Fili fell into step beside his uncle, close enough to listen to his breathing. He could still hear the word, echoing in his head, twisted and ugly. Even _his_ voice had sounded harsh, when he had uttered it. No wonder Thorin couldn’t look at him.  

“I’m sorry.” Fili murmured after they had crossed a small field, ducking into a thicket of low trees. "I s’pose I didn’t think. It’s just a word though, Thorin.” His eyes darted to the side. Thorin stared at the ground, a muscle twitching in his jaw.  

“Odd thing for him to learn though, isn’t it?” Thorin’s voice was low, it teetered on the edge. Fili toyed with the hem of his sleeve while they walked. 

“He would have just picked it up.” Fili let out a long breath. “He would have seen somebody dig it up and asked what it was.” But Thorin, he shook his head, and didn’t seem convinced. “What is it?” He stopped walking, the absence of his feet in the leaf litter making Thorin pause. “Why are you so _angry_ Thorin?” 

“Why do you think I’m angry?” He stepped forward, grabbing Fili’s wrist and leaning in so nobody else could hear them. They had lingered in the back, unnoticed, and now the rest continued on, with only Bilbo noticing the pair had stopped. “Kili is _destroyed_ and I can do nothing!” Thorin hissed, baring his teeth for a moment. “Why do you think he hates me, Fili?” 

“Because he doesn’t understand?” Fili tried to keep his voice calm, tried to make his uncle see sense. Thorin only shook his head, lifting his eyes to the tree-tops. “It’s a misunderstanding – it’s all right, we can sort it out in Lake-Town.” A tremor crept in, and Fili bit his lip.  

“No.” Thorin stared at Fili. “It’s not just a misunderstanding.” He reached out, curling his fingers around Fili’s broad shoulder. “Fili – what has he said to you, about the last three months?” 

“We haven’t talked about it.” Fili’s eyes lowered. “We didn’t need to, I-I’ve _seen_ it.” His breath shook now, and he couldn’t hide it. “I saw it when he insisted on bathing in the river yesterday morning – when he wanted that awful grey stuff off his skin.” He closed his eyes, sick with the memory. “They’re everywhere, Thorin.” Fili could feel his stomach churning. “These awful scars – they were everywhere – they hurt him and they kept doing it, again and again and h-he would have been helpless.” Thorin looked so sad, shoulders low and slumped as his grasp tightened around his nephew. “That awful black thing on his arm – he wears it because it was broken. They broke his _arm_.” His voice rose, trembling hands finding the edge of his shirt. “Our bones are strong Thorin – it wouldn’t have been an accident. They would have held him down and – and – Oh _Mahal_ ,” His knees weakened. Thorin grabbed hold of his arms, feeling sick. “I don’t know what to do.” Fili’s head was bowed. “I don’t know how to help him.”  

“You’re his brother.” Thorin murmured, a knife in his heart as the old, dusty memories were dragged out of deep corners. He couldn't tell Fili what he knew. He just couldn't do it. How would he react, finding out just how far Kili had fallen? What would he say if he knew his _brother_ had become a partner to Azog, had looked up to him like some sort of twisted father? It would crush him, it would tear them apart and they would never be reconciled. Thorin struggled with the deep-seated rage and confusion, turning the scraps of half-heard knowledge over and over in his head beside the fire, wondering just how far his youngest nephew had fallen, how much he had lost, how much of his soul had been stained black. He _fought_ himself, trying to push it all back, trying to tell himself that Kili just did what he had to do, to survive. He had returned to them, alive, and _nothing else mattered._ He repeated those words, over and over and over but Thorin just couldn't believe them somehow. Something dark and unpleasant lurked in his head, and he knew that there was more to Kili's downfall than he would ever admit. “Just be there for him. Listen. Hold him.” _Be everything I couldn’t_. He looked Fili, shaking and frightened, slowly breaking apart. “You need to be strong, Fili.” His hands found his face, angling Fili’s jaw upwards. The golden stubble rasped against his dirty fingers. Fili opened his eyes. “For him.”  

“I’m trying.” His voice was very small. “But things aren’t ever going to be the same again.” Thorin sighed, a long, heavy sigh that deflated his lungs. “He’s not _Kili_ anymore.” 

“Durin’s Folk are made of stronger stuff than that, Fili.” He looked into his nephew’s eyes, sounding low and serious. “We’ve suffered for a hundred years,” Fili returned the stare with those dark blue eyes, “But we _always_ win the fight against darkness. You suffered unimaginable terror, and you are _perfect_ Fili. You have a courage and strength of will I could only dream of.” Fili looked down at his bare feet, silent. “Your mother – after everything that happened to her, she crossed the world to bring you home. She has the strongest heart of anybody I know.” Thorin lifted Fili’s lowered chin. “She’s going to be so proud of you Fili. And Kili, too.” Fili nodded, in silence. “This is what we do, Fili. We endure. We suffer. But we never break down. And just when things seem darkest, when it seems as though it’s about to end, that’s when we fight back.”  

“I need to tell him about our father.” Fili breathed in a sudden realisation. Kili would never come to terms with himself, with what he had done, if he didn’t know the full story. Thorin froze. “He’s scared because he thinks he’s fallen into darkness. If he _knew_ , then maybe, maybe it would… help.” Thorin had gone white again. “I know you didn’t want to tell him – but it can’t be a secret forever.” His grip slackened on Fili’s face. “You’re _wrong_ Thorin. We’re Durin’s Folk, yes, but we’re Ironfists too. And you can’t take that out of us.” His words were hurting his uncle; Thorin winced and looked away, shaking his head. “Don’t you understand? He’s _scared._ He thinks that he’s corrupt, that he’s fallen into darkness. If he knew the truth about his blood, then maybe he wouldn’t be so scared anymore.”  

“No, Fili.” Thorin’s cleared his throat, trying to mask the tremor in his voice. He willed Fili to understand. There was a real danger that Kili could see it as an affirmation of what he had  become. That there was no avoiding the darkness he had fallen into, that it had been hiding inside of himself this whole time, and Azog brought it forward and now it rushed out of him, there was no way to contain it. “They mean nothing to you – you are not one of them. You are _mine,_ both of you.” His eyes became very hard, all of a sudden. “It’s not a burden for him to bear.” 

“ _Secrecy_ is a burden.” Fili shot back. “He’ll be confused and angry but he’ll be stronger, knowing it. I am.” He paused for a moment. “I spent so long, fighting it all back and pretending they were nothing to me, that I was nothing but a Longbeard and it’s not true.” He lifted his eyes. “We’re different, Kili and I. We're not quite like you. I have – I have my father’s temper. I do.” Fili’s chest was so _tight_ , it made it hard for him to breathe. It took a long time, a very long time, for him to come to terms with it. “And I broke down – I _hurt_ you because I didn’t want to admit it. I pushed it down and pretended it wasn’t there until everything exploded.” Thorin couldn’t look at him and his dark blue eyes, at that moment. “If we want Kili to heal – he needs to know who he really is, Thorin.” And he was – he _was_ and Fili wouldn’t accept any other truth for a moment.  

“No matter what I say, you’re going to tell him.” Thorin’s voice was low in his throat. There was nothing he could do, without hurting one of them. There was no stopping Fili, when his mind had settled on something. He was too stubborn and wilful to let anybody, even Thorin, tell him no. Somebody was going to learn the truth. Somebody was going to get hurt. Thorin closed his eyes and tried to calm the maelstrom that roared in his ears. Secrets and lies, they were what kept Fili and Kili together at the moment; thick, black cords. And the truth, the truth was like a knife. He could either drive it into the heart of one of his nephews, or cut those lies away and drive them apart, for _ever._

“Not all of it.” He didn’t need to know what happened to his mother. Kili didn’t need to know he was conceived. Nobody ever needed to know that. Fili would take the secret to his grave. Kili didn’t need to know how their mother would hold her pregnant stomach and cry bitterly, in those lonely, cold nights on the road when she thought Fili was asleep. But he needed to know that there was a darkness that lay in his blood, that he was the last in a long line stained with violence. He wouldn’t be so self-loathing, so bitter, if he knew what shaped him.  

“Hi you two!” Balin’s voice rang through the trees, and both uncle and nephew jumped. “C’mon, hurry up! We can see the lake from here!”  

“You know him better than me.” Thorin's hands were still at his sides, shrunken and defeated. "You won't listen to me if I tell you no." He felt sick with himself. It was a betrayal, and he knew it. Kili was always the one he looked after. Kili was always the one who _needed_ him, needed that special love and attention and care because he was so naive and stupid and frail. Fili was perfect, he was always perfect; strong enough for the both of them, brave and quick and clever. Fili was solid and reliable. He didn't realise just how deeply dependent both brothers were on one another. He knew Kili needed Fili - but he never realised how much Fili needed Kili. The old Kili, the one who seemed lost to them, forever. But even Fili didn't see just what his brother had become. He never would suggest telling the truth, if he did. "But you must tell me when you're about to do it." In letting this happen, Thorin had made his choice. He was going to lose Kili, irrevocably. He could imagine the screaming already. _How could you keep this secret from me. How could you hide the truth for so long. What else don't I_ _know._ It would affirm everything he had been fed about Thorin - that he thought Kili small and weak and useless. Kili would hate him for this, a cold, deep hate that would never go away.  

He wanted to cry. He wanted to sink to his knees and sob. He didn't know what to do, how he could fix this. Thorin felt attacked from all sides, memories and lies and secrets and horrible truths, they all beat at him, hundreds of fists pounding him into the ground, breaking him down. He knew he was going to have to be hard with Kili. His nephew was going to hit out at him with that old Ironfirst rage and Thorin knew this time he could not take the blows in silence. How did it all turn against him, again? _How come he was always the one they hated?_ How did he always wind up taking the blame, the object of anger and hatred? Dís had hated him, Fili had hated him, and now Kili hated him too. What had he done, to constantly drive them all away?  

He walked briskly, several steps ahead of Fili as though he tried to avoid all of it. He didn't glance back at his nephew. His heart too much, to think about either of them. His protection and care had been so woefully inadequate, he failed the both of them so badly, and all he could do was stand and take that misdirected anger, hurled so violently at him. No - with Kili, he couldn't even do _that._ He was going to have to be hard, going to have to tell Kili to keep quiet, strike out a hard compromise that ensured those horrible secrets were kept. He wanted to hold Kili and let the truth come out, let the three of them clear everything aside and start again, bruised and battered but scrubbed clean.  

But it couldn't happen. He knew it had fallen beyond that. There was too much darkness and pain, too much hurt locked away and left to fester and rot. All he could do was try and hold the ragged bond between Fili and Kili together, and let his own fall away. 

 


	54. Just Breathe

“Bain – don’t wander too far!”

The child paid no heed to his father, the early-winter air running through his dark hair as he broke into a run. The well-trod path zig-zagged along a ragged string of low hills, open and grassy.  The River Running gushed along his right, Bain’s soft boots trampling over the last determined clusters of dandelions. It was a clear, cold morning, as fresh and clean as a mountain-stream. He turned back near the crest of the hill, grinning down at the figure marching slowly at the low foothills.

“Hurry up, Papa!” He cupped his hands around his mouth, obviously excited. The sooner they made it to the little forest that lay just a few miles west, the sooner they could make camp, lie in the thicket and wait for the promise of game. The bow and quiver thudded across his back as he ran, over the edge of the hill and down into a shallow dale, laughing. But in a moment, the laughter died, and the boy pulled up short in his run, staring at the frozen cluster of bodies in the grass.

“Slow down!” Bard’s voice sounded on the other side of the hill, his son standing very still, halfway down the gentle slope. “We won’t see a thing ‘til near dusk, there’s no use in running.” Bain instinctively took a step back, eyes very wide. His father’s voice was thin and distant.

Thorin stared back at the child, edging to the fore of the company and weighing him up. He looked confused, rather than scared. He read the boy’s face and knew in a moment that he had never seen a dwarf in his young life. He tilted his head to the side – and he _waved._ Bain waved at the dwarves, breaking into a smile. Thorin smoothed down the front of his rumpled tunic, hurriedly dragging his fingers through his hair before taking a step forward. He looked from Bain to the top of the hill, where his father emerged.

“Bain!” Bard tore an arrow from his quiver as he ran, notching the string of his vast bow with flawless instinct. Bain took another step back, hands disappearing into the sleeves of his fur-lined coat. He thought he was in trouble. Thorin spread out his hands at the sight of the weapon, biting hard on his lip. “Get back.” He panted, stepping in front of his son with the arrow aimed firmly at Thorin’s chest. “Who are you?” Bard demanded, lip curling. The dwarves looked ragged and exhausted, but the shock of seeing them, of having his son run unaware into a group of complete strangers had rattled him, badly.

“Lower your weapon.” Thorin’s voice was deep and steady, filling the cool, sunny air. “I promise, I mean you no harm-”

“Who are you?” Bard repeated, his voice sharper. “Dwarves, I see. Are you heading towards the Iron Hills? Further East?” His eyes narrowed, waiting for a response.

“Neither.” Thorin drew himself up to his full height. “My name is Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, King Under the Mountain. This is my sister-son Fili, and Balin, son of Fundin.” The two stood at Thorin’s side, on his left and right. Bard slowly lowered his bow. “My companions and I have come to reclaim our homeland.” If the bowman was surprised, he didn’t show it. They locked eyes, two heirs of thrones lost to dragon’s flame, although one did not know.

“It is an honour to meet you, Thorin Thrain’s son.” He inclined his head in a slow, almost reluctant bow. “The stories and songs of your people still ring in the air of Lake-Town.” But while his words were warm, Bard’s tone remained wary and guarded. Only the momentary widening of his eyes, one Thorin could not see, gave him away. But it was caught by Ori with his quick artist’s focus. “They call me Bard.” Thorin looked the man up and down in his rugged, simple clothes. He was dressed for hunting in winter, draped loosely in thick skins with a bristling quiver strapped across his back. Obviously not a person of particular importance. “If there is any way my son and I can be of service, we are happy to oblige.”

“But Papa the deer...”

“ _Quiet_ Bain.” He hissed out of the corner of his mouth. His mind still whirled at the sight of the hungry, ragged dwarves before them, their self-styled leader who claimed to be the descendant of Erebor’s long-lost king. Bard was growing anxious and uncomfortable, quickly _._ How could this little cluster of broken-down, barefoot creatures barely four feet tall possibly defeat a _dragon?_

“We require passage to Lake-Town.” Thorin oozed back into his smooth voice, the one he used to flatter and wheedle. “Do you have space enough for my kin and I aboard your ship?” Bard’s eyes flicked backwards for a moment, to the little rowboat dragged on the shore beyond the low hills.

“It’ll be a tight fit, but you’ll manage.” Bard slung his yew bow across his back, taking his son by the arm. “Follow me, Thorin Oakenshield.” Bain stared at him, eyes wide and accusing. _You promised_. “Tomorrow.” He muttered in the child’s ear. “We’ll go tomorrow.”

“Who are they Papa?” Bain whispered back. “Do you know them? I didn’t know you had dwarf-friends.” He glanced back. “They’re dirty.”

“Hush son.” He tugged the child on. “You know the stories people tell about Erebor and Dale, don’t you? His grandfather was king there, before the dragon came.”

“You said not to listen to those stories.” Brown eyes frowned up at Bard. “You said they were stupid.”

“They are stupid.” Bard muttered on the very edge of his breath. As they came to the crest of the hill, he saw Lake-Town, looking very drab and muddy in the glittering water. Thin houses of wood leaned against one another, connected by lopsided boardwalks and bridges. His throat closed at the sight of it, and he couldn’t ignore a stab of terror in his chest, as he stared down at his home.

* * *

Bard was right – it was a _very_ tight fit. While the boat would have effortlessly fitted Bard, his son, and a few cleaned deer carcasses, eleven dwarves and a hobbit had some real trouble squeezing into the little craft. Thorin looked downright sullen as he sat on the bench, sandwiched firmly between Balin and Gloin. His vision of returning to Lake-Town had been considerably different to this. And Bard, this lanky drab man with his mop-haired child, he struck Thorin as _strange_. He didn’t seem surprised to see them at all, he didn’t even seem _happy_. He remained hard and firm, and wouldn’t look any of the dwarves in the eye.

As one of the youngest and thinnest, Fili was resigned to curling up on the tiny deck beside Bofur. There was an elbow in his side and someone stood on his toe and his knees ached. He leaned against the side of the little boat, closing his eyes as the sunlight gently brushed his face.

“Well, it’s better than a barrel.” Bofur remarked, almost cheerful as he settled down with his legs folded. The craft bobbed dangerously low in the water, groaning under the weight. “More room. And the air’s nice.”

“A barrel?” Fili opened his eyes. Bain rested his head on his hands, sitting on the bench opposite Thorin. His skinny leg was wedged quite firmly against Fili’s side, and he swung the other a little, his toe brushing Fili’s shin. “Y’mean, what you put food in?”

“Yes.” Bard raised an eyebrow, bent over an oar. Bifur took the other, the two working into a short, choppy rhythm. Fili’s lip curled in a little smile. “It was Bilbo’s idea.” He jerked his head towards the hobbit, sitting with curled legs beside Ori on the right side of the tiny boat.

“What’s your name again?” Fili looked up at the boy.

“Fili.” His legs were already stiff. Bain stared down at him a little frown on his face. “What’s wrong?”

“If you’re a dwarf, where’s your beard?” Bard made a strangled noise in his throat, shooting his son a filthy glare.

“Um,” Fili rubbed at his face, feeling his cheeks grow hot under the child’s star. At his side, Bofur bit back a smile, and Thorin closed his eyes, looking pained. “I um, I cut it off.”

“Why?”

“Stop asking questions Bain.” Bard elbowed his son in the side. “Sorry, he’s just curious. Dwarves don’t come by Lake-Town anymore.” But there was a little frown on his face as he stared at Fili, Thorin’s nephew, so obviously different from the rest with his golden hair.

“Who does stop by Lake-Town?” Thorin spoke up. “Trade must have dried up, since Dale and Erebor fell.”

“Thranduil’s desires for exotic luxuries keep the traders coming back.” Bard spoke shortly, growing tired under the weight of the boat. “But they’re not as thick as they used to be.” Thorin watched him row. “There’s no other settlement of men for hundreds of miles. Nowhere else for us to go.” Bard’s eyes lowered for a moment. “The town’s dying.” He spoke frankly. “Thranduil doesn’t want the goods we craft. We’re little more than a port. It’s good for the merchants but the trade doesn’t help the common man. We’re not prosperous, Thorin Oakenshield. Spirits are low, especially this time of year. The Master will be happy to see you.” Bard sounded grim, and his expression darkened at the mention of Lake-Town’s ruler.

“The Master?”

“He’s funny.” Bain frowned. “He talks funny and he wears funny clothes. I don’t like him.”

“ _Hush_ Bain!” The bowman paused for a moment to cuff his son over the head. “The Master rules over us. His real name’s Maxwell, but he won’t answer to it. I’ll be blunt.” Bard’s jaw tensed for a moment. “He’s an idiot. He doesn’t know the first thing about how to run a town. But he knows how to stay popular.” He shot Bain a hard glare. “And _don’t_ repeat that.”

“How come you can say it and I can’t?” Fili burst out laughing, covering his smile with a hand at the child’s words. He couldn’t help himself – it just seemed so _funny,_ that inquisitive, reckless child who blurt everything out without thinking. He had soft, fond memories at that moment. Memories of Kili. He tensed for a moment, thinking about Kili now, separated from them with Dwalin, and he fell silent, the laughter dying.

“Sorry.” He looked up after a stiff moment. “You just reminded me of someone else.” He felt Bofur briefly squeeze his arm, packed in tightly beside him. Fili looked at Thorin for a moment, his uncle staring across the water with a deep frown etched into his face.

“What do you with yourself, Bard?” Thorin shifted his gaze to the man, sweat breaking out on his dark brow. “Merchant or craftsman?”

“Journeyman woodturner.” Bard spoke shortly. “Mostly plates and knives. Little call for weapons in Lake-Town. We don’t have a standing army.”

“This close to Erebor?” Thorin’s frown deepened. “Is that wise?”

“Armies are expensive.” Bard panted, his strength flagging. “They have to be fed and housed and clothed, and for what? Smaug hasn’t been seen in our lifetime.”

“Old Ethel says she remembers him.” Bain spoke up. Bilbo looked up from his toes, looking quite pale. “Biiig teeth, eyes the size of yer ‘ead, wings that could block out the sun.” He spread out his hands, looking positively excited at the mention of Smaug.

“I remember the dragon well.” Thorin muttered. Bain dropped his hands. “Words cannot convey his strength and might. You have to see him, to understand.”

“I hope he won’t.” Bard’s voice was razor-sharp. Swear poured down his face now, and his shoulders were slumped. Fili looked at his thin arms, the low bobbing of the overstuffed craft, and very slowly, he began to rise.

“Fili?”

“Move over, I’ll row.” Fili extended a hand, smiling. “Looks like hard work.”

“Thank you. Bain, shove off.” He pushed his son in the small of the back, throwing off his jacket and scooting across the boards, wiping his forehead with an arm. Thorin stared down at his hands, picking self-consciously at the dirt under his nails, a loose thread in his sleeve. “Dare I ask where you have been, Thorin Oakenshield?”

“Mirkwood.” Thorin muttered shortly, not lifting his gaze. Bard nodded silently, knowing nothing more needed to be said. He knew the horrors that plagued that dark forest. They all did. “The Master – tell me more about him.” He needed to know what kind of person he would be dealing with. He needed to how to get what he needed.

“He likes his wine and food. He’ll find any excuse to throw a feast, even if stores are low. He’s not a cruel man, his laws aren’t stern, but the taxes are higher than they should be. They need to be, to furnish his lifestyle.” Bard looked across the water, with a little twist of his mouth. “He’s a coward.”

“And yet you say he is popular.” Thorin leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“People like him.” Bard sighed. “As I said, he’s not cruel. Most people don’t worry about politics. They’re more concerned with feeding themselves and their children.”

“And you?”

“I could imagine somebody worse.” Bard’s twisted mouth curled upwards. “It’s not my place to criticise the Master. I’m only a simple journeyman.” But there was an edge, a hardness in his voice, that stuck with Thorin. He looked from Bard to his nephew, rowing beside him, and back. “As I said, he will be happy to see you.” _You don’t sound it._ Thorin frowned at the bowman, with his eyes fixed over the water.

“What of his men? Advisors, officers, that sort of thing.”

“Either incompetent or dishonest.” Bard said flatly. Bain stared up at his father, silent, absorbing every word. “Don’t expect to get anything out of them. His Undersecretary is utterly daft and most probably corrupt. The Chief of the Guard is drunk most of the time. His Treasurer has eyes everywhere and you can’t make as much as a brass farthing without him knowing about it and screaming for tax.” He gave a little shake of his head. “Tread lightly, Thorin Oakenshield. Upset one and they will all turn against you.”

“We have no reason to upset anybody.” Thorin gave Balin an uneasy look. The white-haired dwarf only shrugged his shoulders, giving his king a small shake of the head. “We only wish to rest a few days and gather supplies. We will reward you in due course, for the hospitality you show us.”

“I am sure you will.” The edge to Bard’s voice had sharpened. “Forgive me, but I’m not exactly what eleven dwarves and a hobbit can do against a dragon, no matter how well-armed.”

“We’re stronger than we look.” Thorin sounded bold and confident. “I have no fear of dragon’s flame, Bard of Lake-Town.”

“That’s what I fear.” He whispered the words, low on his breath, and only Fili heard him.

* * *

“At least the weather’s nice.” They sat side-by-side on the grass beside the lake, leaning against a rock with their legs stretched out. Kili leaned against Dwalin’s shoulder, twirling the necklace with his good hand, staring out across the Lake. It was as still and smooth as glass, sparkling with thousands of diamonds in the watery sunlight. They saw a boat, one they hoped was sailing towards them, almost swallowed up in that flat, glistening water. “I wouldn’t fancy waiting in the rain.”

“It was a cold autumn.” Kili murmured. His was leg warm, pressed against the elder dwarf. Dwalin had his arm thrown across Kili’s back, holding him at the waist. “Even under the trees.”

“Did you have a decent shirt?” Kili’s head shook against Dwalin’s shoulder. He sighed, his arm tightening around the little dwarf. “I’m sorry lad.”

“It’s not your fault.” Kili whispered. “It wasn’t too cold. I had furs, and I slept with Nardur a lot, he helped keep me warm.”

“Who?” Dwalin drew back, frowning down on him. Kili bit his lip, dragging his eyes from the water and up to Dwalin’s face.

“Nardur. He was um, he was my warg.” He looked down, realising he couldn’t maintain his stare with those hard dark eyes. “Azog decided I should have my own warg. I guess he thought it would make me more, you know, like them.” He sounded bitter. “It worked. He was a stupid idiot but I loved him to bits.” Kili swallowed, looking down at his tooth. “I didn’t want to leave him.”

“Was that his?” Dwalin’s hand brushed Kili’s collarbone, pointing at the necklace. It slipped from Kili’s fingers, he let go of it as though the tooth had burned him.

“No.” His voice trembled. “It was...” His gaze lifted. “Can you keep a secret, Dwalin?”

“Come now Kili.” He pressed his lips against Kili’s tangled mop of hair. “You’ve told me more secrets than I could count, and I’ve kept them all, no matter how dark and strange.” Dwalin smiled. “Even when we thought you were gone for good, I kept every one of them.” Kili’s big dark eyes stared up at them. “Every single one. I promise.”

“Azog gave it to me.” Kili’s voice wobbled. He felt Dwalin’s arm tense around him, and that sudden jerk of the muscles very nearly sent him into tears. “And – I can’t give it up. I know I shouldn’t hold on to it but – but I just can’t let it go.” He clenched his eyes shut, tightly. “I can’t let him go.” His voice was a dying whisper.

“Kili.” Dwalin got up from the rock, crouching before the young dwarf with his bare feet on either side of those skinny legs. He held Kili’s face in his hands. “Kili, look at me.” Reluctantly, he opened his eyes. “What _happened?_ ” Their noses were very close. “Talk to me. Let me in. I promise I will never think less of you.” But Kili closed his eyes and turned his face downward. “We _understand._ I know horrible things would have happened, things we couldn’t begin to imagine. I know you would have been scared and lonely and in pain. It’s all right. Open your eyes.” He smiled again as Kili’s dark lashes flickered. “We’re just so happy to have you here with us. Nothing else matters.”

“No.” Kili’s jaw was trembling in Dwalin’s hand. “It’s _not._ I did – horrible things. I was a _monster_ and I can’t... I can’t ever make things right.” Dwalin leaned forward onto his knees, winding his arms loosely around Kili’s bony chest, giving him room to move. “I said I hated them. I _told Azog_ I didn’t have an uncle.” Kili moaned, humiliated and afraid. “He had me – he had complete control and he – he _knew_ it.” Kili gritted his teeth, digging the heels of his palms into his burning eyes. “I broke – he snapped me into pieces, in _days_ and I-I just wanted it to _stop._ ” Dwalin tightened his hold on Kili’s shoulders. “I just wanted him to stop hurting me and then I saw the tomb and I r-realised no one was coming and-”

“Tomb?” Dwalin felt like a rock had fallen in his chest, crashing through his ribs like rotten beams, a horrible crushing feeling filling him. “Y-You saw the tomb?”

“Seventeenth of Motsognír.” Kili looked up, his eyes red. “Two days, Dwalin.” He couldn’t fight the sob that burst through his lips, the anger and betrayal burning freshly in his chest. “How _could_ you?”

“Oh Mahal, I’m sorry.” Dwalin closed his own eyes, feeling sick. “I’m so sorry, Kili.”

“I was so angry.” Kili breathed. “I held out – I thought that someone would come for me – I couldn’t understand how Thorin – how Fili – how you, h-how you would all leave me to die.” Dwalin couldn’t look him in the eye, couldn’t stand that dark, bitter reproach. “And Azog – He was... He was there. And you weren’t.” He wrapped his arms around his middle, leaning forward as though he battled a wave of nausea. “And I thought that – that you didn’t come for me because I wasn’t worth it.” Kili’s face crumpled in the memory. “And that _hurt._ It hurt so much more than the beating and the torture.” Dwalin held his breath, eyes stinging, terrified that a sob was going to break out and give him away.

“He was _so_ smart Dwalin. Azog knew exactly how I felt and knew how to turn me against you.” Kili paused for air. “He said he would take me with him, when he was done wiping you out. He said I could stay, that I didn’t have to die. He said he needed me.” Kili let out a short laugh, riddled with self-disgust and bitter anger. “How could I have been so _stupid?_ ” His fingers curled in his hair. He tried to tell himself it was all a trick. “How could I believe him?” He tried to tell himself Azog had always been lying, that the bond between them was a hollow lie and the orc-king felt nothing for him. He tried to tell himself that he was simply tricked and now it was over he turned away from all of it in frank disgust, ready to put it behind him completely. He tried to tell himself that it was done.

But it wasn’t.

“You were frightened.” Dwalin slowly rubbed Kili’s arms, feeling his heart break inside of him, crushed under that heavy rock. He misunderstood. “We failed you, Kili. We failed you terribly.” His fingers brushed the scar on Kili’s cheek. “I won’t let it happen again. You have to trust me on this.”

“I want to.” Kili couldn’t look him in the eye. “I want to trust you but–” his hand found the necklace, curling in a fist around it. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead in Dwalin’s neck with a frustrated moan as the words bubbled up inside of him, words he could not dare to speak. “What is _wrong_ with me?” Dwalin traced a wide circle across Kili’s back with his monstrous palm.

“Nothing, son.” Both of them froze as the word slipped out. Dwalin tightly closed his eyes, hoping Kili couldn’t feel how his heart started to race. Again _no it happened again._ First Fili and now Kili _Dwalin you idiot._ Dwalin tried not to let anything give him away, tried to act as though it was entirely natural of him. “Nothing is wrong with you at all.”

“I just want to forget.” His muffled voice curled around Dwalin’s cracked heart. “But I can’t – not ever. I close my eyes and I just see him.” Dwalin rocked slowly from side to side, as thought he was soothing a small child. “I can’t tell Fili – he’s not strong enough. If he knew, he’d shatter. I know he would.” Dwalin rested his chin on Kili’s head. “But it’s tearing me apart inside. I don’t know what to _do.”_

“Fili is stronger than you give him credit for.” Dwalin murmured. “When we thought you were gone – it shook him up badly. But it held a lot of realisation for him. He didn’t realise how much he needed you until he was gone, and he had to try and get by without you. But he wants to help you. Nothing will make him happier than having you fixed.” Kili turned his face, pressing his cheek against Dwalin’s shoulder and staring out at the lake. _Fixed_. He mouthed the word, lips drooping downward.

“And if I can’t be fixed?”

“You can.” Dwalin cupped the back of his head, holding him very, very tightly. “You will be.” He refused to believe otherwise, for a moment.

* * *

It didn’t seem _real_ to Fili. Standing at Thorin’s right hand on that elevated platform, the cheering of dozens and dozens of men and women and little girls and boys. The mountain looming beyond the edge of the lake, glistening in the afternoon sunlight. The red velvet robe of the Master, braided with gold. It all mixed together, it blurred in front of Fili, whirling and spinning and all he wanted was to have Kili beside him.

Thorin was shouting something. Fili could hear his voice ringing out beside him, felt Thorin’s hand clench around his wrist, raising his arm in triumph and he had the grace to force his face into what he thought might have been a pleased expression. But inside, he felt as though he was falling, and spinning, he didn’t know which way was up or down and everything sounded muffled and far away.

Why was he freezing up? Was it the shock? Some sort of exhaustion? He was thirsty, that was for sure. His tongue felt thick and fuzzy, behind his lips. Fili stared at the faces turned up to him but they were blank, white pinpricks in his half-blind, hazy vision. The Master was speaking now, he stood in front of Fili and the blonde caught a glimpse of his glistening bald head. He closed his eyes, bowed his head and tried to clear it all out.

Nobody had ever cheered for him before. Nobody had ever stood below him with their faces turned up in such joy and happiness. It was an alien sensation to Fili, and somehow, _he didn’t feel pleased_. He remembered his talks with Thorin, the fighting, how he ran away and cut his beard, the mistakes he made, how frail and insecure he really was – and the cheering crowd before him rose in a roar. He was going to be sick. Fili cast a brief glance to his left, tried to make out the shape of his uncle’s face. He looked pleased with all of this; a stoic, high-chinned sort of pleased, where he tried and failed to look humble.

The Master was shaking _his_ hand now, bowing deeply, and Fili inclined his own head, forcing a graceful smile. Some sort of stiff _thank-you_ came out of his mouth, feeling like a toy that had been wound up too tight. It didn’t feel _real_ to Fili, at this moment. It felt like a dream, and all the colours were too bright and garish. He didn’t know what to do with his hands, how he should hold his face. It was a relief when Thorin started pulling him away, walking along the wooden platform. He followed blindly, stumbling, allowing his uncle to gently guide him out of that too-bright sunshine into the soft, pleasant darkness of a hallway.

“Fili.” His hands were clasped together around Fili’s neck. “Look at me – are you all right? What’s wrong?” Thorin looked sharper in the dimmer light. Fili blinked, waiting for the blurred lines to move and take shape.

“I’m fine.” He was _so thirsty._ “So many people...” Fili stared outwards, eyes still half-blind. “Just... lots to take in.”

“Stage fright.” And Thorin broke into a grin. “It’s scary at first, isn’t it?” He palmed the side of Fili’s face. “They’re going to throw a feast in our honour tonight. Come.” Thorin drew back, taking Fili’s arm. “They’re going to try and find clothes to fit us in the meantime and bring a tailor tomorrow.” The others had already disappeared, ushered into a warm bright room with gleaming copper tubs slowly filling with pails of heated water, clothes laid out and trays of meats and cheese. Fili nodded, watching his uncle’s figure. He was more energetic than Fili had seen in months. He loved this, every inch of this, being pampered and waited on, standing before a cheering crowd. This was natural to him, it already lingered in the dusty corners of his ageing memory. But it was new to Fili, it fell over him like a bright, heavy blanket, suffocating him. “You need to look your best for tonight, Fili. They’ll be looking at you.”

 _What about Kili?_ But he had the sense to keep his mouth shut. Fili looked at Thorin, leading him down the hallway towards an open door. Butter-yellow light spilled out of it, the sound of laughter. Fili closed his eyes, and tried just to breathe. They would all be looking at him. He was filled with terror at the thought and he didn’t know why.

He just didn’t want to do it alone. He wanted Kili. He _needed_ Kili, to sit beside him and whisper in his ear and make fun of the Master’s stupid hair and robes and point out the pretty lasses and make a mess of the food. Fili’s heart sank as he stepped into the room. It sank with the cold realisation that Kili wouldn’t do that, even if he _was_ there. He wouldn’t make jokes. He wouldn’t laugh. He would be cold and quiet, terrified at all the eyes on him, trying to shrink away and look small, humiliated and afraid. Thorin couldn’t have that, not when he was trying to curry favour with these people. He couldn’t have his name soured by someone like Kili.

Hopelessness left him feeling sick. Fili sank into a spindly chair, head in his hands. Thorin had left him, rushing off to talk to Balin and pick over the meats. Fili couldn’t eat, even though he ached with hunger. He had thought – had _hoped_ that they would be able to pick up the pieces of their lives and move on together, Fili and Kili, not needing or wanting anything else, ever. But they were splitting apart already. Fili looked forward and saw the feasts and banquets and parties that he would sit through with a stiff smile carved onto his face while Kili lingered alone, shut up, locked away. Thorin had made it clear to Fili that he wasn’t going to let Kili come storming back in, throwing rocks and swearing in that orcish tongue. He couldn’t afford that. He wasn’t being heartless; he was being practical. Fili couldn’t blame him for that, even though Thorin left him aching with rage. He couldn’t blame his uncle for having the right priorities, even if they felt so very, very wrong to Fili. They couldn’t bear the weight of another fight between them.

 _Mahal, help me._ Fili tried to breathe. Just breathe. _Help us both._


	55. Chrysalis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is probably going to confuse a lot of people who have been keeping up and I better explain. 
> 
> I deleted chapters 55, 56, and 57. And it would be quite nice if we could all just pretend that they didn't really exist. I made a mistake, I dropped the ball big time and I'm trying to go back and fix it. The story is far from complete and I believe it's well within my prerogative to make a dramatic improvement if I deem it worthy - and in this case it really really was. They just... weren't good. I'll admit it. Some of it was all right but it was heading down a direction that I really didn't want to take. It was injustice to me, the characters, and you guys as well. So I deleted them, sat down and thought about where I wanted the story to go - and I realised that with the characterisation I have slowly built up, with Fili and Kili being as starkly different as they are to their old selves and each other, with their relationship as strained as it is with Thorin and with this whole backstory about them and their parents being built up...
> 
> A retelling of Erebor/BoFA would just be boring. I'm sorry but it would be. We've read the book itself, we've read the many many fanfic retellings of it, and we'll all see it in cinemas in 2014. There's very little for me to gain from having it follow that plotline in the same sense. The characters are too different, at this point. The story is geared very differently. The same basic plot elements will still all be there - the story is heading for that natural conclusion in the basic narrative - but I'm going to tell it differently. Because why not? Why not take this opportunity to tell a new story and to push the boundaries? Isn't that what fanfic is about, exploring the what if? 
> 
> But for that to happen, I sorta have to backtrack a bit. Chapter 55 isn't rewritten in its entirety - it's modified. Mostly Kili. His initial reaction was just... It wasn't how someone as tough and enduring as him should have responded. He should have fought back, he should have stood up for himself and called Thorin out on his bullshit and had a bloody spine. So that's what I did. And the ending does feel different, already. Kili has a different prescence, I think.

It was the best room of the house, the servant declared as he opened the door for Thorin, leaving him to it with a low bow. The biggest bed, the softest long couch before the fire, the thickest woven rug on the floorboards. Thorin sat down now, running his fingers over an embroidered cushion, soft brocade edged with gold.

And he waited. He waited with his hands clasped in his lap, listening to the rest of the Company below, still laughing over a few ales. They weren’t used to it, this luxury. Although a beautiful drawing room had been set up with extra chairs, they all preferred to sit in a small, dimly-lit room with a long table and a huge iron stove against the wall. It had been some sort of second kitchen, before the house had been divided into apartments the grand stove left disused. The dwarves took it for themselves, dragging the sturdiest wooden chairs before the fire, lighting their pipes and pouring heavy mugs of ale, already tipsy and overstuffed from their feast.

Thorin stared at his hands, trying to breathe in and out, slowly, and calm the anxious beating of his heart. His skin felt too tight, stretched over his muscle and veins, throbbing. He closed his eyes, head sinking downwards, into splayed palms, as he waited for the knock on the door to come.

And yet when it did, Thorin felt as though it was too soon. He stood up, face pale and hands shaking. He crossed the room in silence, looking about at the paintings on the wall, the vases of polished pewter and bronze, the hanging drapes. He wished he’d thought to strip the room bare first. There was a lot of Kili to break, if he descended into one of his angry fits.

Dwalin smiled as his king opened the door, his arm around Kili’s shoulders. Thorin stared down at his nephew, feeling his throat close as Kili glared back at him, lip curling in a snarl. There was no love in his eyes. Not tonight.

“Thank you.” Dwalin pushed the young dwarf inside the room. Kili stood with his arms crossed, shoulders hunched and staring at the floor. “The rest are downstairs – you should join them. Have a drink.” Thorin managed to force a smile on his own face, but Dwalin shook his head, giving Kili an uneasy glance.

“I’ll wait outside.” He murmured. “Good luck.” There was a heavy grief in his voice as he turned away and closed the door. Dwalin didn’t think this was a good idea. He didn’t want it to happen. Thorin only nodded silently, closing the door behind his friend as he left the room, gently sliding the lock closed.

“I have nothing to say to you.” Kili’s voice was hard, harder than it had even been at the river. He glared at Thorin, a pain hatred that went down to his bones. “I don’t-”

“I didn’t ask you to speak.” Thorin leaned his forehead against the carved door, his heart already cracking in two at the dread, the horror of what he was going to have to do. He was going to make himself the villain, in this. There was no way he could avoid it. “You are here to listen.” Thorin turned to look at him, keeping his face steady. “Sit down.”

“I’m not-”

“Sit _down_.” Thorin repeated, his voice rising. “Just sit down and _listen_ to me.”

“No.” Kili folded his arms, refusing to budge an inch. “I prefer to stand.”

“Kili –” Thorin cut himself off with a low groan. “Just listen to me. Will you do that?” His nephew only gave him a cool, measured stare. “Just listen.” He took two steps towards Kili, still wearing those awful black clothes with that piece of warped iron on his arm. It hurt to look at him. “Fili told me that you think there was some sort of ransom-”

“I don’t _think.”_ Kili snarled. His barbed voice drained the colour out of Thorin’s face. “I know. I know exactly what you did, Thorin.”

“No, you don’t.” Thorin took another step, keeping his hands spread out, trying to look peaceful. “Kili I swear on my grandfather’s grave, I never saw a thing. If I knew, if I had _any_ idea there was a chance-”

“Oh, shut _up!”_ Kili stamped his foot, refusing to listen to yet another half-hearted apology. “We both know you don’t mean it!” Thorin froze, the air robbed from his lungs. “Just have the _decency_ to admit what you’ve done.” He held out a shaking hand. “Just admit it and give my necklace back!”

“Y-Your necklace?”

“ _Yes_ my necklace.” Kili spat. “The one you made for me on my name-day. Oh, don’t _look_ at me like that, Thorin!” His uncle gaped at him, a suffocating fish with wide, staring eyes and slack mouth. “You know exactly what I mean. Azog took it as ransom. I _know_ you have it.” Thorin shook his head, wordless, “Or am I not _worthy_ anymore, after what’s happened?” It cut into his heart, tore it apart, to hear Kili’s words, so cruel and hard and biting.

“Kili.” He gasped for air. “Kili I never saw the necklace.” He tried to stop the awful pitching, the roaring, as guilt and horror pressed in on him. He’d forgotten – he’d _forgotten about it_ and if he’d seen, if he’d noticed that it was gone then maybe – maybe he would have thought that there was a chance that Kili was still alive, and none of this would have ever happened. He leaned forward, hands on his knees with a moan. “I promise you – I never saw it. Not once.”

“Why are you lying.” Kili’s hoarse whisper was barely audible, over the crackling of the fire. “A-are you trying to save face? Because you thought I would never come back, and you could just ignore it and pretend you never had a second nephew?” Thorin looked up, at the planes of Kili’s face, half golden-brown and half plunged into black shadow. “Because you’re caught – you fooled _everyone_ and now you have to face up to what you’ve done? Why won’t you tell me the _truth!”_

“Kili.” Thorin croaked, sinking to his knees. “Kili every word I am saying is true. We _never_ saw a ransom. We – we searched for you – we thought you were dead – _I_ thought you were dead – please, you have to forgive me for this, I never-”

“ _Stop it!”_ Kili crouched down before Thorin, grabbing the front of his new clothes.  Thorin held his breath, unable to look away. Kili’s eyes were black, hollow in the firelight, jaw set in a rock-hard scowl. He closed his eyes, letting out the low moan of a dying animal. He couldn’t bear to look at him. “Even if Azog screwed up and never sent the ransom – even if you didn’t know it was all him – You _never_ looked for me! You never even tried!”

“Kili – we looked _everywhere_ - _”_

_“Two days.”_ He pushed Thorin away, the dwarf sprawling on the rug. Kili crouched on the floor, on his hands and knees, a coiled beast, ready to strike. “You looked for me, for _two damn_ _days!_ ” Thorin couldn’t breathe. “I’m your _nephew_ Thorin! I would have _died_ for you and you couldn’t bear to look for more than two days!”

“How-”

“I saw the tomb.” Kili’s voice was venomous. “The tomb you _so_ graciously carved for me.” Thorin closed his eyes, limbs slack. “And _he_ saw – _everyone_ saw that you abandoned me – you left me to them, _you thought I was worthless!_ ” He shoved Thorin in the chest then, his uncle coughing, winded. “ _How could you!”_

“Kili.” Thorin reached out, clasping his hands around Kili’s thin wrists. One bound in leather, one in iron. He was bigger than his nephew, stronger, and although he felt feeble and aged in his grief, he refused to yield to him. “You have to understand – we found everything – you have to understand how we thought the worst-”

“You didn’t have me!” Kili screamed, getting in Thorin’s face. “You didn’t have _me_ , Thorin!” He tried to wrestle free, but his uncle held firm. “You – how could you give up?”

“I thought...” It was so terrible, so painfully inadequate of him, of all of them. Thorin’s stilted breath hung in the air. “I genuinely, truly believed that you were gone.” He tried to speak rapidly, before Kili could get a word in and scream over the top of his thin voice. “We didn’t see how you could survive, o-on your own, being held by them – we didn’t think you could make it.”

“Because you think that little of me.” Kili was disgusted. “You thought I would roll over and die without a fight.” He pulled away from Thorin, his shaking hands on the front of his vest. “I’ll show you a fight –” Thorin sat up slowly as Kili drew back, pulling off his battered vest and showing the scars on his chest, his sides. “Look at what they _did_ to me.” His heart swelled, sickly-hot as he watched Thorin hold a hand over his mouth, shaking his head in disbelief. “But I didn’t – I held _on_ because I was so sure that Uncle Thorin was coming for me.” Kili stood up abruptly, turning away from Thorin and crossing his arms, making sure his back was plainly visible in the firelight.

“Kili.” Thorin genuinely felt close to vomiting, on his knees in the soft room, eyes fixed on the long, cruel scars that marred Kili’s back. _How could he have let this happen._ He looked away, closed his eyes, but they still hung there, painted on his shut lids. The cold, sick anger left his limbs trembling, as he remembered just who had done this. “Kili I am so sorry.” All his pre-prepared speeches, his planned concessions and commands for his nephew had crumbled. _He_ had crumbled, in the face of that raw, open anger and betrayal. He couldn’t be strong, in the face of this. He just wanted to _hold_ him, to hold that precious little body close and whisper apologies until the dawn, to fix and heal Kili, to right his wrongs and set it all straight. But those scars, they wouldn’t go away. They were deep, angry marks, that had left a permanent imprint on his skin. He couldn’t fix that.

“Oh, you’re _sorry.”_ Kili knew he was being cruel. And it felt good – so _good_ – to hear Thorin’s ragged breathing, to know he was the cause of it. “ _Sorry_ won’t undo this, Thorin.” Kili turned on his heel. “You don’t know – you don’t _understand_.”

“I do know.” He bit back a sob, a scream, he wasn’t sure what, closing his eyes. He could do this. He just had to breathe, speak, make his lips form the words, for his voice to come out. “I know what happened to you, Kili.” He rose to his feet, legs weak. “I know about Azog. I know you were close to him.” It took every ounce of strength, every _fibre_ of him, to keep his voice clear and steady. “I know you thought of him as a father. I know you forsook your ties to us.” Kili took a step back, eyes very wide. “I know you hurt Legolas. I know you became an orc, in all but blood.”

“You...” Kili was shaking violently, his head feeling hot and overstuffed, under pressure, a whistling kettle. “Y-you don’t... _How?”_ He balled his hands into fists, unable to deny any of it. He wouldn’t descend to Thorin’s level, and lie.

“Thranduil’s elves kidnapped two of Azog’s soldiers.” Thorin blinked away the tears as Kili bowed his head, fingers curled tightly in his hair. “They told him everything about their plans, about Azog, about you.” Kili shook his head. “Kili – look at me.” Thorin’s face was very, very grim. Kili held his breath.

“What did youexpect? _”_ He guarded himself in anger. “There was no one else – I just wanted him to stop hurting me – I just did what he asked – I wanted to stop all of this.” Kili’s shoulders heaved in ragged gasps. “You _can’t_ judge me for it – you _can’t!”_

“Kili-”

“I was _scared!_ I was scared and alone and in pain – you can’t even begin to imagine Thorin – having it go on for weeks, knowing that nobody was ever going to come – that – that I was _alone_ and I was going to die if I didn’t do as I was told.” He stumbled over his words, air choked in his lungs. “ _I didn’t want to die.”_

“Did you mean it?” Thorin drove into the heart of his fears, right away. Kili looked up with his mouth open. “When you – when you said we were nothing to you, did you really mean it?” the younger dwarf moaned, head in his hands. “You did – didn’t you.” It was a knife, straight into Thorin’s heart. He couldn’t breathe. “You really do hate me.”

“You left me to die.” Kili whispered. “Do you think, Thorin, that I will _ever_ forgive you?” His mouth shook, he felt himself growing tighter, an overwound toy with a key Thorin wouldn’t stop turning, over and over and over. “How dare you – how _dare_ you think you have the right to condemn me for something that is _your_ fault!”

“Kili-” Thorin reached forward, stretching out his hand. Kili jerked away, a heavy, dark snarl on his face.

“Don’t touch me.” He spat, cold and heartless. “Keep your filthy hands away from me.” The scars shone in the firelight, white and silver, gleaming like cold steel. Thorin couldn’t look at them.

“We need to do something.” Thorin couldn’t fight the quaver in his voice. “We need to move forward from this.” He sat down slowly on the couch. “Kili – I want to help you – to make you _better_ , to bring that smile back.” He tried to force his own anger aside. He tried to forget about what Bilbo had told him, how Kili had been found clinging to Azog’s lifeless body, sobbing. He tried to forget about how he had been kicked aside in Kili’s heart, his place taken by his sharpest, coldest enemy. “But you don’t want my help. You don’t want me.” Thorin let out a shaky breath. He couldn’t forget. He couldn’t wipe that imagined scene from his head. “Do you?

“How could you think I would _ever_ want you?” Kili shook his head, jaw set into a hard edge of stone.  “After – after all of _this_ , why would I come running into your arms?”

“I didn’t think so.” Thorin stared before him, across the cheerless room. He was sitting just like he did before, with his hands clasped together, before Kili stepped inside and broke his heart. “Kili – there are things at work here, that you will never understand.” He looked down at his hands. “You need to listen to me here. Sit _down.”_ He gasped the last words, chest wracked in a spasm of terror. “Please, just for a moment-”

“No.” Kili crossed his arms. His uncle stared down at his hands, soft and clean from his hot bath, shaking madly. He clasped them together but the trembling was plain in the firelight. “Look at me, Thorin.” He stepped towards the exiled king, Thorin flinching away at the sound of boots on the floorboards. “Look at what you have done.”

“Kili.” He breathed, head sinking into his hands. “You’re not listening to me.”

“There is nothing you can say.” He hated him. Kili had poured out his _heart_ , exposed himself in a rare moment of vulnerability - and even now, even when he knew he was a failure, when he knew he had hurt Kili and he had failed him, Thorin still _refused_ even for a moment to concede. He was so damn stubborn. His apologies were meaningless. It was all only half-hearted lip-service, made to placate him. If Thorin was sorry – if he really _cared,_ he wouldn’t be doing this. He wouldn’t be ordering Kili around and trying to _lecture_ him, trying to put the blame on him, interrogating him.

“Kili – do you understand what you have done?” Thorin’s voice grew faint. “ _Thranduil_ knows you as an ally of Azog. You swore allegiance to _orcs_. No matter the circumstances, that is grounds for death for any dwarf.” Kili stared at him, bone-white. “Thrór would not show you mercy. He would wipe you from his line, if he knew what you had done.”

“It wasn’t my _fault.”_ Kili shook his head. His bitter anger and fury rose, it rushed over him, violent and hot. How could Thorin _say that_ to him? How could be so heartless? What was he trying to say here - what did he want from Kili? “What was I supposed to do Thorin – _die_?”

“Yes.” Thorin’s voice broke. “Thrór would think it better if you were dead.” A wave of something painful and sick crashed over Kili’s heart. He sat down now, on the edge of the couch with his eyes trained on the floor. He was defeated. Even though he was powerless and trapped, it all came back on him. This was somehow _his_ responsibility. He should have spared his uncle the dishonour and killed himself when he had the chance. Kili tried to stop the terrible screeching in his head, as his ears rang his his heart grew tighter than ever. _His uncle didn't want him like this._ “But I am _not_ Thrór, you hear me?” Thorin grabbed Kili by the elbow. Kili flinched but was otherwise still. “There is no word in our tongue that can express how _happy_ I am to have you here, Kili. Losing you was the worst pain I have ever suffered.” His nephew stared down at the polished floorboards, studying a knot in the smooth panel. He struggled to take it in. It sounded false, hollow, empty. It sounded like lies. “Listen to me – _listen to me.”_ Thorin hissed. Kili’s eyes slowly moved, travelling along Thorin’s bare feet, up his oversized trousers and settling on the hand at his elbow. But he did as he was told. He listened. “I am going to fix everything. I am going to make you all right. All I have _ever_ done is look out for you.” Kili’s smouldering glare suggested otherwise, but Thorin ignored it. “Nobody else knows about what you have said and done. Only Bilbo and I. And I promise you, I will keep it that way – if you do.” Kili bit down on a shaking lip. He didn't want him - Thorin didn't want him. It hurt like a knifewound, a fresh betrayal that tore the air from his lungs and left him gasping for air. Thorin didn't want a reminder of what he had done. “I won’t tell a soul about Azog. I won’t tell them that you lost yourself and became part of them. It’s not just the Company, Kili – it’s our people, your mother, cousin Dain, the Iron Hills, the other six tribes – if word got out, I couldn’t protect you.” His hand grew tighter than ever.

“ _Listen_ to me. The laws and ways of our people, they’re set in stone and they will never change. You committed crimes – in his name, and that’s enough.” Thorin wanted to hug him, but he knew it would be the worst thing he could possibly do, at this moment. “It will be Thranduil’s word against mine and our people will believe me over him.” He tried to convince himself that it was true. It _almost_ worked. “We will simply say that you were taken prisoner – that you were held by Azog as a potential ransom. You have the scars to prove it.” He didn’t need to look at them, didn’t need to rake his eyes over Kili’s bare skin. They were still there, burning in his minds’ eye. “People will believe that Kili. His oath on our blood was not secret.”

“You want me to lie.” Kili whispered, trying to make sense of it. He felt as helpless as a child, drained and exhausted, stumbling over Thorin's words in his mind. _Thorin didn't want him._ “To _everyone.”_

“It’s the best way.” Thorin’s fingers were digging into him. “It’s the _only_ way – you understand me? You don’t realise what will happen to you, if people really knew. There wouldn’t be any redemption. Not for that.” Kili’s eyes slowly returned to the floor. He had heard enough. He was _furious_ , he saw right through Thorin’s facade in a heartbeat, saw what all of this really meant, what his uncle really wanted. The vile fury stuck in his throat and made it hard to breathe. But he wasn’t going to lash out at him again. He wouldn’t waste the strength on him. “And – we’ll move on, from this. We’ll pretend for the most part that nothing has happened, we’ll act normal.” He paused for a moment, taking in a lungful of warm, stale air. “I love you Kili. I know you don’t see it, but I do. And I want you to be safe – I want things to go back to way they were – or the closest thing like it.”

“Are you finished?” Kili spoke up after a moment of tense quiet. Thorin nodded wordlessly, a shifting curtain of black hair catching the edge of his vision. “Good.” Kili jerked his elbow free, turning away from Thorin as he rose to his feet without another word.

“Kili.” Thorin scrabbled at the edge of the couch. “Kili – what are you _doing?”_ He bent down and picked up the discarded vest, wrapping it close around his skinny frame, head bent over the clasps.

“You’re finished.” His voice was low and hard and bitterly cold. “So I’m leaving.” Thorin jumped out of his seat, gasping for air as he tried to get between Kili and the door.

“ _No.”_ Thorin grabbed both of Kili’s arms, and this time he wouldn’t let go. “Kili you are not leaving this room until you _promise_ this of me.”

“Until I promise what, exactly?” The bridge of Kili’s nose creased. “That I’ll be a _good_ boy and stay quiet? That I’ll pretend nothing ever happened, just so _you_ can keep on feeling like you’ve done right by me?” He watched a muscle twitch in Thorin’s throat. “So you can cover up the mess that you’ve made?”

“No it’s not like that at all-”

“Don’t _lie_ to me.” Kili _pushed_ Thorin, shoving him hard against the wall. “For once in your life Thorin, tell me the damn truth. Admit that you’re not worried about _me._ You’re worried about what people will think of _you.”_ Dry-mouthed, Thorin stared at him, gaping, eyes and mouth and heart wide open. “I expected you would try to keep me quiet – but _this_?” His eyes flashed. “You’re trying to _blackmail_ me.”

“No, I’m not-”

“Trying to tell me that under any other king I would be killed. Trying to tell me that I should feel so _lucky_ that my sweet, wise Uncle Thorin is _gracious_ enough as to allow me to remain at his side.” He grabbed the front of Thorin’s clothes, fists trembling against his uncle’s collarbone. “You’re disgusting.” He spat on the floorboards.

“You misunderstand me-”

“Oh no, I understand _perfectly.”_ Their faces were very close. Thorin couldn’t look into the horrible black hollows of Kili’s eyes. They were dark, frightening pits that threatened to drag him in. “I understand everything Thorin. You never came for me because you never thought I was good enough. Stupid, loud, thoughtless Kili. How could he _ever_ survive on his own? No, you have a mountain to claim and you couldn’t waste a day on me. So you wait, until you have enough of a story to convince everybody. You still have Fili, right? Fili was always so strong and perfect, he’s all you ever needed.”

“Kili-”

“It’s my turn to talk.” Kili’s grip tightened. “And _you_ will listen _._ ” Thorin shut up then, staring wide-eyed as Kili drew his head back a little, studying the silver threads in Thorin’s glossy black hair. “You didn’t need me – a spare – you never needed me. So it was easy to let me go.” His voice was deadly low. “Carve my name on a lump of rock and move on. It was all so easy, wasn’t it?” Where did this _come_ from? There was a new darkness in Kili’s eyes. It was cold and cruel. Thorin still couldn’t look at him, but he felt those eyes on his face, reaching in, searching every inch of him and pulling his soul out. “And now – after Fili finally learned to go on alone, after you all forgot about me, I’m back. I’m back and you’re _scared_. You don’t like failure. You don’t like being wrong.” Thorin couldn’t speak. “You don’t want _Amad_ and Dain and the other kings to see what’s happened to me. Your nephew Kili, third in line and an heir of Durin, orc-friend and ally of Azog.”

“No.” He finally managed to gasp out a handful of words. “That’s not-”

“True?” Kili supplied. “We both know every word of it is true. We both know why you’re doing this. It’s not to protect _me_. It’s to protect _you,_ your name, from judgement and scorn.” His knuckles had turned white, the tense fingers still trembling. “If it were anybody else, you would throw them out. If it was Ori or Bofur, they would be gone and you wouldn’t spare a second thought. But me – you _raised_ me. Everything I do reflects on you. I’m just a part of you.”

“It’s not like that at all.” Thorin was _begging,_ pleading with Kili to understand him. “I love you – Kili please you’ve always meant everything to me-”

_“Shargadhûmûrz dâgalûr _."__ Kili knew sharper curses in the black tongue. Thorin didn’t need to know them; the words cut deep, right into his heart, digging into the soft flesh and making the blood spurt out. His uncle’s face crumpled, he looked away with gritted teeth as he struggled to hold onto the last ragged scraps of his composure. “Shut up.” He translated his own insult. “You’re a weak-minded, pathetic fool, if you think for a moment I’ll ever believe another _lie_ that comes out of your mouth.” He let Thorin’s shirt slip through his fingers, and stepped back. “Calling me here alone – thinking that without Dwalin and Fili here I’ll submit to your will.” He wanted to hit Thorin. He clenched his shaking hand into a fist, nails biting his skin. He could do it, he could punch him in his stupid, smug, arrogant face right now and he would be defenceless. “You’re _scum._ ” But no. Kili took another step back, his tense hand slowly relaxing. He let out a long breath. It wasn’t worth the wasted energy, to hit him. Kili looked at Thorin with nothing but cold revulsion in his dark eyes.

And Thorin stared back, with the very shocking realisation that there was nothing he could do to protect Kili – or himself – from this monster. Something black and evil had lain dormant inside the chrysalis of Kili’s skin, a parasite that sucked his out his heart and soul, draining the light from him and leaving a husk. Thorin stared at Kili and saw no trace of that bright joy, that innocence and warmth that was so endearing. It was _gone_ , and Thorin didn’t know if or how he could recover it.

It was too late. It was too late for Thorin to do anything to save Kili. Maybe in the first few days of his imprisonment, he could have been redeemed. They could have pieced him back together bound his broken body up with love. But it was too long, and Kili had already lost everything. Thorin sank along the wall, his legs gave out and he slid to the ground, head sinking downwards, between his crooked knees. Azog had done it. He destroyed Kili; he broke him apart, corrupted him and turned him into one of his foul servants of darkness. Thorin was powerless against that cruelty. He fought and lost; time and time again, at Azanulbizar, at Bruinen, at the foothills of the Misty Mountains, he had always lost.

Kili slammed the door as he left. Thorin closed his eyes and listened to those awful heavy boots thudding along the passage, a muttered snarl as Kili pushed Dwalin aside; the footsteps like a heartbeat in his head until they faded away, leaving Thorin alone in the room with a cheerful fire that did nothing to warm the chill in his bones.


	56. Stumble and Fall

Tauriel watched the little horse fall against the smooth wood, tin legs still turning in the air. She righted the toy, turned the key and watched it take another three wobbly steps before tumbling.

There were a few oddities in the dwarves’ things, but not as strange as _this_. She frowned at the hammered metal, running her fingers over the carvings, studying the dented side, the scratches on the horse’s tarnished flank. It was obviously old and well-loved. Who carried it in their pocket and their pack, all this way, hundreds of miles from the western mountains? Who had such a deep, lingering affection for a little child’s toy?

“I hope you would be up.” Tauriel jerked upwards with a gasp, caught off her guard by the soft voice in the open doorway. She left doors open wherever she went. Thranduil often muttered that it was a terrible habit and invited trouble, but she couldn’t stand to have the air shut out, and lock herself in room that slowly grew warm and stale. She took her chances with open doors and fresh air. It wasn’t often that someone was able to surprise her. She scowled at him now, before catching herself. Legolas wore a thin smile, shuffling across her airy chamber to sit on the edge of her bed.

“Legolas – what are you going up?” She rushed to his side, predictably fussing over him. She checked the bandages over his ears, the splints bound over his hands, studied the colour of his face and the depth of the shadows under his eyes. “You should be in bed, resting-”

“My legs are fine.” His dark blue eyes silenced her. “I don’t need more _rest_. I don’t want to spend another moment in that damn bed.” Legolas sat with his shoulders hunched over, staring down at his splinted hands. He couldn’t face another dream of fire and screams and broken bones. “You didn’t find anything else, did you?” She hadn’t been able to tell him a thing while his father was about – and Thranduil had refused to leave his side for a moment. Tauriel only clicked her tongue, scouring him with her eyes as she checked him over.

“We found the camp.” Tauriel rested a palm against his forehead, testing the cool skin. “They’re all gone, like you said. We piled the bodies and burned them. Most of the wargs have been shot, but there’s bound to be one or two lurking around.” Legolas nodded silently. That was good. If they had found the last orc, the one that fixed up his hands and helped them out of the campsite, he would have heard about it. She would have said something. He must have been safe.

“Are you hungry?” She crouched down, her fingers very soft around his wrists. “I can get you something, if you like.”

“And feed it to me too? No, I’m fine.” His lips stretched in a tiny smile. “I’m all right now Taurel. I-I’ll be fine.”

“You’re not fine.” She muttered, shaking her head. “Your _ears_... and your hands what if you’re never-” The wood-elf broke off, clenching her fists and standing up. “Look at what he’s _done_ to you!”

“They’re just ears.” Legolas mumbled. The splints were like bones over his hands, broken fingers bound close with green silk, two fingers tied together and braced with a strip of thin wood. “I’ll wear my hair over them.” He couldn’t shrug off what had happened to his hands. He was _crippled_ , he couldn’t move his fingers an inch and there was nothing positive he could say about that. He was fed and dressed like an infant, shadowed by attendants and his father. Even a simple task, opening a door, drinking a glass of water, became impossible for him. It felt him boiling with frustration, to look down and see that reminder of what had happened to him. How could he think about his stupid ears, when he had to deal with _this?_

“We’ll get them for this.” Tauriel vowed. “I promise – we’ll make them pay.”

“Make who pay?” Something tight and uncomfortable cramped in his stomach. “Tauriel – they’re dead. They’re all dead. There’s no one living you can blame for this.”

“No?” She arched a slim eyebrow. “Who led them here? Who brought that foul stain into our woods? They didn’t wander through, not by chance.” He watched her turn abruptly, facing the window. “And what about Kili? He’s on _their_ side. Thranduil ‘s after his skin and I don’t blame him.” Her hands curled around the tin horse. “He wants revenge, your father. He won’t let this lie.”

“I’ve tried to tell you.” Legolas bowed his head, wishing he could use his hands. “He’s not – He _saved_ me.” She only scoffed and rolled her eyes.

“Saved you? He put you in danger. What if Azog had gone after _you?_ What if that awful warg had caught you? We would have found you Legolas, all of us, we would have gotten you out safe and sound.” She was uncompromising. Legolas looked down at his hands. How could he explain that Kili hadn’t done that for himself? That sick terror and fright, the _grief_ at what he had done, it was written so clearly on his face in that grey dawn. _I didn’t want to die._ The words were a low whisper, a memory in his ear.

“But when?” He looked up. “In the morning? The afternoon or evening? How much more would they have done to me?” It was a warm-up, a warning, going for the ears and hands. There was so much more they could have done to him and Legolas knew he had to count himself lucky.

“Don’t think about it.” She sat down beside him on her bed, gently taking his shoulder. He looked to the side and realised she was fighting back tears. He hadn’t ever seen her close to crying before any of this happened. She was supposed to be strong and confident, nothing was supposed to ever shake her. But she looked at his bandaged ears and it made a tremor pass through her limbs, down to her fingertips where she held on to him.

“I’m alive.” But it was more than that. It wasn’t just about being alive. He was still _him_ , he didn’t have a doubt in his mind. He was Legolas, and he would be until the day he died. He’d been knocked about after that night, he suffered and he would carry that mutilation for the rest of his very long life – but there was still a brightness in his eyes, that Azog wasn’t ever able to stamp out. “I don’t understand.” His lips barely moved, but Tauriel heard him. “I don’t understand why you – and _Ada_ , why you’re both so _insistent_ on this.” Their desperation for revenge, their drive to take it out on _anybody_ they could, it chilled him. Surely, if anyone had the right to desire revenge, it was him. But Legolas didn’t _want_ it. He didn’t want to spill rivers of blood and sever heads. He felt numb at the thought of more death.

“Come on, I’ll take you back to bed.” She stood up, gently taking him by the elbow. Legolas didn’t fight her soft grasp. He allowed himself to be pulled along, a little like a puppet. Tauriel’s iron will was sharper than his – she had always been nearly impossible to deal with, and this had only made things worse. Between her and his father, Legolas knew he wouldn’t win. He looked down briefly at his broken hands.

Was there _anything_ he could do?

* * *

He felt a little better after he broke a few things. A little trinket-box of porcelain, a crystal jar, a slender vase of glass. Kili smashed them all against the stone of the hearth, pacing back and forth with shaking hands, staring into the fire. Alone in the room.

It didn’t take the edge of his razor-sharp betrayal, though. That still cut deep into his heart, leaving him gasping and bleeding. Thorin’s words echoed in his mind, repeating and doubling over, again and again. He hated Kili. He hated what Kili had done and by all rights he was a criminal that deserved punishment. He deserved to be struck from the line, to be stripped off his name and cast out in the wild to live with the creatures he’d sworn allegiance to.

And he began to wonder if he did the right thing.

Kili gripped the edge of the mantelpiece, feeling his knees weaken with the awful thought. It left his head swimming, a horrible breaking in his chest and he thought he was going to fall apart then and there. Thorin didn’t want him, not like this. Fili wasn’t _Fili_ , not like he remembered. He was shrunken, sad, and Kili knew he couldn’t blindly depend on him anymore.  Everything – _everything_ was twisted and broken. His memories seemed like cruel mockeries, jeering at him in the firelight.

What did he have here?

He pressed his cheek against the smooth wood, staring along at the vase of flowers, a couple of miniatures, a little painted figurine. This wasn’t what he had wanted. Kili had convinced himself that it was impossible – Thorin wouldn’t _ever_ condemn him for this. The things he had done – they had been _forced_ on him, he was helpless, he had to choose between death and dishonour and how could _anyone_ ever ask him to take the first?

Outrage was building. Kili tore himself away, trying to calm his shaking fists, the rushing in his ears. He was a fool for trusting them. He couldn’t trust Thorin. He couldn’t trust _anybody._ Kili stumbled, lurching forward and catching himself on the edge of the bed. He buried his face in the thick blanket as the pressure intensified in his chest; he was going to cry, he could feel it. He was going to sob all over the sheets like a helpless child. There was a pain in his hatred, hot and sick, leaving him breathless. He sat with the trailing blanket in his hands, leaning against the mattress. He couldn’t trust anybody.

He never should have come back.

And he did cry, with that thought.

* * *

“Fili.” Dwalin’s hand was on his arm, pulling him up, sounding urgently in his ear. “Fili you have to come with me-”

“Hey, Dwalin!” The blonde crowed, flinging his arms around the dwarf’s neck with a grin. His breath reeked of ale. “You made it! Sit, have a drink. How was the boat ride? Where’s-” Fili broke off, and that brightness dulled in his eyes. “Where’s Kili?”

“In his room.” Fili sat at the head of the table in the bright little kitchen, face flushed from drink and the heat of the stove. Everybody was down here except Thorin, the air hazy with pipe-smoke and fragments of cheese and biscuits and salted pork scattered across the table. They had enjoyed the festivities of the Master’s luscious welcome; now Bilbo and the dwarves had their own raucous feast. “He’s barred the door and won’t let me in. Fili – you have to talk to him.”

And all of a sudden, that soft warmth sank into a cold, heavy fear. Fili lowered his eyes to his hands for moment, taking in a deep breath, trying to calm himself. What had happened, what had Kili done? He looked up at Dwalin. The outlines were fuzzy, but he made out the frown on Dwalin’s face, the hard, grim line of his jaw.

“Show me.” Fili gasped as Dwalin hauled him to his feet. He allowed himself to be led out of the kitchen, which sank into a muffled, uncomfortable silence, down the narrow back-hallway and up the stairs. He stumbled, occasionally losing his footing in the dark. Dwaling hauled him up by the arm, muttering to himself.

“Good night then?”

“I just had a few for nerves.” Fili’s tongue felt thick and fuzzy. He didn’t need to say more. That was always how it started, wasn’t it? A few for nerves, for confidence, for a brighter mood. It wasn’t Fili’s _fault_ , Bofur had practically shoved the first ale in his face, remarking that his shaking hands were visible from across the room.

“Kili?” Dwalin stopped outside a door, rapping his knuckles against the wood. “Kili are you there?” No response. “Kili I have your brother.” He pushed Fili against the door, the blonde stumbling and falling on the panels.

“Kili?” Fili tried to keep a tremor out of his voice. “Kili it’s me. Let me in, will you?” He pressed a flattened palm against the wood. “Please?” He held his breath and waited for a reply, but nothing came. He squinted at Dwalin through the dark. “What happened?” He breathed. “With him and Thorin – what happened?”

“Nothing good.” Dwalin whispered back. “Thorin tried to speak sense into him, he says, but Kili got mad. Very mad. He wouldn’t tell me just what was said but it left him in pieces.” Fili bit his lip, staring once more at the door.

“Kili!” His tone was sharper, more urgent. “Let me in or I’ll break down the door. I’ll do it, you know I will.” He sighed. “Let me in Kili. Please let me in.” His hand gripped the doorknob uselessly. “Don’t leave me out here. Don’t leave me in the cold.”

There was a sound of scraping wood. Fili jerked backwards, holding his breath as the slow, shuddering thump of a heavy dresser being pushed along the floorboards sounded from the other side of the wall. Through the darkness, Dwalin and Fili looked at each other. Dry-mouthed, floppy-tongued, Fili pressed his hands over his face, trying to knock some sense into himself. He wished he was sober.

The door creaked ajar. Kili was little more than a silhouette, standing in the crack of firelight six inches wide. Fili couldn’t see anything, only the outline of his hair, the gleam of his eyes.

“What do you want.” Kili’s voice made his brother’s hair stand up on the back of his neck. He’d _never_ heard him like this, never heard him so _hard_. Fili rubbed a hand over his eyes, pausing to take in a breath of air. “What do you want.” Kili repeated, his tortured voice rising a note.

“I want to come in.” Fili whispered. “Oh Mahal – Kili look at you.” He reached out, blundering through the bad light and getting his fingers around the lip of the door. “Please – let me come in.”

“I just want to be alone.” His stained voice was like a blow. It hurt Fili’s ears. “I’m tired Fili. I want to go to sleep.”

“We’re sharing this room, Kili.” Why was he whispering? Fili leaned, in his lip trembling. “I need to lie down – let me in and we can just go to sleep. Together.” He couldn’t see Kili’s face. The door closed. With a groan, Fili slumped forward, Dwalin’s hand on his shoulder. _Damn damn damn-_

The low shuddering of wood was back. Fili lifted his head, waiting and listening. After a few moments it stopped, and the door swung open, a gap big enough for Fili to squeeze through if he held his breath. He looked at Dwalin for a moment before turning, raising his arms over his head and squeezing through the part-open door, stepping from the dark hallway into the bright bedroom.

“You’re drunk.” Kili closed the door, throwing his weight against the dresser, gritting his teeth as it shuddered into place. Fili stood facing him, mouth half-open, hands lax at his sides. Kili’s flattened palms were splayed on the smooth wood, his dark head bent over the dresser.

“Thought – thought it’d make me calm.” Fili tried to speak slowly, not slurring his words. Kili was making him _nervous._ “My hands... They wouldn’t stop shaking. Bofur said it would h-help my nerves.” He hiccupped, wincing. Kili lifted his head, and stared at him with those hard dark eyes. “Then we came here... broke into a barrel of ale and–” Fili screwed up his face, suppressing a burp. “Ugh.”

“You’re a mess.” Kili’s thinly-veiled anger stabbed at Fili’s heart like a knife. “ _Ishi_ Fili.” He kicked at the dresser in those black orcish boots. “I just had Thorin tear me apart – he was _horrible_ to me and-and you were off drinking.” He wrapped his arms around himself and walked past Fili, sitting on the edge of his bed, eyes locked on his knees.

“What did he say?” Fili’s tongue grated against the roof of his mouth. “What did he say to you?” He tried to run and tripped, toes catching on the edge of the rug. He stumbled, fell, awkwardly and heavily onto the floorboards, winded. He propped himself up on his elbows, gasping for air, sprawled out at Kili's feet. His brother was _shaking._ “Kili what did he _say_?”

“Enough.” He lifted his head, staring into Fili’s dark blue eyes. “He’s made it clear what he thinks of me.” He snarled, shaking his head in disgust. Oh Fili, he was so clumsy and stupid and disconnected at the moment. Fili reached up, grabbing Kili’s legs, trying to use him to climb onto the bed. “You stupid lump.” Kili seized his thick arms, hauling him onto the bed. Fili half-collapsed, leaning against him, the scent of ale all over Kili’s face.

“What’d he say?” Fili repeated, his chin digging into Kili’s shoulder. “He told you – he told you there’s no ransom?”

“I don’t _care_ about the damn ransom, Fili!” He pulled away from his brother, gritting his teeth. “You don’t _get_ it – it’s not about whether or not you knew. You _left_ me!” Kili grabbed him by the shoulders. “You didn’t even try!” He shook Fili, feeling his heart race. “Get it through your thick drunk head Fili. You gave up on me when you had _no_ right!” He pushed his brother away, grabbing handfuls of his own dark hair. Pain raced along his scalp, soothing him. “ _Nalmâd_.” He whispered to himself. “ _Nariin.”_ Forget about it. Let it go. “ _Grazadh nûrzum.”_ He couldn’t afford to be angry at Fili too. He _couldn’t._

“Kili?” His voice wobbled; Fili drew back from his brother as he bent his head, muttering to himself in the Black Speech. He leaned against the headboard with his legs drawn up, trying to get the horrible ringing out of his ears. “Kili – please.” He was _scared._ Kili’s head jerked up, he stared at Fili with eyes almost black. “I’m so sorry.” He could feel himself starting to swell with those sloppy, overemotional drunk tears that always seemed to come as emotions were prodded when ale had bloated his stomach. “I didn’t – I’ll never.” He retreated into the comfort of his own knees, shoulders shaking. He couldn’t reach out and touch his brother. _He was_ _afraid of him._ Kili could see and smell his fear, staring at him.  

“Go to sleep.” Kili whispered. “I can’t talk to you like this Fili. Sleep it off.” He stood up, slowly walking across to the fire. Those horrible thoughts never left his mind, not for a moment. The longer they festered inside his head, the more Kili felt like an outside, and intruder, abandoned and betrayed. Worthless.

“Kili.” Fili mumbled into his clumsy hands. “Please – come here I can’t – I can’t _please.”_  He couldn’t trust himself to walk without falling and possibly bashing his head against the hearth.

“Not yet.” Kili stared into the fire, wishing he could stop _feeling_ like this. He saw the flash of gold, in the corner of his eye. Was it how Fili felt, too? No - no it _couldn’t_ be. Fili wasn’t like Thorin, he was _different._ He had always been there, it was always the two of them. Fili-and-Kili, never apart for a moment. Fili wouldn’t ever abandon him. He wouldn’t do the same awful things that Thorin had done. He _couldn’t_. He looked across, seeing Fili trying to get up from the bed and stumble over to him with his heavy, dead limbs. Wordlessly, he made his way back to the bed and sat down. Fili stretched one leg out, so his toes brushed Kili’s side. The contact seemed to calm him, as though Kili wasn’t real until they were touching. He closed his eyes and leaned back, pressing his hands over his face.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered his pathetic apology, knowing Kili must have been sick to death of the word by now. He wanted to reach out and _hug_ him, to hold him close and swear that he would be there forever but he knew if he tried, he would be pushed away, brushed aside. Kili didn’t want him like this, drunk and clumsy. He wanted _his_ Fili. His strong, sturdy, perfect Fili. The one that had died a long time ago. The one that Fili knew, in the bottom of his heart, had never really existed at all.

Kili didn’t answer. He stared down at his hands, and said nothing for a long time.

* * *

Ori accepted in the dawn light that he wasn’t going to go back to sleep. He sat up slowly, leaning against the crude wooden bedstead with his legs crossed, staring out at the room. He was one of the lucky ones, he thought. His room was small and drab, with bare walls, a low sloping ceiling and no fire. One of the servants’ rooms. But Ori _loved_ it; unlike most of the others, he didn’t have to share with anybody.

For the first time in his entire life, he had a bedroom all to himself.

He got up slowly, wincing as bare feet hit bare boards. He couldn’t ignore the complaining in his stomach any longer; guarding himself against the cold with a lilac shawl he had found, Ori pulled on his trousers and forced his broad feet into too-small socks.

It was a slow walk to the bottom floor, Ori trying to keep his thick tread light on the creaking wood. The house, a former mansion, had been broken up into several apartments occupied by the wealthiest merchants and their families. He wondered if the displaced occupants resented the dwarves for taking their home. Ori’s fingers trailed over the walls as he walked, taking careful steps on the staircases.

Ori assumed that he would be alone in the kitchen. The others had all made a mess of themselves the night before, drinking too much and breaking into snatches of long-forgotten song. It was a celebration for them; even Fili drank too much in the end. No doubt it would be a quiet morning for them, of sore heads and furry tongues.

But there _was_ someone else inside. Ori’s heart leaped into his throat as he saw Kili, sitting with his shoulders slumped over a barely-touched breakfast. He froze in the doorway, caught between fleeing entirely or sitting down beside Kili and throwing his arms around him. Thorin’s words echoed uncomfortably in his ears. _You will not touch him. You will not be alone with him. You will not sit directly beside him._

Kili lifted his head, at the sound, eyes widening as he caught sight of Ori hovering in the doorframe. He looked smaller than ever, surrounded by furniture too big for him, swamped in an oversized tunic that he’d pulled from a dresser. His brown eyes were ringed with grey and Ori could see in a moment that he hadn’t had a wink of sleep.

“Ori.” Kili didn’t smile at him. His face barely moved. He just looked tired, his features sunken. Something had burrowed inside of him, hollowed him out. “You’re up early.” Ori couldn’t stop staring at his caved-in, pale face.

“S-So are you.” His mouth was dry. Thorin’s words grew louder, shouting in his ears. _You will not be alone with him._ He looked into the hallway, obviously nervous and afraid. He wanted to step into the room, to fall to the floor beside Kili’s feet and _beg_ for him to open up, let him in. He didn’t care what it was – he would take all of it. Shouting, anger, tears – _anything_ was better than that dead, awful silence.

But he couldn’t move. Ori’s fingers curled into the doorframe, feet rooted to the floorboards. He licked his lips, trying to summon up the courage to break from Thorin’s spell, to brush those words away, to say that he didn’t _care_ , he wasn’t afraid, to walk forth and whisper all those words that were clamouring in his throat, so close to bursting from his lips. _I love you. I’m sorry. I’ll do anything for you._

“Ori?” Kili lifted his head a little as Ori backed away from the warm little room. “Ori what are you-” Ori left, running away from the kitchen, from _Kili_ , leaving two spots of warmth on the floor from his heavy, rooted feet. 

 _Coward coward coward_ he heard the words with every footfall, running, running until he had cleared the length of the hall, climbed the narrow stairs and crossed the sleepy passageway, until he had made it back to little sloping room beneath the roof, closing the door with shaking hands, leaning against the wood like a barricade, pressing his face to the cold and feeling water seep along his skin as he clung to the panelling.

Ori felt _horrible._ He couldn’t get that image out of his head; it was a brand, stamped on his minds’ eye. Kili’s ravaged, sunken face, those dull dead eyes, they stared at him, sleepless and broken. He didn’t know if it was real or imagined, but he thought he saw something inside of Kili, something tense, ready to stretch out at him, a silent whisper for help. He was just being arrogant; what reason did Kili have to trust him, to confide in him, to think of him as anything more than an outsider? That closeness existed only in Ori’s mind, a half-dead fantasy that he selfishly indulged, encased in anxiety and fear.

He shouldn’t have left – he _shouldn’t_ have. He should have stayed, walked in, sat beside Kili and offered him anything he wanted. Was he really _so_ afraid of Thorin, that he would just leave Kili, so exhausted and desperate and alone? He disgusted himself, with his cowardice. There was no excuse for walking out, for _leaving_ Kili the way that he was. Ori screwed up his face and wrapped the shawl around him, feeling so very, very cold.

Because what did he have without Kili? What did he have, really? A king that _tolerated_ him, that looked at him with thinly veiled disgust. Two brothers who barely accepted what he really was, shoved it aside with that same self-conscious stare that had plagued him for _all_ his life. A group of almost-friends who thought he was foolish little boy who had a heart bigger than his head. Fili was the only one who even seemed to know him anymore.

Ori buried his nose in the shawl, breathing in. It had a sweet smell, of tea and lavender. He supposed it would smell like home to some people. He had to go back downstairs and face him, apologise, explain. He had to do _something_ to get that awful dead look out of Kili’s eyes. But he didn’t. He was brave enough to run headlong into orcs, to stand up straight in the face of wargs and trolls, but he wasn’t brave enough to disobey Thorin. He wasn’t brave enough to risk everything for Kili. He stayed in his room, locked away as the dawn turned into light and self-disgust sickened in his aching gut.


	57. Rusted Shut

Kili breathed in deeply as the pair stepped inside the dingy little workroom. It had a low, earthy smell of oil and wood. The master woodturner was out, and it was up to Bard to rise to his feet and greet the two dwarves standing in the doorway of the modest little shop.

“Fili.” He smiled. “What can I do for you? You brought a friend.” A light frown creased along the bowman’s brow, studying his face. He was pale, eyes heavy with grey shadows. There was something brittle and tense in the muscles of his cheeks and jaw, the angle of his gaze. It was discomforting to look at. “I didn’t see you at dinner.”

“I brought my brother.” Fili’s hand tightened on Kili’s elbow. “Kili, this is Bard. He was the one that found us at the edge of the lake.” Kili only nodded silently, eyes on the floor. “Kili came in last night.” He gave Kili a sidelong glance. “He’s an archer and like the rest of us, lost his weapon. The Master said he’ll pay for it all from his purse.” Fili wondered what sort of interest he charged. If he accounted for risk. Kili pulled away from him with a little sigh, pushing past Bard with his eyes fixed on the row of half-formed bows leaning against the wall.

“I didn’t know there was another.” Bard leaned in, his frown deepening. “Thorin was all about _you_ last night and he didn’t speak a word of your brother.” Fili bit his lip. “Why?”

“Because Kili’s...” The blonde shook his head. “Things happened to him.” What else could Fili say? How much was anyone really supposed to know? He imagined it would all get out, in the end. It had to. These sorts of things couldn’t just be kept quiet. “Kili – how long will it take?” He raised his voice.

“A while.” Kili replied shortly. “You don’t need to breathe down my neck.” Fili drew back a little, stung by his brother’s hurtful words. But Kili didn’t even seem like he had noticed what he said. He was already running his hands over the carved wood, looking deep in thought. All Fili could do was leave him.

“I’ll see you later on then.” His shoulders slumped. “If he’s done before I get back – can you send a message?” Fili stared at his brother’s back. “I’ll be getting fitted at the cordwainer’s.” Bard nodded, eyes trained on the little figure hunched over his bow. “Just – he’ll be all right, I think. Just let him do what he wants to do.”

Ignoring the pair, Kili examined one of the half-built bows, already retreating into his own world, wondering if he wanted a replica of his old dwarvish bow, or something a little more lean and slender. If he wanted a wood that was more robust or flexible. Fili’s voice was already a hum on the edge of his consciousness. By the time he looked up again for a brief moment, his brother was gone and Kili was alone in the room with a stranger.

“So.” Bard cleared his throat, leaning against his master’s workbench. “Archer? I didn’t know there were dwarvish bowmen.” He was trying to make conversation more than anything, but the surprise in his voice was genuine. He couldn’t imagine dwarves, stout and low and sturdy, wielding weapons as slim and light as bows.

“There’s a few of us.” Kili’s head was bent back down over the wood. He could have carved his own bow, but how long had it been since he’d even held a bow made for him, let alone worked on it with his hands? Dwarves may have had a slightly arrogant insistence on forging their own weapons when they could, but Kili wasn’t going to trust his own clumsy hands with such a fine craft. “Just a few.” Bard straightened, crossing the room slowly. “But you’re a woodturner – not a bowyer.” He looked up, turning to face him.

“There’s no standing army.” Bard studied Kili’s dark, downcast eyes. “The only bows we have are for hunting. I carved nearly every bow in this city, but woodturning keeps food in my son’s stomach.” Kili nodded in silence, turning back and picking up a stave of horse-apple. “So you want your own bow.”

“I _need_ my own bow.” Kili corrected the man. He held up one of Bard’s works in progress for emphasis. It was only six inches shorter than him. “I can’t carry these great longbows on my back.”

“No, you couldn’t.” Bard tried to warm to this cold, quiet little figure. “What’s your favoured wood? Ash? Yew? Oak?”

“Oak.” Kili muttered. “But you don’t have any.” He prodded at a bundle of wood with his heavy orcish boot.

“Not at the moment. I use yew.” Bard crouched down, taking a stave of yew from the bundle on the floor. “It’s dense but not too heavy. Gives a good pull, and I’ve never had yew crack on me before.” He held it out to Kili. “It will serve you well, I promise.”

“Feels springy.” He bent the wood over a crooked knee. Kili still barely looked at him, and he didn’t raise his voice over that indifferent, neutral murmur. “Do you have a bit of paper?”

“Somewhere... just give me a moment.” Bard approached his master’s bench once more, pushing aside piles of woodshavings. Kili waited patiently, staring around at the little workroom, at the tools and scraps of wood, spindles and bowls and table-legs in varying stages of completion. “It’s only a scrap.” He turned over a grubby diagram, giving Kili the paper and a stub of pencil.

“ _Narnû-_ Ugh... _Th-thank_ you.” Kili cleared his throat, clenching his hands into fists. Bard sat himself down in a chair, leaning his arm over the back as he watched Kili sketch. He still remembered what his brother had said, about _things_ happening. Bard ached with curiosity. What would have happened to him, that set him so apart from everybody else? He wasn’t sullen or angry, he just seemed lost in his own world, and Bard hovered on the edge of it.

“Why weren’t you with the rest?” As seconds stretched into minutes, he couldn’t resist asking. The worst Kili could do was tell him to shut up. The dwarf paused, setting down the stub of pencil and looking over his shoulder at him. “Fili only said things had happened – forgive me if I’m being rude, but what _things_ did he mean?”

“He means the orcs.” Kili returned to the page, slowly sketching out the shape of his possible bow. Bard froze, staring the little figure up and down.

“Orcs?” His voice was low, almost a whisper, as though the pair were in some sort of conspiracy. Kili gave a wordless nod. “What do you mean, orcs?”

“Grey skin, sharp teeth, speak the black tongue.” Kili spoke tonelessly, eyes trained on the page. “Surely you’ve at least seen a picture.”

“No – I know what orcs _are_.” His frown had almost turned into a scowl, staring at the dwarf’s back. “What do they have to do with you?”

“I was kidnapped by them.” Bard gripped the back of his chair, frown smoothing as his eyes widened. “I was out alone and they cornered me.” Kili’s tongue was poised between his teeth as he tried to draw a smooth line. He wasn’t seeking sympathy with his words. He simply related facts. Kili refused to feel shame.

“When was this?” The bowman dared to breathe after a few moments of stretched silence. Kili paused in his drawing, head remaining bent as he took in an audible breath of wooden, oily air.

“In the summer.” Kili was lost in his own world as he drew. It wasn’t much good – certainly not a patch on what Ori could do, but he felt a certain degree of satisfaction as he looked down at his little half-formed drawing. “I got back a few days ago.” Bard made a sound in his throat, an involuntary groan as his knuckles whitened on the chair.

“It’s almost _winter._ ” Bard gaped at him. Kili merely nodded silently. It was _soothing_ , to close his eyes and empty his mind of everything else, to think about what kind of design he wanted, the shape and style and colour. He breathed in the smell of wood-grain and soft oils. Everything else had fallen away in that brief moment of peace.

“It was a _long_ three months.” Kili finally spoke up, turning away from the bench and holding out his drawing. “My old bow looked a little like this. Do you think you could make it or are your staves too long?”

“I-I can make it.” Bard’s head was spinning. He struggled to comprehend what Kili had just told him – three months he had been with orcs for _three months_ and he was still _alive._ Kili gave him another flash of that pale, fragile face. Glass held by shaking fingers. “Kili – _how_ are you alive?” He rose to his feet, crossing the room. Bard’s eyes didn’t leave the dwarf for a moment. “I’ve never heard of anyone surviving. Ever.”

“Surviving imprisonment? Oh there must have been a few.” Kili thrust the drawing into Bard’s chest, his fingers finding the edge of the workbench and curling around it. “How long would it take to carve? I’d like a few days to practise at a range if I could.”

“But-” Bard stared Kili up and down, spying new details with his fresh once-over. The rough black boots that didn’t look dwarvish at all. The tattered trousers of animal hide on his skinny legs beneath the soft blue tunic. The hollows in his face. The scar over his cheek. The gloves on his hands. “You’re so lucky.”

“Am I?” Something dark flashed in Kili’s eyes as he stared at the bowman. “It wasn’t luck. Luck would have ensured nothing happened in the first place. It would have stopped–I’m not lucky.” He caught himself. “I’m many things but I’m not lucky.” Bard’s gaze slowly lowered to the drawing in his hand.

“I can have this made by tomorrow.” Bard traced a finger over the shape. It was thick and sturdy-looking, with sharp curves. “It will give you more than enough time to practise. And I’ll give you as many arrows as you need.”

“Papa!” Bard gasped at the little voice as a sliver of natural light filled the workroom, disturbing them both. Kili’s brittle face tensed, and he looked away. “It’s _so_ busy out there. Rob told me can’t get a thing done and told me to go home but the street’s blocked off because of the cro...” Bain trailed off, staring at the dark-haired figure clinging to his father’s workbench. “Who’s that?”

“Kili.” Bard walked briskly across the floor, taking his elbow. “I’ve told you, you’re not to come barging in when I’m busy working. Take the back route home.”

“But Gertie’s dumped all the fish-guts out and it _stinks._ ” Bain whined. “I don’t want to wade through it. Can’t I just wait here? I’ll be quiet and I won’t touch anything.”

“I’ve heard that at least a dozen times and you _always_ break something.” Bard glared at his son while Kili stared down at his toes. “I still owe money from the lathe you wrecked. “

“I _promise_ I’ll just sit still. _Please_ it’s so much more fun here than at home.” His huge brown eyes looked up at his father. “Please?”

“Oh dammit fine then.” Bard’s hold fell away from the child’s arm. “Kili – don’t mind my son. He’s just going to sit here and not touch a _thing_. Are you?”

“No, I won’t.” But Bain already had a block of scrap wood and a knife in his hand, crossing the room and climbing up onto a stool against the wall Bard needed to finish carving. Kili stepped aside as the bowman slapped the drawing down on the workbench, thinking.

“These angles are strong.” He ran his finger along them, showing Kili. “These staves are all for longbows but I have something out back. I had a few cut for children’s bows. Wait a moment.” Bain looked up as his father left, the knife lowering in his hands.

“Are you an archer too?” A grin spread across his face. Kili nodded silently, picking up a chisel and fiddling uncomfortably with the iron. It had been a long time since he’d spoken to a child, and Kili wasn’t sure just what to say. “ _Cool!_ How come I didn’t see you last night at the feast?” He cocked his head to one side. “Or on the boat?”

“I uh, wasn’t feeling well.” Kili scratched the back of his head. His sleeves felt too tight around his wrists. “I came late so I wouldn’t make a fuss.”

“Oh. It was _great_ , you missed the best fig pudding I’ve ever had. The treacle was so thick the spoon stood straight up in it. Papa and I got a seat at the head table because he was the one that found ‘em although it was me _really_. The speeches were kind of boring. Thorin talked for _so long_ I stopped listening. I like Fili though. He just said ‘thank you’ and sat back down. Papa said he was just nervous but I don’t know why. We’re not scary are we?” He pushed a handful of brown curls out of his eyes.

“You’re not scary.” Kili agreed. It was strange to think of Fili as nervous. But Kili could see him now, red-faced and stumbling over his words, flinching uncomfortably whenever Thorin touched his arms, unused to the alien eyes on him. “He’s just not used to the attention.”

“But he’s a prince. Thorin called him Prince Fili. _Wait_.” He screwed up his eyes. “Fili and Kili. Is he...?” Kili nodded wordlessly, shoulders hunching over. “Oh! So you’re a prince too?”

“I haven’t been called a prince in a very long time.” Kili’s lips barely moved. He wondered if he would again. He would have to keep an ear out and see what the servants called him and his brother. “Titles don’t mean much where we’re from.”

“Why not?” Bain was so painfully, innocently curious. Kili looked across at him, realising how little the child really knew. How old was he? Ten, eleven maybe?

“Because we’re poor.” Kili spoke plainly. He was tired and angry, he wanted to tell the little boy to go away. It was a painful, aching reminder of who he used to be. What he had lost. He didn’t have the strength and energy to talk, not enough to keep the child interested. “And kings and princes aren’t supposed to be poor. It’s hard for people to take you seriously when you don’t have any money.” It was like a drawing, a creased piece of paper unfolding in Kili’s mind. He had forgotten about Erebor in the long weeks and months of Autumn. But Thorin didn’t. He never forgot, not a thing. The wood and knife thoroughly abandoned, Bain started swinging his legs as he listened.

“But you’re going to get it back, right? Isn’t that why you’re going?” Kili could only nod. He felt almost sick. That was why they were here. Gold. That was what really mattered to Thorin – that was all that had _ever_ mattered. How could Kili ever begin to compare to that? “D’ya think the dragon’s still alive?”

“I don’t know.” Kili answered honestly. “I hope he’s not.”

“Are you scared?” That made Kili start. “Of the dragon I mean. He sounds _scary_.” The dwarf paused for a moment, sifting through that question. Was he afraid of being burned? He’d already had that happened to him. Was he afraid of pain? Not anymore. Was he afraid of dying? He’d come so close, so many times before. The thought of death just left him numb now. What _was_ he afraid of, then?

“I guess I’m not.” Kili murmured. His answer actually surprised him, but the longer he thought about it, the more it made sense in his mind. He wasn’t afraid of Smaug. How could a dragon be _any_ worse than what Azog had done to him? Even death by fire would be more merciful than the slow breaking down he had endured, of weeks and weeks of pain and fear stretching into months until he had deadened himself to it. “After all that’s happened, a dragon just doesn’t seem all that bad anymore.”

“After what happened?”

“Bain, stop harassing him.” Bard closed the shaky little door, three pieces of yew tucked under his arm. “Don’t bother answering his stupid questions Kili. He’s just being nosey.”

“I wasn’t! I was just asking-”

“I keep telling you _don’t_ be rude.” Bard silenced him with a stern look. “I cut these myself last week. They’re not bad.” He laid them out on the table. “No knots or cracks. You’ll get good use out of it. I s’pose you can’t rely on there being a bow in Erebor.”

“I wouldn’t count on it.” Kili picked up a piece of wood, gripping it tightly in his hands as he tried to get the feel of it. “This seems good.” He mimicked holding it as he would a finished bow, picking up the pencils and making two marks on the wood. “It’s still a little tall. Can you cut it down to here?”

“Of course.” Bard smiled. “What else do I need to know?”

“I can carve it myself.” Kili ran over possible designs in his head. “Other than that... Just a bow.” His hands returned to the edge of the table. “Do you want me to go?”

“You don’t have to.” Bard lowered the stave, eyeing him. “You’re welcome to stay here for a little while if you like.” Kili dipped his head, a little twist on his mouth.

“That obvious, is it?” He whispered, clenching his hands together. Was he falling apart so openly? “Thank you.” He wore a thin smile as though it would hide his ragged nerves. “At this moment I feel like the less I see of everyone the better.”

“Why?” Bain watched Kili closely, the dwarf’s jaw tensing at Bard’s soft question. It was an unusual gaze for Kili. There was only glimmering curiosity, wide-eyed, naive interest in him. No fear, nothing like it. But it seemed like _everybody_ had looked at him and been afraid. Even Fili seemed to be scared of him.

“Because of what happened before.” He remembered Ori running, running _away_ from him with that look of fear in his eyes and it was like a knife in his heart all over again. Fili had tried to keep him apart, sheltered from the others, but he caught sight of them, their eyes, their whispered murmurs to each other. He wasn’t a fool. “I scare them now.”

* * *

“One of these will work.” Fili dropped the handful of stout iron tools on the table, leaning over to open the sooty window. “The smith swears blind that his iron will cut through anything the orcs have made.” Kili sat at the chair by the window, head bowed with his hands clenched in his lap. The others had all left them; Balin, Dwalin, Thorin, Nori and Gloin, the chief weapon-wielders, were hunched over drawings and swords, muttering amongst each other as they argued over shapes for axes and swords and knives. The young brothers tried to ignore them in their corner. “Kili?” The blonde dragged a stool across the floorboards, taking a seat beside his little brother. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” Kili didn’t look up as Fili took his left arm, rolling back the sleeve of his soft blue tunic past the elbow. They both looked down at the battered black iron bolted close to Kili’s arm. Fili turned the limb over and ran his thick fingers along it.

“We’ll get this off.” Fili leaned forward for a brief moments, their foreheads brushing. “It won’t stand a chance against dwarven smithwork.” He leaned across, taking a wrench and placing it over the bolt at Kili’s wrist. There were three on each side – six in all – keeping the iron bound to Kili’s thin arm. “It looks so _heavy_.” With Kili’s arm stretched out in his lap, Fili began to slowly unscrew the first bolt. “Ugh – _damn_ they put this on tight.”

“They didn’t want it coming off.” Fili’s hand stilled for a moment; he bowed his head and Kili knew he would be fighting back a lump in his throat, a burning in his eyes. “Sorry.” He whispered a short apology, one he knew wouldn’t mean anything to Fili.

“S’all right.” Fili’s grip tightened on the iron. “Don’t worry – I’ll get this off I promise. Just... need.... to... _Damn!”_ Both of them jerked back as the wrench slipped. The bolt hadn’t moved. Fili growled, the tool clattering to the floorboards as he held Kili’s arm up to the watery winter sunlight. “It’s rusted over completely.” He bit his lip, thinking.

“Lime and salt.” Kili murmured. “Or vinegar. It’s the best way.” Fili shook his head, hair brushing Kili’s shoulder as he reached for the hammer and chisel.

“I’m not leaving your arm soaking in vinegar and lime for hours.” Kili’s breath died in his throat as he saw the tools in his brother’s hands. “This is coming off _now.”_

“Fili – do you know what you’re doing?” He drew his arm back, staring wide-eyed. “You’re not _hammering_ it off. Just go and get vinegar.”

“I can do it.” Fili argued. “I’ve worked with iron for decades. I’ll get the chisel under the bolt and it will pop out of the socket.” Kili’s arm was curled against his chest; he shook his head. “Kili _I can do it._ ” He set the chisel on his lap and reached out, taking Kili’s good hand. “Trust me. I can get this off.” Kili didn’t move. “Look – if vinegar is going to eat the rust away _,_ what will it do to your skin? I haven’t heard of anyone soaking their arm in it for hours because that’s _stupid._ ” He watched Kili’s Adam’s apple shift in his throat as he swallowed heavily. “I can take this off.” His grip tightened. “I won’t hurt you I promise.”

“Just be careful.” Defeated, Kili slowly lowered his arm. Fili braced the metal cast between his knees, trying to drive the chisel beneath the lip of the first bolt. The metal wouldn’t give.

“I need to bend it.” Kili nodded silently, holding his breath as Fili used the flat of the chisel, banging the hammer as hard as he dared against the iron. Kili screwed up face, flinching away. Fili refused to allow his hands to tremble for a moment. “Just keep breathing.” He commanded, voice nearly a whisper. He drove the chisel into the new dent in the iron, up underneath the bolt. When he was sure the angle was right, Fili began to hammer at the cast. Kili gripped Fili’s knee with his good hand, head bowed as the powerful thudding seemed to drive through his bones, down into his heart. “One.” Fili sighed as the bolt fell away, clattering on the boards. “I’ll just take out these three, then prise it open and winch your arm out.” Kili nodded wordlessly. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” His teeth were gritted. Kili lifted his head, their eyes meeting. He saw the fear in Fili’s eyes, the shadowed pain. He was terrified of hurting his brother. This was perhaps the only thing that Fili could even _fix._ He could get that awful metal off his arm but that was the extent of it. He couldn’t wipe away scars, he couldn’t banish memories and wash the tarnish from his name. If he couldn’t do _this_ , then what was he even good for? Kili read the guilt and shame in those dark blue eyes, haunted by last night, coming up to his room and finding Kili worn out and broken-down, being too drunk and clumsy to even stand on his own feet. Too stout-minded to ever understand what or how or why any of this had happened.

But he could try and fix this.

Kili let out a long, slow breath as Fili drove the chisel against the iron. It caved, and he forced it under the second bolt. Bang, bang, bang. Kili’s fingers dug into Fili’s trousers as he felt the metal pulse throbbing in his arm, iron growing warm in that pale sunlight. They sat together, ignored in the corner of the forge. The tapping, the tools of man against the iron of orcs, joined a stilted chorus in the smoky room.

“Two.” Fili allowed the ghost of a smile to haunt his lips. Kili inclined his head in a low nod. He didn’t look away from the cast now. He couldn’t close his eyes. It was easier to watch the chisel, anticipating each shuddering blow, rather than having his heart leap in surprise. “Just one more and it’s over.” Kili tried to imagine that. _Over._ To not have this dead, heavy weight on his arm. To not have that constant reminder of what Azog had done to him. To not have the memory of the time he had fought back, had come so tantalisingly close to _killing him._

But he had in the end. Kili remembered looking down into those still, lifeless eyes in a pale white face. Black blood splattered along his arms. He had won – he had _won_ and nobody could ever take that away from him. For all Thorin’s posturing and promises of revenge, it was Kili, stupid, naive little Kili, who had killed the biggest threat to Durin’s line in centuries. And they didn’t even know. Thorin had never asked what became of Azog. He was never interested in Kili’s side. He wondered what would happen if he had been told. He tried to imagine the shock and horror on his face. Would he be so quick to condemn Kili then? Would be so ready to dismiss Kili as some sort of mistake, something he didn’t _want_ anymore, if he knew just how Azog met his end? Would he still think Kili a traitor, if he knew what Kili had done to save him, to save Fili, to save everybody?

The hammer against his arm made Kili jump. He looked down to see the chisel against the cast, Fili running his fingers over the iron and checking for a dent.

“I’ll have to hit it harder.” He muttered. “Looks like the iron is thicker here.” He pressed the point of the chisel into the joint, raising the hammer. Kili’s mouth was dry.

“Fili I don’t think-” Kili was ignored as the older dwarf drove the hammer against the base of the chisel. _Hard._

Kili gasped.

The hammer fell out of Fili’s hand; he jumped back, hands over his mouth as he stared at what he had done. The chisel protruded outwards, embedded three inches into the cast. Fili screamed, the sound muffled in the clang of steel and hiss of red-hot iron against cool water. Blood already started to trickle out, gleaming so very red in the sunlight. Kili stared down at the chisel, jaw locked in an effort to lock the screams of pain behind his lips. _What did you do._

“No!” It was instinctive, Fili’s cry. He tried to hold on to Kili’s arm, but his brother batted the touch away, shaking his head. “Oh no – no Kili I’m so _sorry!”_ Kili’s shaking hand clenched the handle of the chisel, and with a grunt of pain he wrenched the tool free from his arm, both of them watching as the blood gushed out. “Wait there – I’ll just get-”

“No.” Kili grabbed his brother by the elbow, shaking his head. His arm _throbbed_ , swelling inside the iron. It had been a deep, agonising jolt, that chisel. He kept his face blank and straight, trying to swallow the pain and terror down while Fili panicked, hands hovering uncertainly over the cast. “Arm... Cut off the blood.”

“Right – yes." His fingers trembling, Fili tore the sleeve away from Kili’s tunic, winding it tight over his thin limb. “Oh _Mahal_ Kili I didn’t realise I-I thought it was stronger than that.” He looked up, lip quivering. “Kili I promise I didn’t _mean_ it.”

“I know you didn’t.” Kili breathed through his nose, curling his toes in the heavy boots. “You need to get the splint off _now._ ” Fili stared at him in horror. “The last bolt.” Fili shook his head, blonde curls falling over his face. “Fili if you’re not going to do it go and _get_ somebody.” It took everything Kili had to keep that same blank look on his face, to stop the screams from escaping his tight lips.

He lifted his head, and their eyes met. Brown and blue, Fili coming away at the seams and threatening to break entirely. Kili holding fragments of himself together, wearing a stone-cold mask. Fili gasped, an odd, choking intake of air. He bent down, taking the chisel in shaking hands.

“Forgive me.” Fili stared at the broken metal. It had caved in, the ragged, rusty edges of the iron in Kili’s skin. The bolt was still intact, fused to the broken bolthole in a thick coating of rust. Kili gritted his teeth as Fili drove the chisel into the bolt, hammering against the iron. Every jolt, every vibration tore through his broken skin, biting the flesh and scraping against the bone. But he didn’t flinch away. He kept his eyes locked on the mop of golden hair bent over his arm until finally, _finally_ the final bolt fell to the floor and Fili was grasping at the iron, trying to bend it in his shaking hands, pull it away. For a split second, he got his fingers over the lip of the metal, muscles straining with the effort. Kili pulled himself free, pressing his palm against the bleeding as the splint fell abandoned to the floor.

“Let me see.” Fili whispered. Reluctantly, Kili lifted his hand away. He felt air – _air_ – on his arm for the first time in months. His skin was pale, the muscles limp and caked with dirt and fragments of ash. It looked like a filthy dishrag draped over a stick, covered in blood. It was a short gash but ran deep, blood pulsing sluggishly over his fingers. “Kili – I should have listened to you.” He tore the sleeve of his own shirt, winding it tightly over the open skin. “We’ll find Oin and get something for this.” Kili looked wordlessly at the blood that had pooled on the floor. “I should listened to you.” The older dwarf’s lips barely moved in his soft repetition.

Ice settled in his stomach, a cold, aching realisation that Kili hadn’t cried out in pain. Not once. Because he’d learned not to. Because he had learned to hold his screaming back and keep his tears to himself. Because if he had screamed in front of Azog, the orc would have laughed and spat in his face. Kili had learned, had been _forced to learn_ , how to take a beating without making a sound.

Fili cradled the dirty, bloodstained limb in his hands. His gaze drifted upwards along Kili’s bare arm, the bones sticking out of his neck through the oversized collar of the soft blue tunic. His scarred cheek. His hollow eyes. His baby brother, who had had his arm gouged out with a chisel and didn’t once cry out. Who looked at him now, ragged and dull, the same lifeless look in his eyes that Fili had seen all day, the inward death of someone who had given up.

“Tell me how to make it better.” Fili pressed his forehead against his brother, grabbing handfuls of soft blue cloth. His knuckles rested against Kili’s collarbone. Kili held the bad arm with the good, sucking in a deep lungful of air as the sharp pain slowly ebbed away into a blunt throbbing. But Fili wasn’t talking about his arm. Both of them knew it.

“You can’t.” Kili wanted to crawl into bed and sleep, wake up in Ered Luin with the smell of his mother’s cooking and _his_ Fili shaking his shoulder. He wanted to hit this bad copy of Fili, hit him hard and hear him cry out in pain. His brother he wanted to hurt his _brother_. Stupid, clumsy Fili who never listened to him. Kili tried to hold himself together, tried to pull it back and shield the worst of it from Fili, but as he felt the blonde’s hands on his shirt, Kili knew that it was futile. They knew each other too openly and intimately, Kili thought, for any secrets. “Don’t try to fix me.” Kili’s words came out lower, deeper than he meant them too. They sounded almost like a warning.

Fili drew back. His fingers slackened against the blue fabric, looking into Kili’s eyes and seeing something very, very dark staring back at him. Something that _wasn’t Kili._ His mouth was dry, breath creaking in his throat. He remained silent, unable to speak a word as Kili’s words wound about his heart, black and cold and slimy. Kili didn’t want to be fixed, he didn’t want Fili, and he didn’t want _this_ , at all.


	58. Turning Away

“ _Kau!”_

Fili gasped, started awake at the voice on his side. Kili moaned and thrashed in his sleep, his limbs tangled in the bedsheets.

“ _Puzg – kau nar_ _nûlnur!”_  His heart in his mouth, Fili dragged himself across the bed, grabbing Kili’s arms, careful not to hurt him. Kili strained against him, arching his neck as the breath tore out in choked gasps and sobs. “ _Azog oshadhûr kau thup_ – _please_.” Fili pinned his brother to the bed, lying on top of him with his face pushed into Kili’s neck. He rested his hands on Kili’s face, enduring his struggling, flailing blows in silence. “ _Please!”_ Fili’s heart pulsed in his throat as he heard the Westron leak through that awful black language. “ _Ufurz puzg. Azog puzg!”_

“Kili wake up.” Fili moaned into his ear as the thin body heaved beneath him. “Wake up, you’re having a nightmare.” He shook his good arm, gently slapped his face, did everything he thought he could to release Kili from the prison in his head. Kili coughed over his words, crying out in imagined pain. “Please – please wake up.”

Kili went rigid in his arms, stiff and still as stone as his lips parted in a half-sob. Pressing his forehead against Kili’s collarbone, Fili dug his hands beneath the shaking body, crushing his arms tightly around him. Awake, Kili allowed just a few brief seconds of that embrace, before pushing at Fili’s shoulders, trying to wriggle out from under him.

“L-Let me go.” Kili’s voice was hoarse. “S-Stop.”

“You had a nightmare.” Fili whispered in his ear, refusing to let go. “Kili – calm down it’s me. You’re safe. It was just a bad dream.” Kili sank into the mattress, lax. His breath still came out of him in those long, heaving gasps. “Shh... Just breathe. In and out.” Fili lifted his head, resting a hand on Kili’s chest. A mad pulse beat against his palm. “It’s all right. You’re safe.”

“Get off.” Kili tried once more to free himself. “Fili – please.” He couldn’t do it, having this big, heavy body draped over top of him, breathing in his ear. Even if it was Fili. He felt as thin and fragile as glass. He felt as though Fili was going to crush him. “Get – _off.”_ He tried to elbow Fili in the side, feeling smothered and sick. Kili opened his eyes in the darkness, watching a faint outline shift as Fili slowly rolled over, lying on his side beside him propped up on an elbow.

“Oh Kili.” He felt the shuffle of blankets as Kili pulled them up to his chin, turning away from him and facing the wall. “What happened? Who was in your dream?” But he already knew the answer to that. He heard it torn from Kili’s dry lips. He wanted his brother to open up to him, desperately. He wanted in.

“Azog.” He replied tonelessly, burying his nose in the pillow as a fresh wave of panic tore through him, howling like a storm-gale in his ears. Kili closed his eyes, trying to push the rolling sting back. He succeeded. Fili reached out and gently touched him, fingertips brushing his upper arm. Kili curled inwards, into a fetal position with the blankets half over his head.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He felt Kili’s tangles shift against his fingers as the dwarf shook his head. Fili swallowed, mouth dry as he squinted at the hunched figure in the dark gloom. “Please Kili – talk to me.”

Kili pressed his lips together, curling into an even tighter ball. He didn’t want to talk about it. He didn’t want to relive that awful memory-dream, being pinned to the ground and beaten, over and over, Azog’s grinning face, that awful snarl that now only existed in memory. It was over. He was gone. But the orc hadn’t released his pale fingers around Kili’s heart. He still held it, still squeezed the life out of him, keeping him in pain and fear.

He wanted to break down in tears but something was holding him back. Kili was tense, stretched, _afraid._ The frantic panic and desperation still coursed through him, making his heart beat madly and his hands shake, wrapped tightly in the sheets. He could feel the sobs breaking against his chest, bottled up in his aching throat. Kili couldn’t cry.

Fili lay facing his brother, gently running his hand up and down along Kili’s arm. He wanted to do more. He wanted to hold Kili close, feel him breathing against his skin and wait for those awful gasps of air to subside. He felt clumsy and useless, lying so apart from him. He didn’t know how to fix this. He’d never seen Kili react so violently to a nightmare before. It had always been Fili who was dragged down by his dark, tangled memories and woke sobbing, with the rushing voices still screaming in his ear. Kili always forced him to wake up and lay against his shoulder, the both of them trading whispered stories until their eyes stung with tiredness. Kili had always been his shield against the nightmares, as bright and strong as mithril. Fili felt like a grubby piece of paper by comparison, ripped away from Kili’s chest and thrown to the ground in pieces. He couldn’t do anything to protect his brother. Kili didn’t want him now.

He waited until the harsh breathing slowly evened out into long sighs and snores. Then he waited a little longer. Fili felt so very _aged_ as he sat up, reaching across to carefully unwind Kili’s fingers from the sheet. He gently rolled Kili onto his back, straightening the blankets and smoothing them out over his chest. Working by touch and feel in the darkness, he brushed his brother’s tangled hair back. He bent down, unable to resist. Their foreheads touched for a brief moment. A single tear fell from Fili’s eye, trickling across Kili’s cheek until it turned to nothing, leaving an invisible trail in the darkness.

Hatred throbbed inside of him like a sickness. Fili sat up, leaning against the headboard. Hatred at Azog, at the scum who had done this to his precious baby brother. He could feel Kili slipping further and further away from him with every day. Fili begged and screamed, beating against the walls of Kili's heart, but his brother had gone cold. He turned away from Fili's touch, answered his questions with chilly silence, and wore a hard, dead expression on his face. It _hurt_ to see this happen, to see Kili sicken and wither away, to have his attempts at affection brushed aside. Nothing worked and Fili could see his brother ebbing away from him like a floating piece of driftwood, right in front of his eyes.

Fili stared across the room, eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness until he could make out the vague shapes of furniture, the paintings and hangings on the wall. His hands twisted and turned in his lap, and every few minutes, he looked down at the sleeping figure, keeping his ears open for any gasp or sigh that seemed out of the ordinary. Nightmares had a nasty habit of coming back; he knew that very well. But this time, he would jerk Kili awake the moment he heard the first broken breath of air that came from those lips. He’d protect his little brother from the monsters that lurked inside his head. He wouldn’t fail him. He _couldn’t_.

Fili waited until the light turned to grey but Kili’s sleep was deep, uninterrupted, and quiet. He woke with no seeming recollection of his nightmare, and Fili didn’t know if he really had forgotten or he was just pretending. So he pretended nothing happened, too.  

* * *

The sunlight only made the drawing darker. Ori’s frown deepened as he stared down at the sketch, angling his paper into the light. He couldn’t _do_ it. With a groan, he turned the page over, resting it on a wooden board with the pencil in his hand. The scribe paused, taking in a deep breath and leaning against the windowframe. He closed his eyes, trying to first draw the picture in his mind. A rough sketch, quick outlines, and then a slow, meticulous combing through every detail. When he felt he had his head back in order, Ori returned to the page, drawing faint lines on the page, building it up with every layer as the minutes stretched by in silence.

It _still_ didn’t look right.

Ori’s heartstrings tightened as he looked down at his half-sketched image of Kili. It didn’t _look_ like him. He tried to scour the depths of his memories, remembering how his lips curled in a smile, how his eyes caught the light, how the muscles in his cheeks stretched as he grinned.

_He just wanted to see Kili happy again._

Ori gritted his teeth, looking down at the bad drawing. Anger flashed through him, a flame catching tinder. He tore the page into pieces, hands shaking as he crumpled the fragments in his fingers and threw them to the carpet.

He drew his knees up to his chest, resting his forehead against the soft fabric of his trousers. His breath was coming out in hard gasps, sand against his throat. No no no no _no_ he was _not_ going to cry. Ori wrapped his arms around his legs, raking his fingers up and down his calves. It wasn’t fair. Everyone else – they could whatever they liked with Kili. They could be as close to him as they wanted, yet everyone drew back. Three days had passed since his tumultuous arrival, and Kili was as cold and separate from the others as ever. He ate his meals with the servants, spent long hours in his room working on new vambraces, and only spoke to Dwalin and Fili. He passed through like a ghost, and it seemed that no one could touch him. His rare glimpses of Kili were painful. He looked so _sick,_ so thin and hollow. Ori was afraid to look his direction in those rare occasions when Kili was close.

“Ori?” His head snapped up at the soft voice in the doorway. He blinked and rubbed at his stinging eyes, forcing a smile as Nori crossed the bright parlour to his window seat. “What are you doing in here?”

“Drawing.” He looked down at the torn, crumpled fragments of paper with a little shrug. “Light in my room’s no good in the mornings.” Nori sat down before him, drawing one knee up. The toes of their new boots touched. “No one seems to want to come in here. I like it.”

“It’s tiring, being around everybody else.” Nori’s eyes lowered for a moment. Ori remembered that his brother had always been a lone wolf, never seeking the company of others unless he needed it. Not even his brothers. He wondered if it had always been that way, or just the death of their mother that had made him so cold and solitary. “The house is almost empty. Just us and Bombur.”

“Where’s Kili?” Nori raised a braided eyebrow.

“Archery range.” Ori felt his cheeks redden at the eyes on him. “Bain came over to tell him his new bow was ready and he couldn’t get out of here fast enough. He’ll be gone all day.” The thief sighed. “Are you – all right about this?”

“What do you think.” Ori’s voice was low and bitter. “Of _course_ I’m not.” He knew he couldn’t lie to his brother, not for a moment. “It’s not fair, any of this. He’s suffering Nori, so terribly. I just want to help and I can’t.” His breath hitched as his voice grew louder. “He’s not getting better. He’s getting _worse._ I can see it. Thorin and Fili – they’re not doing enough to help. They’re only hurting him. I’ve heard Fili talking to Dwalin about what he’s done to try and fix Kili.” Nori watched him in silence. “But he’s not a broken sword they can just put back together. Not when half of the pieces are lost.”

“I know that look in his eye.” Nori chewed on the inside of his cheek, staring down at their touching boots. “What happened to him – it’s worse than he’s let on. Fili and Thorin might know but he’ll never tell anybody else.” Ori set aside the board and the empty papers, sitting up a little with his eyes sharp and bright. “He’s not innocent.” Nori wondered how he could phrase it without passing judgement. He would be the last one to brand anybody a criminal. “You haven’t been imprisoned Ori. Not really. Thranduil’s dungeons – that’s not what it’s like. It’s so much worse, when you’re held by real enemies. People who couldn’t care less if you lived or died.”

“Nori...”

“Being a caught criminal is bad because they want you to suffer. But being a hostage, a spoil of war, it would have been so much worse.” Nori’s voice was low, almost a whisper, and his little brother had to lean in slightly to hear it. “I met somebody imprisoned by orcs once. Only once.” His eyes darkened with the foul memory. “In Lond Daer, there was a man in the cells who’d been captured by orcs for a couple of weeks and freed in a night-raid.”

“A-And?”

“Raving mad.” Ori’s throat closed. “Spoke in babbles and screams. They’d locked him up because he was dangerous they didn’t know what else to do with him. He couldn’t sleep through the nightmares.” Nori’s hand brushed the top of his new boots. “He was only thirty but his hair was completely grey. I won’t repeat what he said but it was bad. When I went back a few years later, it turned out he’d escaped. He climbed to the top of the guard’s tower and threw himself off, screaming all the way down.” Ori’s hands were over his mouth. “None of us can comprehend just what they’re capable of. They’re very, very good at making people break. It’s like art to them.”

“Oh _Kili._ ” Ori’s hands were clasped together. “It must have been _awful,_ what they would have done to him...”

“But that’s the thing.” He leaned in. “This is all guesswork and if you have sense, it won’t leave this room. Understand?” Ori nodded. “Ori – I don’t think he was a prisoner at the end of it.” He watched the scribe’s eyes widen. “I think Kili would have done anything, _anything_ he could, to make things better for himself.”

“When you say anything...”

“I mean _anything._ ” Nori’s voice was deadly quiet. “It would have wrecked his head, being imprisoned for so long.” The little dwarf simply stared. “He would have been desperate and in pain and I don’t blame him for it. But I can see how others would.” Ori was starting to frown. He didn’t understand what his brother was trying to say. With a sigh, Nori dipped his head. He had to simply come out and say it. “I... I think he turned, Ori.” He felt a jolt against his foot, as Ori jerked back in surprise. “I think Azog broke him enough to get in his head and turn him against us all. That’s why he’s getting worse, why he won’t talk to anybody. And that’s why he attacked Thorin by the river.”

“No...” Ori closed his mind to the horror of what Nori was saying. “No – he _couldn’t_ Nori. He couldn’t do that.”His lip trembled. “He wouldn’t ever forsake us like that. Not Kili.”

“We forsook him.” Nori spoke plainly. “He wouldn’t have had any reason to put his faith in us. Not after we left him for dead. Mahal – _I_ would have done it too, if I were there.”

“Don’t be a beast.” Ori shook his head. “Don’t – don’t _say_ these things. They’re awful and they’re not true. They can’t be.”

“And what if they are.” There was a new level of seriousness in Nori’s voice. He got up on his knees, crouching in front of Ori and resting a hand on his leg. “What if Kili admits to being an orc-friend? Will you still love him?”

“Oh you’re _cruel.”_ Ori shoved his brother away, getting to his feet. “How – how can you be so _awful_ about him to me?” He hid his hands, hoping that he wouldn’t crumble in front of his brother and burst into tears. “Is that why you came in here? To make fun of me?” Paling, Nori stood up, holding out his hands. “Do you think this is some sort of joke?”

“I’ve never been more serious to you.” Nori whispered, shocked at Ori’s overreaction. But he understood it. He never could imagine what it would be like, to be so sickened with self-disgust, harbouring a secret love that would never ever come true, watching that love die and come back to life in a horrible grey shell. “I just want you to consider the worst.”

“This _is_ the worst.” Wobbling a little on shaky legs, Ori sat back down on the window seat, head in his hands. “Nori I can’t do _this._ Seeing him so hurt and broken – and I can’t do _anything_. I could help him, I-I know I could. I know he doesn’t want people trying to fix him. He just wants someone to be there – to listen and I could _do_ that. I’d do anything for him and I _can’t._ ” He curled his hands into fists, striking them against his knees. “I’m _helpless._ ”

“You’re not helpless.” Nori’s voice was sharp. He sat at Ori’s side, resting a hand on his shoulder. “You’re just scared of Thorin.”

“Of course I’m scared of Thorin.” Ori mumbled. “Nori I can’t – he made it _very_ clear that I can’t touch him or be alone with him or even sit next to him. He won’t risk impropriety.”

“Damn Thorin’s _propriety_.” The auburn-haired dwarf looked up. “The poor kid is going to break if nothing’s done. He liked you Ori. Not like... Not like you do. But you’ve been good friends for years. He trusts you more than most of us.”

“Nori – I _can’t.”_ Frustration tempered his voice. “You’re not listening to me.” Nori merely raised his eyes to the ceiling with a little sigh.

“Do you know why Dori’s so miserable all the time?” It was such an odd statement. Ori drew back a little, staring at his older brother as he kicked at a fragment of paper on the floor.

“Dori? What’s Dori have to do with any of this?”

“Look.” He scratched at his beard in thought. “He’s always been obsessed with being so damn _proper_ and respectable. He’s ashamed of who he is. He’s bent over backwards for decades, trying to put on airs and show everyone that he can be good.” Nori’s mouth hardened into a thin line. “His friends aren’t really his friends. He can’t relax around them and be himself. He doesn’t even know who he really is anymore.” He looked at Ori. “Do you really want to be like that, Ori?”

“What – are you saying I should be like _you?”_ Ori edged away, hunching his shoulders. “An outcast and a criminal? You’re only here because it was either this or jail. You can’t – you can’t say you’re _happy_.” His wide eyes fixed on Nori. “How can you be happy, after all this isolation?”

“I might be a thief but I’m more honest than Dori will ever be.” Hurt, Nori rose to his feet, turning away from his little brother. “Ignore me then. Keep listening to Thorin and watch from afar until Kili loses his head and hurts himself or somebody else. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you, when it happens.”

“Nori...” Ori’s mouth was dry, mind racing through everything he had said. “He’d exile me. He’s only waiting for an opportunity to get rid of me – I can’t give it to him. This is all I have, don’t you see? You and Dori – I can’t _lose_ you.” Nori turned back, slowly. “Dori said when we left that this was time for a fresh start, for all of us. To make new names for ourselves and finally be seen as heroes, to be proud of our names.”

“You’re the bastard son of a whore.” Nori spat the words out like tacks. “So am I. So is Dori. Nothing will ever make people forget that. You’re brave Ori. I know you are. Stop letting Thorin push you around and grow a damn spine.” And with that, he left. He left before he could say something that really hurt.

Ori bent down, picking up a crumpled fragment of paper. He smoothed it out on his knee. One of Kili’s eyes stared up at him, a poor image of that former brightness. He swallowed the heavy lump in his throat, screwing up the page and throwing it back on the floor. No – Nori didn’t know. He didn’t understand any of it. He was a thief and a liar – what right did he have to tell Ori what to do? How could he tell his little brother to be more like _him_ , coarse and rude and cruel, instead of rock-solid, unwavering Dori?

Sunlight warmed his back. Ori stared down at his shoes, wrapped in a soft, pensive silence, watching the pale beams of light creep along the floorboards. His shoulders grew stiff as he sat hunched over in the window seat with Nori’s words rolling around and around in his head.


	59. Armour

“Oh wow you’re _good!”_ Bain gaped as Kili lowered his bow. He gripped his forearm for a moment when he thought the child wasn’t looking, fighting back the twinge of pain beneath the skin.  

“I’m rusty.” Kili scowled, looking down at the short bow. He’d forced himself to learn how to shoot with the longer orc-bow, and this stubby little weapon felt brutish and clumsy by comparison. He crossed to the target, six arrows embedded into the cloth. Three were near the middle, one on the third ring, one on the fourth, and two had almost missed the target completely. He stared down at the handful of arrows with a little frown on his face.  

“Better than _me.”_ Bain sat on the wooden railing, legs dangling over the side. “I practice all the time but I never hit the middle more than once.” Kili thrust the handful of arrows inside the quiver, slinging the leather over his back. “Papa just says I need to practice more.” 

“It takes a _long_ time.” Kili paused, shouldering his bow and drawing the string to his ear. The arrow flew through the chilly air, whizzing into the target. He wrinkled his nose in dissatisfaction. “Damn.” He looked down at the newly-made weapon in his hand. “Maybe the bow’s off.” But it wasn’t that, and he knew it. His arm wasn’t helping. He circled his hand around the bandaged limb. It wasn’t just the wound Fili had made – without the iron splint bracing the bone, Kili was working the soft muscles for the first time in months. He tried two more shots before giving up, dropping the bow and quiver and leaning over the railing.  

“Are you all ri-” 

“I’m fine.” Kili muttered quickly before Bain could finish the question. He straightened, rubbing his forearm. “I’m pushing myself too much.” 

“Why, what happened to your arm?” Bain caught the edge of the bandage beneath Kili’s sleeve. He tilted his head to one side, looking curious.  

“It was broken.” Kili pulled the hem of his sleeve down, shuffling a little uncomfortably in his boots. “Bone’s healed but I’ve lost all the strength in it.”  

“Is that from the orcs?” Kili’s head jerked up, the colour draining from his face. “Papa told me – it’s not his fault. I asked why you were so quiet and he told me to shut up but I wouldn’t let it alone.” He gave an apologetic smile. “He told me not to tell anyone and I haven’t, I swear.” 

“Yes.” Kili gritted his teeth, the frown deepening on his forehead. “It was the orcs.” He sat down slowly, leaning against the railing and sliding to the ground. He drew up his legs, picking at the edge of his worn glove.  

“It must have been _so_ scary.” Bain couldn’t help it – he obviously hadn’t stopped thinking about it ever since his father had told him. Kili looked up as the boy jumped down, sitting with his legs crossed beside him. “You’d have to be really brave.”  

“It was scary.” Kili mumbled, feeling his insides curl with discomfort. Fear wasn’t a justification for what he’d done. “But I wasn’t brave.” He didn’t feel brave, thinking back on what he had done, what had happened to him. He had opportunities to run away, to fight back, and he never took them because he was too afraid. By the time he finally worked up the nerve to try and save himself, Kili was too late.  

“Are they as bad as people say?” Bain grabbed his ankles, rolling back and forth slightly as though he was listening to a story. “The orcs I mean.” The question made Kili stop for a moment. He frowned down at his knees, gently massaging the exhausted muscles of his bandaged left arm.  

“Most of them.” Kili finally answered, chewing on his lower lip. “Some weren’t so terrible.” Their eyes met, something almost _black_ looking out at Bain. “You get good men and bad men don’t you? Good dwarves and bad dwarves. They’re like us.”  

“Is it true that they _eat_ people?” Bain’s eyes were wide. “Like animals? That’s what I heard but Papa says it’s just stories made to scare children.” 

“They’re not stories.” Kili’s throat tightened with the sick memory. It was easier to answer the questions as quickly and painlessly as possible, rather than trying to head the boy off. “It’s very true.” Bain’s mouth fell open.  

“And they ride wolves like horses is that true too?” Kili only nodded sadly, remembering his own goofy warg, the one he knew he would never see again. “ _Woah.”_ He rested his chin on his hands. “Do they really live in underground holes like worms? Do they really eat their own babies too? Is it true that they were elves once? I heard they can’t read and write is that true as well?” 

“No more questions.” Kili rubbed his temples, trying to ward off an impending headache. He didn’t want to talk about it, didn’t want to even think about it. He couldn’t bear letting an image of that terrible underground fortress flash across his mind for a moment, with the thousands of eyes on him, the grimy forge, those precarious swing-bridges suspended over pits of blackness. 

“Oh – sorry.” Embarrassed, Bain looked down at his boots. “I didn’t mean to be upsetting. Papa says I always let my mouth run away from me, I just don’t know when to...” He cleared his throat. _Stop talking._   

“It’s all right.” Kili’s voice was thin and worn out. “But I don’t want to talk about it anymore.” Bain nodded. “Don’t tell your father I said anything either. He might not like it.” The child nodded a second time.  

“I still think you’re brave.” Bain announced after a short, stiff silence. Kili’s lip twitched in a flicker of a smile and he didn’t argue with him this time.  

“He is brave.” Both of them jumped. Ori had crept up on them silently; he stood now with his hands clasped nervously together, unable to look Kili exactly in the eye. “Hi.” 

“What are you doing here?” There was a frown on Kili’s face again. There was something new and tense in his voice. Something guarded.  

“Looking for you.” Ori licked his lips, taking another step towards the dwarf. “Bain – I need to talk to Kili. Just the two of us if that’s all right.” Kili stood up slowly, dark eyes trained on Ori as the scribe picked at his nails.  

“Sure.” But he looked a little sulky as he rose to his feet, a bit like a child who’d had a toy snatched away from him. He still clamoured with dozens of questions for Kili, about his time with the orcs, his own childhood, what it was like being a dwarf-archer, _everything._ It was dull and dreary, living on their matchstick village suspended over the freezing lake, and the arrival of the dwarves was the most exciting thing he could ever remember.  

“Why do you want to talk to me.” Kili waited until Bain had left before speaking. He stood with his arms folded, voice flat and monotonous. But there was a hard line in his jaw, one that Ori couldn’t look at.  

“I wanted to say sorry.” Ori mumbled. “For running away in the kitchen.” He breathed in, deeply. “I didn’t mean to Kili. I just – I was scared.” 

“Of me.” Ori looked up, their eyes meeting. “Just admit it.” 

“No – No I’m not.” The auburn-haired dwarf shook his head. “Kili I’m not scared of you, I-” 

“Then why did you run away.” Ori gritted his teeth in frustration. He didn’t know what to do, how to put words to those desperate thoughts that ran through his mind. Where did he begin? The words he really, _truly_ wanted to say remained locked behind his lips, and Ori knew they would never come out.  

“Because I’m a coward.” Ori quietly admitted. The words were building up, like a dam, and Ori was terrified that they would all flood out and he wouldn’t have any control over them. “I didn’t... Oh _Kili...”_  

“Is it because of the night I left?” Kili didn’t shift that measured, cool stare. Ori stopped breathing. “I told you not to tell anyone and you didn’t. If you’d told Thorin or Fili, they might have found me in time.”  

“... Yes.” A fresh stab of guilt pierced Ori’s heart, as the slow-healing wound was ripped open. Yes – that was _so_ much easier than the truth. “I’m so sorry.” 

“Don’t bother feeling sorry for me.” Kili’s ragged voice grated like rusted iron against Ori’s skull. It hurt him, to hear it. Ori looked at his friend, trying to pull that unreadable expression apart.  

“Kili–” 

“I’m not your responsibility.” The sharp words stuck into him. Ori bit down on his lip, silent. “Did you tell everyone to stop looking after two days? Did you declare me dead without a body? Without bones?” Kili’s voice picked up in pace, until the words came out in a stumbled rush. “Did you think that I was so _weak_ and stupid and foolish that I would roll over and die without a struggle? Did you th-think that I wasn’t worth risking a fight with Azog? Did you – did you think me less important than gold?”  

“No.” Ori’s voice was very small. Kili’s hands were clenched into shaking fists at his side. The hard expression on his face had dissolved, and for a second that armour he had built up, that mask he wore to protect himself, it was torn away. Ori had that momentary glimpse of _Kili_ , small and frightened, lost and in pain, backed into a corner with no way out. His voice stuck in his throat; Ori opened his mouth but couldn’t bring another word past his lips. He wanted to say that _no one_ thought that, not at all. He wanted to say that Thorin had driven himself close to madness with his grief, that Fili had broken down and wasn’t the same, that everyone had been so _sure_ , that with orcs it seemed like there was nothing else to expect from them. But Ori couldn’t speak a word. Kili closed his eyes, taking in a short breath as he relaxed his tense hands.

“Then why would I blame you for this.” That blank, fixed look was back on his face. Ori couldn’t say anything. He pressed a hand over the wrinkled knot of his mouth, feeling his nerve fail him. “Is that what you came here for?” It felt like an interrogation. Ori looked carefully at him, realising it must have been so very long since someone who wasn't Fili had just wanted to be near him, without wanting anything in return. “I don’t want to sit here and talk for hours about what’s happened Ori. You’ve got your forgiveness. Isn’t that what you wanted.” That _hurt._ Ori tried to tell himself that Kili didn’t mean it, not really. He tried to tell himself that Kili’s trust in everybody, from Thorin to Fili and Ori and every last member of the Company had been completely shattered, that it was something that they would have to earn back, every single one of them.  

Kili turned away from Ori, sick of waiting for a stumbled reply. The scribe's heart sank. He needed something - anything, a foothold, a toe in the door. A way in. Kili picked up the quiver of arrows, slinging it across his back. Ori’s heart leaped, and he steeled himself for the inevitable rejection, carefully plucking up the courage. 

“Teach me.” 

“What?” Kili turned back, raising an eyebrow. “ _Teach_ you?” 

“Archery.” Ori was desperate – he just wanted to be near Kili, to build up that friendship which had been ripped to pieces. Nori was _right_. The longer Ori looked at him, the more filled out that picture became in his mind. He realised with every look, every twitch of his muscles and flicker of his eyes, that Kili was wound tighter and tighter, that he was so close to snapping. “Teach me.” Kili narrowed his eyes, studying Ori, trying to pick him apart.  

“You want to learn archery.” He sounded completely disbelieving. Ori nodded, trying to find his voice.  

“Yes.” He cleared his throat. “I-I do.” Wordlessly, Kili approached him. They stood very close, less than two feet apart, with Kili examining his eyes. Ori gulped, forcing himself to keep his chin upright during the silent questioning. “I’ve got good – good aim when it comes to throwing so I could be all right.” 

“Here then.” Calling his bluff, Kili slung the quiver from his shoulder, pushing it into Ori’s chest. “Put it on and roll up your sleeves. They’re ridiculously big. You’ll get them caught on the string if you’re not careful.” Ori nodded silently, obeying Kili’s commands with his head in a blur. _What was he doing?_ Archery – Ori didn’t want to learn _archery_ , it was ridiculous.  

But he was near Kili – he was only several feet away, close enough to hear him breathe. Close enough to see the faint mist rise from his lips. To see the barest pinch of colour in his cheeks, the glints of gold in his hair from the pale sunlight. Close enough to stretch out an arm and touch him if he wanted. Closer than he’d been in months. Closer than he could maybe ever hope to be again.  

Ori tried not to look at the lopsided doorway to the lonely little range. No – what were the chances, really? The only one who would actively seek Kili out was his brother, and Fili understood, he knew everything and he hadn’t pulled Ori aside yet, hadn’t given him those same awful threats so maybe just maybe it would be all right – or maybe on top of everything else it had fallen by the wayside and Fili was plagued with those same awful thoughts that now Kili was back there was that risk, that tiny, impossible risk that _something might happen_.  

So what. Ori squared his shoulders, trying to summon up that courage that Nori was so _sure_ he had. So what if someone saw him. It didn’t matter. Nothing else had mattered to him for a long time.  

* * *

Tauriel knew it was serious when she was summoned to Thranduil’s private chamber. Her king had finally held his first afternoon of court the day before, sitting on his carved throne with cold, lifeless eyes. Something had died inside of him, Ever since Tauriel brought his son back to him, crippled and broken. She wondered if he would ever be the same again.  

“You wished to see me?” He was still wrapped in soft silk, dressed for bed. Thranduil sat in a spindly chair before his rarely-used desk, palms pressed flat against the smooth wood. Between his hands, Tauriel could see a letter. 

“Come in.” His eyes were trained on the page. “And shut the door.” She obeyed, soft leather shoes whispering across the floorboards. He jerked his head towards the chair to his right, and she sat, sleek and silent as a cat. “I received a letter this morning.” He pushed it towards her “From Esgaroth.” 

“Oh?” Her eyes skimmed the page, growing narrower and narrower as she read. “ _Oh.”_  

“I should have realised.” Thranduil’s lip curled. “There’s no other settlement around for nearly a hundred miles. There’s nowhere else they could have gone.”  

“Thorin Oakenshield and his thirteen companions...” She murmured aloud, reading from the letter. “ _Thirteen?”_ Her head jerked up. “I’m so sure it was twelve.” 

“I don’t care if it’s ten or a hundred.” He turned his shockingly blue eyes on her. “This wasn’t sent by Maxwell. It was Gunnar. He wishes to corroborate their story with what we know.” Tauriel skimmed through the rest of the short note from the Captain of the Guard, silently moving her lips.  

“Have you written back yet?” She saw the curtain of spun gold shift, as Thranduil shook his head. “What are you going to do?” 

“It’s delicate.” He spat the word out, his own voice anything but. “The dwarves are popular within the city. _Very_ popular. Trying to arrest them would lead to an outcry. I can’t risk my only trade-link to the rest of Middle-Earth.” Thranduil was passionate but he was also shrewd and clever. He worked outside his domain in Lake-Town, he knew his position, his power, and he knew how quickly the men of the village could turn against him.  

“We could try and corner them between Esgaroth and Erebor.” Tauriel suggested. But Thranduil shook his head, staring out his beautiful open window at the winter sunshine.  

“I’m not bringing any of my soldiers within a hundred miles of that dragon’s lair.” She watched her king, his blue eyes darting from side to side in deep thought. “No – I have something else in mind.” He turned his head several degrees, regarding her. “You.” 

“Me?” Her green eyes widened. Thranduil inclined his head in a short nod. “You want me to go to Esgaroth?” 

“And you will return with the _scum_ that tortured my son.” Thranduil’s voice was deadly cold. “The orc-friend.” Tauriel watched his hands begin to quake, still pressed against the tabletop.  

“Kili.” 

“Yes.” His throat visibly clenched. “Kili.” He spat out the name as though it were poison. “Gunnar is clearly suspicious, else he never would have sent a letter in the first place. I have a plan – a way to deal with all of this quietly.” He turned his eyes back to her. “I need your promise to obey every command I give you.” Tauriel found her heart was beating very quickly and heavily inside her chest. “What you will do – pushes the limits of legality. If Thorin gets wind, he will declare a conspiracy against him. I don’t want him to have grounds for any such claims.” Oh, she didn’t like this. _Why was he making her swear allegiance before telling her what she had to do?_  

“You are my king.” It didn’t sound like her voice to her ears. “I will obey every command you give me, Thranduil.”  

“I know you will.” He broke into a smile. A smile Tauriel didn’t like. “You are the most loyal of my subjects. You are like a sister to my son.” She hid her hands under the table, struggling to keep her face impassive. “So you understand better than anyone else, why we have to ensure proper revenge is exacted.” 

“Yes, Thranduil.” Her eyes flickered for a brief moment, settling back to the letter. “I understand completely.” 

* * *

“No – your feet aren’t right.” Kili sighed in annoyance, standing behind the scribe. Ori couldn’t _breathe_ , Kili’s voice was right in his ear, his bony little frame mere inches from his back. “You’re trying to bury your feet in the earth and stand your ground.” 

“I-I thought that was how dwarves fought.” Embarrassed, Ori looked down at his hands. He heard Kili snort in his ear, felt a brush of tangled hair against his shoulders as Kili shook his head.

“Swords and axes, yes. But not with a bow.” Kili crouched down behind him. “Loosen your legs. Don’t lock them in place.” 

“A-All right.” Ori bit back a gasp as Kili’s hands wrapped around his left ankle. “Kili, what are you doing?” 

“Fixing your stance.” Kili gently pushed his feet closer together, the left slightly in front of the right. “You need to keep light and springy, understand? A leaf, not a stone.” His hands travelled up Ori’s leg. “Crouch your knees. Just a little bit.” 

“Like this?” Ori’s dry tongue scraped against the roof of his mouth as he gulped. He felt like he had swallowed a handful of ash. 

“A little more.” Kili’s hands were on his thigh now, pushing him down. Ori closed his eyes, breathing slowly through his mouth. Oh _Mahal_ what was Kili doing to him? He tried to tell himself it was nothing – dwarves got far more intimate when they sparred, wrestling shirtless and trying to push each other to the ground. He’d seen Fili do the same to Kili, standing behind him and holding his hands over his brother’s, checking his grip on the sword. Nothing, it was nothing and Ori had to calm _down_ or he would ruin this. “Good.” Kili stood up behind him. “Shift your weight onto your left.” His hands rested on Ori’s sides, pushing him half a degree forward. Ori gritted his teeth. “I know it’s hard to think of yourself as light, but you can’t stand your ground and push people back when you have a bow in your hand. You need to be ready to move at every moment. Shoot your target, and spring back, set the next in your sights.”  

“A-All right.” He stumbled red-faced over every word, humiliation writhing in his stomach. _Get a hold of yourself._ Ori screamed inside of his head, self-loathing doubling with every stammer, every nervous flutter in his stomach.  

“Hold the bow here.” His hand closed around Ori’s wrist, guiding him. The scribe looked to the side, examining Kili’s expression with his quick, sharp eyes. He looked totally absorbed in what he was doing. “You have to hold your arm _perfectly_ still. Move with your legs but keep your arm straight. If you waver in the slightest, you’ll go off target.” Ori nodded silently. The target looked so far away from here – was he even going to be able to hit it?

 _What in Mahal’s name do you think you’re doing._ Ori scolded himself for this ridiculousness. He was like a piece of clay, grey and lumpy with Kili shaping and moulding his stance with those archer’s hands. He didn’t think twice about what he was doing. Whether Ori was genuinely interested or not, it didn’t seem to matter much to him at this point. He threw himself into what he was doing, standing back and giving Ori a last once-over with those hard brown eyes.

“Draw an arrow.” Ori nodded, drawing from the quiver and nocking it against the bowstring. “Just slightly lower.” Kili stepped forward, not looking Ori quite in the eye. He was more interested in his own hand, guiding Ori's willing limbs into the right shapes and angles. “Rest it on the groove here. Make sure it’s straight. Good.” He touched Ori’s shoulders lightly. “You’re too tense. Relax your muscles or else you’ll veer off.”

“I’m trying.” Ori breathed out, trying to keep himself calm. It was all too much, Kili’s hands on his arms and legs, his hair against his neck. It was more than he’d had since the Carrock, robbing the air from his lungs and leaving his head spinning. It meant _nothing_ and Ori knew it – but he never imagined that something like this could happen, not once...

“Try harder.” Kili’s voice was sharp. “You need to be soft and fluid. Like water. It’s a smooth, graceful movement.” At least his hands weren’t trembling. There was a small mercy in that. Kili stepped back, leaning against the wooden railing. “Now – you need to have your sight lined up before you draw. If you draw the string first and try to get your aim perfect, you’ll wear out your arm in minutes.”

“All right.” Ori aimed as best he could for the centre, drawing the bowstring with three fingers, the way Kili first demonstrated, and letting the arrow fly. He held his breath and closed his eyes, convinced he had failed.

“Well done.” Ori’s eyes snapped open in surprise. The arrow was embedded in the edge of the target. “Good first shot.” Kili climbed up onto the railing, the way Bain had, with his legs dangling over the edge.

“I can’t believe I hit it.” A smile began to spread across Ori’s face. It made Kili pause, made him wonder for a moment that maybe he wasn't just bluffing or gabbling when he said he wanted to learn archery. “I was sure I was going to miss.”

“You’re not going to miss, Ori.” Kili ran his fingers over the coarse cloth of his bandage. Stupid - he should _never_ assume. Realisation stung in his throat. “You said yourself, you’ve got a good eye. You catch details others would miss.” Perfect for checking up on someone, for watching little cues and glances, things that wouldn't be spoken but would slip out in uncontrollable tells. Ori slowly lowered the bow, turning to look at him. Kili was staring down at his hands, flexing his fingers, closing them around air.

“Kili, I-”

“I know you don’t really want to learn this.” Kili’s shoulders were slumped, wishing he hadn’t allowed himself to be so briefly happy. He knew now why Ori was here. “I know you’re here to watch over me, make sure I don’t do anything stupid.” He was smarter than people gave him credit for; they couldn’t fob Kili off with lies and excuses, not anymore. He really struggled to believe that Ori, shy, nervous Ori who had always been a bit of a gabbler as far as Kili could tell, would want to practice something as calculated and quick as archery. That he would want to be alone like this with Kili when there were a dozen other things he could be doing. “Was it Fili, or Thorin, who asked you to come?” Kili continued staring down at his hands, waiting for Ori to respond. But instead he heard the familiar twang of the bowstring, a whizzing of an arrow through the air. Kili looked up to see the arrow striking the target. Ori drew the third arrow, nocked it, and let the string fly in a long single motion, eyes trained across the range. Kili watched in silence. Ori’s stance was still too clunky, and Kili could tell he had trouble holding his shoulders loosely, but his shots were pretty good. They all hit the target, albeit the outer two rings, flying straight and true through the cold air.

“Neither.” An odd little gasp came out of Ori’s mouth as he lowered the empty bow. “I _wanted_ to come here Kili.”

“Why?” Kili was suspicious, mistrusting.

“Because you’re my friend.” Ori shrugged helplessly, feeling that familiar, shaky nervousness claw at his insides. “I’m not here to try and alleviate my guilt or spy on you for Thorin. I’m here because I can tell you’re scared and lonely and I want to help.” Kili only cast his eyes up to the sky, shaking his head. “I swear Kili, that’s all I want.”

“Do you _really_ want to learn archery?” He crossed his arms, swinging his legs a little as he tried to keep balance on the wooden railing.

“I’m not terrible.” Ori waved his hand vaguely at the target. “I-I’ll learn if you teach me.” Kili watched him carefully, with a shrewdness that was still so strange and foreign to Ori. He wasn’t sure if he could ever get used to those dark eyes boring into him, pulling him apart and studying every piece. Kili was convinced that there was some sort of ulterior motive, something selfish and sneaky behind Ori’s actions. It was a crippling blow to Ori’s heart, having those eyes scan him, looking for the lies in his innocent attempts at friendship. And for a heartsick moment, he wondered if perhaps Kili really could see what was truly going on, with those deep, sharp eyes.

“Go and get the arrows then.” Kili found nothing. He watched, hunched over a little as Ori wrenched them free from the target. “Careful! Some of the sinews are starting to crack. I’ll use them for target practice but if they got stuck in someone’s flesh it could break off in the skin.” He peeled Ori back, layer by layer, expecting to find something black underneath that soft, nervous warmth, but Kili couldn’t find a thing. Maybe Ori was right – and maybe, maybe for the first time in an age, somebody was finally telling Kili the _truth_.

His hand found the necklace, holding on to the cord like a guide rope. He watched as Ori lined up his shot, correcting his stance, telling him to loosen his shoulders from afar. Ori fired the first arrow, smiling as he hit the target.

And for a brief shaky moment, Kili allowed himself to smile back.


	60. Caught

It was like being pulled in two.

Kili started to crave his slow delicious days of archery training in the lonely little range. Nobody bothered him. He was out of sight, out of mind, easily forgotten. Fili was kept too busy, at the forge, at the armoury, poring over that _stupid_ map, locked in meetings and lunches and feasts. They only saw each other for brief moments, glances in passing, waking up side-by-side and lying in silence before one of them was compelled to move, those dark, sleepy moments before bed where they stiffly asked how each other’s day was, neither really interested in what the other had to say. They moved into an uneasy partnership, where they didn’t speak of what had happened to each other, but didn’t know how to move beyond it, how to go forward. They were in limbo.

Kili turned down every public dinner, every festival and celebration. He either ate alone, cold hasty meals down in the kitchen, or with the servants, who hovered anxiously about, unsure to call him whether to call him ‘Prince Kili’ or not. He couldn’t face any of them – Thorin and Balin, Oin and Gloin and Bilbo, Bifur, Bofur, Bombur, Dori, Nori – he couldn’t look any of them in the eye. He regarded them all with cold suspicion, convinced that they were testing him, weighing him up, judging him. It left Kili cold, and he withdrew from it.

Dwalin looked after Kili, when he could get away. There was an attempt at rekindling that closeness between them, a valiant effort on both parts. Dwalin was firm, sturdy, a constant. He seemed just as warm and gruff and cheerful as he ever was. He teased Kili, ruffled his hair and threw his arms around him. Whenever they are or drank or just sat together, Dwalin’s hand always drifted to Kili’s leg or hand or shoulder, squeezing tightly. It still seemed like a dream to him. It was like Kili was close to vanishing, he had to hold on tight and keep Kili here, keep him real. He asked Kili how he spent his days, and replied truthfully that he was practicing his archery. He didn’t mention Ori, but there was something in the way that Dwalin smiled, and Kili was sure that he already knew.

Kili didn’t know why he kept it a secret. Maybe it was to spare feelings. Maybe he knew that if his brother knew he spent long hours with someone else, he would start to get jealous. _What’s wrong with me. Why won’t you let me help you. I can help you Kili._ He imagined the words on his brother’s tongue, and he shivered, knowing he couldn’t bear to hear them aloud.

Because it was so _different_ with Ori. Kili had forgotten how shy and nervous and clumsy Ori really was. It surprised him, his initial fumbling. There were still times when Ori wouldn’t quite meet his eyes, a tinge of pink colouring his wind-chapped cheeks. But that was how Ori had always been, ever since they were so very little and Kili led his staggering accomplice along by the hand. But there were flashes; when Ori made a good shot or snapped at Kili without thinking, Kili had that fleeting glimpse of something stronger and quicker than he remembered and expected. Maybe they were all – finally – growing up.

It didn’t stop the bad dreams, though. Kili woke twice in three nights, cold sweat on his forehead, air choking in his throat. The first time he rolled away from Fili and slept, but the second time, he couldn’t. He had a dream about the boy. The boy he had _killed_. Yes, killed in mercy, but it was a child dead by Kili’s hand and he dreamed about it, waking up with the sound of the boy’s father screaming in his ears, over and over and over. Kili crumbled. He couldn’t roll over and ignore his brother. He needed touch, contact, someone to tell him it was all right. He needed an anchor. He held Fili that night, pressing his face into a too-big nightshirt and trying to breathe.

“Tell me I’m a good person.” Kili repeated it, a mantra, the broken whisper cracking his brother’s heart in two.

“Of course you are.” Fili sat up and cradled him close, Kili leaning against his chest as his voice broke into keening gasps. “Always.”

* * *

They came in the middle of the night, when he slept in his borrowed room.

Nazarg realised later that he should have seen it coming. He cursed his thoughtlessness. Even with a false name and a cover story, they would have known he was one of Azog’s retinue, the only known survivor of the tribe slaughtered in Mirkwood. News travelled faster than he ever could have realised, and even orcs had their spies in the air. They would have known all along, waited for him to let his guard down and sleep, hurrying him out of his bed before he could fight back.

He was still half-asleep when they took him, travel-worn from riding through the eaves of Mirkwood to the Grey Mountains without stopping for a more than a brief moment of rest. Murûk and Nardur were exhausted, they didn’t even wake up when the orcs came to take him, huddled together and snoring heavily on the stone ground. He didn’t realise what was happening until they pushed him into a hot little room filled with smoke and fire.

Nazarg grew very, very cold in the heat.

He knew a torture chamber when he saw one. Racks and frames and cages, things too terrible to name, rusted over with age. Bones still lingered in some. He started to struggle then, started to scream that it was a mistake, they had the wrong orc, he was just an innocent traveller and he didn’t know anything.

And then it was darkness and screaming and white-hot pain splattered with blood as thick and black as tar.

* * *

 “So – who’s the youngest?” Bain and Kili stood together, leaning against the railing and watching Ori practice his shooting. Kili hefted a small iron weight in his left hand, trying to work the sagging muscles. He refused to let himself grow soft. Ori held his tongue, aiming carefully and shooting before turning to the child.

“Who do you think?” He drew another arrow from the quiver with a little smile. Bain wrinkled his mouth in thought, looking from Ori to Kili, and back to Ori again.

“I.... Think...” Kili raised an eyebrow at his friend. “That...  Kili!” Bain grinned, looking pleased with himself.

“Why do you say I’m the youngest?” Ori hid his own smirk, pretending to be interested in his aim.

“I dunno, you look younger.” Kili rubbed at his face, feeling the soft stubble against his hand. “Ori’s beard is a _lot_ longer.” Bain admitted his bias.

“I’m seventy-four.” Ori released the final arrow, a little thrill of satisfaction lighting in his chest as he hit the second ring.

“ _Wow_ that’s so old... That’s older than even the Master.” Bain closed one eye, squinting at Kili in the sun. “Was I right? It’s you isn’t it?”

Kili shook his head. “Seventy-seven.” Bain groaned, making a _damn_ in his throat and kicking at the ground.

“How old is everyone else?” Ori looked back a little crossing the range. “Those dwarves with the grey hair, they must be _really_ old.”

“Balin’s the eldest. He’ll be two hundred next spring.” Kili paused in his lifting, rubbing the exhausted muscles. “Oin must be getting on now. Hold old is he Ori? One-seventy, one-eighty?”

“One-sixty-nine.” Ori held the arrows out to the other two. “Who else wants a go.”

“Ooh, _me.”_ Bain scampered up, grabbing the quiver and snatching his own child’s bow. “Watch this.”

“Are you all right?” Ori bent his head, murmuring in Kili’s ear. “You look tired. Bad sleep?”

“Nightmares.” Kili set down the iron, holding his weak arm in the good. “Bad memories.” He rubbed at his eyes. “They’ll go away soon, I know.” He forced a smile. “Please don’t worry about me Ori. I’ve got enough people thinking I’ve lost my mind.”

“All right.” Ori promised, daring to reach across Kili and squeeze his good arm. “I won’t.” The dark-eyed dwarf briefly leaned into the touch, tangled brown locks brushing Ori’s temple and making his heart beat like a desperate war-drum.

But of course, he didn’t.

* * *

Kili knew something was wrong, the moment he stepped into the room after his day at the range. Fili sat cross-legged on the rug before the fire, toying with the end of his braid. Kili crossed the room silently, pulled off his outer tunic and flopped down on the bed in a soft undershirt.

“Tell me.” Kili stared up at the ceiling, hands woven together on his stomach. Fili’s eyes remained trained on the cluster of flames. His hands were shaking in his hair. “Out with it.”

“You have to come to dinner tonight.” Fili murmured gently. “It’s Bombur’s birthday, Kili. It’s a special feast. We have something to actually celebrate this time.” He swallowed hard. “Thorin’s told me to get you into the nice linens, the ones on the bed, by sundown.”

“No.” Kili sat up, speaking flatly. “Fili – I can’t have them all staring at me.” Fili didn’t need to look at his brother to know he was desperately shaking his head. “Thorin and Balin and the Master and his awful guards – I can’t do it.”

“It’s not an option.” Hating himself for doing it, Fili kept his voice sharp. “You have to do it. People... they’re starting to talk about you. They’re asking questions. Why does Thorin’s second nephew remain locked away all the time? Why doesn’t he ever talk to anyone?” He raked a hand through his tangled mane. “They’re thinking that you’re not right in the head.”

“Maybe I’m not.” Kili drew his knees up, arms around his legs. “I’m not going. Thorin can lump it. He can tell them whatever he likes. He’s always good at coming up with lies.”

“Kili you don’t _get_ it.” Fili stood up abruptly, turning to look at his little brother. “This isn’t just about Thorin _._ This is about _you._ ” He pushed back a loose curl. “I _miss_ you.” He took a step towards the bed. “You need to go out and show them-”

“Show them what?” Kili snapped. “That I’m all – I’m all mixed up and broken and no one knows what to do with me? That I can’t even look _anyone_ in the eye? I’m not going.”

“Please.” Fili sat down on the edge of the bed. “Please – will you do it for me?” His dark blue eyes were fixed on Kili, wide and pleading. He was being selfish and he knew it. But he didn’t know what else to do – he _hated_ this limbo, this suspension into darkness and uncertainty. He wanted to take a step forward, to move _on_ from this and he didn’t know how.

“I’m not going.” Kili repeated. “Thorin wants – _you_ want – this prince to sit at your side and share your burdens and listen to speeches.” His eyes flicked up. “I’m not Fili. I’m not that.”

“Yes you are.” He sat down beside the dark-haired dwarf, a foot of mattress between them. “We’re brothers. We’re the same.” Kili only rolled his eyes. “We are.”

“We are _not_ the same.” Kili growled. “You’re so – so bloody _perfect_ and noble and I’m not. I never was.” Fili was staring down at his knees, his fair eyebrows knitted together. “Just leave me to sit in dark rooms alone where people can pretend I don’t exist.” He was cold and bitter. “It’s better for everybody.” Fili looked up, that frown still etched on his face. He studied his baby brother, the twist in his mouth, the dark, lowered eyes. The sick regret and anger and self-loathing as deep and enduring as runes carved into rock.

“You’re not a bad person.” Fili repeated last night’s soothing mantra. He remembered that glimpse of  _his_ Kili, scared and lonely. Kili remembered it too, although he refused to acknowledge that it had happened. “I know you think you are Kili – but you’re not.” Kili only looked away, teeth gritted. He wouldn’t say that, Fili wouldn’t say it if he knew the truth. The truth that gnawed at Kili’s insides, that chewed him up and spat him out. “You need to talk to me.” Fili’s voice wobbled. “You need to tell me – whatever it is that’s tearing you apart, whatever it is that keeping you away from me, you need to tell me Kili.” He reached out, taking Kili’s hand in his. Fili’s fingers shook. “I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep being forced apart from you – it _hurts_.” Kili’s eyes slowly shifted, to their bound hands. “Please – there is nothing you can tell me that will make me hate you. I promise.”

“That’s not true.” The father’s screaming was back in Kili’s ears. He screwed up his eyes and fought back a shiver. “It’s not – it’s _monstrous_ what I did.” He resisted the urge to cover his ears with his hands. “Please Fili.”

“You can’t keep shutting me out.” Fili was stubborn. “Kili I am _trying_ here – I am doing everything I can and you just keep pushing me away.” His trembling voice hurt Kili’s ears. “What did I do – why won’t you _trust_ me anymore?”

“Why won’t I trust you?” Kili repeated, sounding incredulous. “Why won’t I _trust_ you?” He thrust out his injured arm. Fili recoiled at the memory, face going white. “Because your ‘help’ just makes things worse!” His mouth fell open. “You want me to go to feasts and parties and dinners and I just want to be alone!” Something snapped inside Kili; his frustration had spilled over and he couldn’t just sit there and take Fili’s stupid, clumsy attempts to dig inside of him – not anymore. “I’ve told you, again and again, that you can’t _fix_ me and make me better and you’re not listening to me Fili. I feel like I’m bashing my head against a brick wall here!”

“Because that’s not true.” Fili refused to believe his brother. “You c-can’t want to be like this, Kili.” He grabbed Kili’s wrists, holding on tightly and refusing to let go.

“How do you know what I want?” Kili’s fingers curled into tight fists. “Do you really think you know me – better than I do?” Kili stared at him, his cold gaze cutting into those dark blue eyes. “Stop thinking I’m still that _stupid_ naive little boy who crept out in the night.” His voice heaved in his throat. “Because he is gone, Fili. He is gone and he is _never_ coming back.”

“No.” Fili stubbornly clung to the last slim threads of hope he had left. “Kili you can’t let Azog win – you can’t let this corruption change you. You can’t-”

“ _Let_ it?” Kili cut over him, those words striking a chord deep within him. “Fili – he tortured me, he beat me and chained me up like a beast. He _broke my arm with his bare hand_ , he manipulated and controlled me. He broke down every defence I tried to put up until there was nothing left for three months and you dare to say I _let_ him do this?” Fili couldn’t look at his little brother, an ugly snarl on his face and a dark gleam in his eye.

“I can’t allow this to happen to you.” Fili’s voice came out in a tumbled rush. “Kili I-I want to save you from this-”

“You want to save me. From who? From Azog? From myself?” Fili bowed his head, shoulders shaking. “You had your chance to save me, Fili.” Kili wrenched his hands free from his brother’s trembling grasp. He was through talking to his stupid, stubborn brother. “But instead – you left me to die.”

“No.” Fili’s broken whisper was a rasp. “Please Kili-”

“I’ll go to your damn dinner if you stop trying to fix me.” Kili stood up, his head and heart throbbing with anger. Fili covered his face in his hands. His brother’s words had pushed him over the edge and now he cried, helpless, terrified, crippled with grief and anguish. “Accept what I am and say you’ll still be my brother.” Fili slowly lifted his head, swallowing back a burning lump and looking into Kili’s shadowed eyes.

“I just want to help you.” Fili breathed into his shaking hands, fingers splayed over his mouth. “Please – _please_ don’t leave me.”

“Stop saying you will _help_ me!” Kili leaned in, grabbing Fili’s shoulders and screaming in his face. He shook his brother, tears of frustration in his eyes. “Just _stop!”_

“You want to me sit here?” Fili wasn’t going to back down. “A-And let that darkness take you over? Just _watch_ while my brother dies?” He gritted his teeth. “ _No._ I’ll fight for you Kili. I-I’m not going to give up on you.” His trembling fingers brushed Kili’s face. “You might have given up on yourself but I can’t – I _won’t_ let you down again.” Kili closed his eyes at the contact, a hairs-breadth from crumbling. “I’ll fight for _ever_ if I have to.”

“You’re so stupid.” Kili drew back, his brother’s hand falling away. “There’s nothing left to fight for. There’s nothing to help, nothing to fix, nothing to save.” He pulled at his glove. He didn’t know what else to do. He didn’t know how else he could make Fili _see_ that there was no coming back from this. “I’m _marked_ Fili!” He pulled back the sleeve, baring his wrist in the firelight. “I’m marked for the rest of my life.”

Fili’s vision swam as he saw the ugly mark on his brother’s wrist. It looked a little like a rune, but no mark that existed in their writings. It was the jagged letter of an orc. On his _wrist_ , the wrist of his sword-arm. He closed his hand over the mark, feeling the raised skin beneath his fingertips. He felt _sick._ It was a final insult to his brother, another blow to his heart. Something else had been taken away from him, with that awful scar.

“Do you think anyone will marry me now?” Kili was talking over the thick haze in Fili’s head. He lifted his bleary eyes, feeling numb. “Burn-marks and whip-scars can come from anywhere but _this,”_ He tried to pull his hand free, but Fili held fast. “There’s no disguising this.”

“Why did he do this to you?” Fili ran his thumb over the mark, staring down with eyes half-open. He felt broken.

“To humiliate me.” Kili’s voice hardened. “To mark me. To make sure that no matter how far I ran away, he would always find me. Th-that I’d never escape from him, that I will always belong to him until I’m dead.”

“Did he know what it means to us? The wrist?” Blue eyes slowly shifted upwards, settling on Kili’s face. His brother only nodded silently, biting on his lip to mask the trembling. “So – he _knew_ what it would do to you?”

“Don’t tell Thorin.” Kili leaned in closer, whispering. But despite his soft voice, his eyes were hard and dark. It was a threat. Fili looked into them, unable to speak. He inclined his head in a wordless nod, releasing his hold so Kili could pull the glove back over his hand. “Do you see what I mean now? About how there’s no going back?”

“I still won’t give up.” Fili promised. Kili’s nose wrinkled in a snarl. “You didn’t fight through this, come all this way, just to wither into a shell. Nothing will make me give up on you Kili. I’m not letting your heart die.”

 _It’s already dead._ He kept the cruel words to himself. He sat down on the bed, feeling defeated. He didn’t want his brother’s ignorant protestations of innocence. He couldn’t bear to listen to them anymore. He knew he was setting Fili up for crippling disappointment and heartbreak – it was inevitable, he would soon see how irredeemable Kili really was, then it would all crumble around him, Fili would realise that there really was nothing to save and he was trying to blow flames out of cold, dead embers. Kili had already accepted that innocent part of him was gone forever – why was Fili so doggedly determined to hold on and dig in? Fili’s faith in his brother wasn’t sweet or comforting or endearing to Kili. It was frustrating. It was a painful reminder of what he had lost.

But he couldn’t _bear_ to have his brother know the truth and turn cold. He couldn’t bear to put Fili through that pain. So he kept quiet.

* * *

“I have been in correspondence with Gunnar.” Thranduil’s eyes shone like lapis. But it wasn’t the colour that reminded Tauriel of stone. It was the cold sharpness to them. The way they cut into her. They looked lifeless. “The dwarves are making themselves quite at home in Esgaroth. Feasts and parties every night.” He leaned back in his chair, his icy gaze fixed on her. “He has agreed to assist us, in return for a dozen new swords and helms of our make.” Tauriel’s mouth was dry.

“How will he do it?” She asked quietly. The little tin horse was still in her pocket, a hoof touching her hip. Thranduil’s lip twitched.

“He will have the orc-friend arrested on some trumped-up charge. Frame him for theft or murder – everyone except the dwarves will believe it, knowing the _scum_ he has allied himself with.” Tauriel’s head inclined in a slight nod. “I cannot have him arrested on my behalf. Maxwell will feel like I am interfering in the way he runs his town. Of course Thorin will make a fuss, but Gunnar assures me he can make it happen. It won’t be hard to turn the town against him, when they know what he really is. If Thorin wants to continue in their good graces and receive their help, he will have to let justice run its course.”

“Are you sure he will?” Tauriel asked carefully. A muscle twitched in Thranduil’s throat as he nodded.

“He has abandoned his nephew once before. I am confident he will again. The allure of gold is too great, this close to Erebor. And if he _does_ kick up a fuss, it will give Gunnar reason to arrest the entire Company.” Either way, Thranduil won. Tauriel kept her face smooth, unmarked with any emotion. “You will leave in the morning. Gunnar assures me that by the time you arrive, it will already be done.”

“As you wish, my king.” Tauriel bowed as she was dismissed from the room, picking everything apart in her sharp mind. There were two stories, as far as she could tell. Two versions of the truth. In one, the one told by the orcs under torture, Kili was a firm ally of the dead orc-king, cruel and clever. He was a murderer in his own right, he ate man-flesh and spoke and dressed like an orc; he assumed their skin and tongue and culture completely. In the other, the one Legolas had murmured to her, Kili was a victim, a beaten animal locked in a cage. He had been forced to hurt the elf, threatened constantly and living in perpetual fear of suffering and death. Thranduil, in his unquenchable lust for vengeance, saw the first. He saw a target, a face to the destruction he wanted to wreak in his son’s name. He wouldn’t accept any other truth.

Tauriel didn’t know exactly what she believed. It was dark and murky. But she knew that Kili had killed Azog, and it broke his heart to do it. That itself told her both stories weren’t quite true.

* * *

“I thought I would find you in here.” Ori looked up, cheeks paling as he saw Kili step into the little library and leave the door ajar. _No no not here._ He closed the book he was reading and sat up, anxiously eyeing the sliver of hallway. Kili wore soft blue linen, braided with gold. Fili had wrestled him out of his orcish boots and into soft leather shoes that almost fitted him, his hair brushed and pulled back. “How do I look?”

 _Beautiful._ The word burned a hole in Ori’s tongue. He cleared his throat, trying to collect himself. “Fine.” He tried to sound nonchalant, but his voice cracked. He hid a wince. “Why the nice clothes?”

“I have to go to the feast tonight.” Kili sat down beside the little scribe, leaning back and staring up at the ceiling. “Being Bombur’s birthday and all. Thorin won’t let me hide out in my room anymore. Fili said it would be good for me to get out and talk to people.” But looking at him now, Ori knew he didn’t believe a word of it.

“Will you be all right?” Ori turned a little bit, resting his chin on the back of the soft couch. Kili turned his face to look at him, giving a little shrug.

“If I keep my head down and don’t talk to anyone, I’ll make it through the night. I’m not _scared_ I just... I don’t want to do it.” Kili’s lower lip jutted slightly out. “Fili... He thinks that if we go back to the way things used to be, that I will change too. He thinks that underneath all of this, I’m still the same stupid kid I was last summer.” Ori’s hand rested tentatively on Kili’s leg. “But I’m not. I’m nothing like him anymore.”

“Fili’s changed too.” He tried to be helpful. “He grew up so much. It’s not his fault for trying to hold on to the past.”

“That’s all it is though, isn’t it?” Kili swallowed. “The past. It’s gone and it’s not coming back. I’ve forgotten how to braid his hair, you know. I’ve tried a few times but I just can’t get it right the way I used to. It’s like my hands have forgotten how to work like that.” He clenched them together now, knuckles grinding against his fingertips. “And we used to... This is going to sound stupid.” He sighed. “But we used to sleep together so comfortably. You know, back-to-back and close together. But we can’t anymore. It’s too hot and... bumpy.” He struggled to phrase it. “All these things we used to do together, and we can’t anymore. And – and of course that makes me sad. It _hurts_ Ori, because what kept me going, that _whole_ time, was that I could come back to my big brother we could be Fili-and-Kili again.” He sniffed. “And we _can’t.”_

“Oh Kili.” Ori breathed, not knowing what to say. He didn’t know how he could fix this. He didn’t know if he should even try. Kili hadn’t ever really spoken about what had happened to him in their long hours together. It was an unspoken agreement between them to let the past remain, to let those awful memories fester and rot in Kili’s own mind rather than spread the infection to Ori, to drag it out into the open. For Kili to speak now – something horrible must have been weighing on his mind. Something he couldn’t tell anybody else. “I’m so sorry.”

“I need to tell you something.” Kili slowly sat up. “Don’t be mad at me.”

“Never.”

“Well... See, after Azog his soldiers, he took me to Goblin-Town, so he could get new supplies, a new retinue.” Kili mumbled down at his hands. “I haven’t told anyone this.”

“I won’t either.”

“Good. Well... When Azog and I got there, the goblins there, it turns out they still had all of our things from when _we_ were all there.” Ori watched him speak, the hair falling into his eyes, the downward slope of his lip. He wanted to reach out and touch him. His fingers itched, still resting on Kili’s knee. “They had your sketchbook too.”

“M-My book?” Ori’s hand instinctively clenched. He withdrew his curled fist from Kili’s leg, trying to stop the earth from bucking and swaying underneath him. Oh _no –_ If Kili had seen, if he had seen the book then he would know he would _have_ to, after seeing his own face drawn with such love, over and over and over again. He _must have known._

“The one you would always draw in.” Ori listened, dry-mouthed. “Azog saw – he saw pictures of Fili. He asked who it was and I had to tell him.” Kili’s hand drifted up to his neck, locked in an awful memory. “Until that point, he thought I was the only nephew Thorin had. But he was smart, he saw the picture of me braiding his hair and he realised...” He trailed off, pausing for a moment to collect his thoughts. “I felt like I sold Fili out, like I’d betrayed him. I needed to keep him safe, I needed to go on for _him._ S-So I tore out the picture you drew of us together, and I held on to it, secretly. This whole time, it was kept safe. It kept me sane, it kept me remembering that there was that _one_ thing that anchored me to my old life. I still have it. It’s underneath my mattress. I think it would do Fili more harm than good, if he saw it.”

“Wh-What about the rest of the book?” Ori could feel his face burning. He struggled to keep his expression gently curious, terrified of giving himself away. “Where is it?”

“I burned it.” Kili lowered his gaze. “I couldn’t stand it anymore – it was _mocking_ me, all those images of who I used to be and _ishi_ there were so many...” Ori’s heartbeat pounded madly in his ears. He waited for the accusations, the demand for an explanation. But it didn't come,not then. “And the drawings of Thorin and Dwalin and everybody else. It just hurt too much.” The auburn-haired dwarf let out a long breath, willing the torrent in his head to ebb away. “I think that was when I started putting ash on my skin and I cut myself off from everyone, completely. I’m sorry it’s gone Ori.”

“They’re just things.” Ori smiled. “I’m happier to have you than a dozen paper drawings. You _here_ , like this. Sad and angry and worn-out – I don’t care what you are now Kili. I’m just... I’m so happy you’re back.” The words started to tumble lopsidedly out of him. “I know you’re not the same – but no one is the same, not really. This journey is changing all of us in our own way and it’s not over yet, there's still the worst to come and we all know it.” Kili watched him talk, cheek pressed against the back of the couch. He looked a little like a child listening to a story. “I think... you need to talk to Fili. You need to tell him what you just told me.”

“It won’t do good.” Kili mumbled. “Not now – not after the row we just had. He’s too stubborn, he’s stuck on this idea that we can go back to the way things were and it’s so obvious that we just can’t.”

“Kili, you don’t understand.” But Ori did. Ori, with his quick eyes, saw everything. Every tell, every cue. He was sharp as a pin and he could see right through Fili’s fears. “Fili’s afraid that this new you doesn’t have him in it. That there’s nothing for the two of you now, and you’re drifting apart. He wants to hold onto that old image of you, because that’s the image that _needed_ him. He’s holding on to those memories because he thinks it’s all that he has left.” Kili digested his words slowly, a frown creasing soft lines between his eyebrows, and the next mumble that came out broke Ori’s heart into pieces.

“Sometimes, I wish I wasn’t here.” Ori’s throat closed. “I wish I was still with the orcs.” Kili started shaking as the confession spilled out of him. “S-Sometimes I think about running away and leaving this behind. I think things would be b-better for everyone if I was just gone – that people would be happier if I’d never – never come back at all.”

And Kili burst into tears.

Ori didn’t even need to _think_ about it. He scooted forward, closing the gap between their bodies and wrapping his arms around Kili’s quivering torso. Kili hid his face in Ori’s neck, the air tearing from his lungs in short, muffled gasps. He grabbed at Ori’s shirt, as the rage and pain and frustration, the bottled emotions that Fili couldn’t tap into, came spilling out all over Ori. He couldn’t keep it in anymore, and Ori had unleashed it all with a featherlight touch.

“Nobody thinks that.” Ori whispered in Kili’s ear, feeling the roar, the rush inside of him. Kili – Kili was pressed against him, their legs tangled together in their close embrace, Kili’s forehead pressed against the juncture of his neck, brown hair spilling over his thin hands. Kili swallowed down his choked sobs to listen to him. “Nobody blames you for any of this.” His face bent, nose in Kili’s hair, Ori continued babbling, saying anything remotely soothing that came to his mind. He they were useless words that meant nothing to Kili, but he couldn't stop saying them. “Thinking you were dead, it broke everybody’s heart. Everybody cried, even old Oin and Dori. No one wanted to say goodbye. It’s such a mess, I know it is. But if people don’t understand, we have to _make_ them understand. I’ll help you, I’ll do everything I can Kili.” Hang Thorin and his rules and his propriety – Kili was more important than this and surely he would see it. Wouldn’t he?  “We can start tonight, get everyone together before the feast and try-”

“ _What in Durin’s name are you DOING?”_

Ori lifted his head at the roar in the doorway where Thorin stood, looking angrier than he had _ever_ seen him.

The world fell away.


	61. Divided

“You disgusting, perverted, foul piece of _scum!”_

Thorin couldn’t see. It was only a dull red haze before his eyes, ears filled with a low, heavy roar. He pushed Ori along in the small of his back, and with the other held Kili back, his nephew screaming and wrestling against him. But in his blind rage, Thorin was the stronger, and the young dwarves had no way of overpowering him.

“Thorin what are you doing! Let go of him!”

“Kili I said stay _back!_ ” Hallway doors opened. Through the red, Thorin caught Dwalin. “Take him.” He slung Kili against Dwalin’s chest.

“No – what is _wrong_ with you!” Kili strained against Dwalin’s arms, voice hoarse and grating in his throat. Dwalin pinned his flailing limbs, face white. “Dwalin get _off_ me!”

“I gave you _one_ warning.” Thorin seized a handful of auburn hair. “One warning Ori!” He staggered in his king’s grip, silent and limp. He was beyond terror, the words trapped behind closed lips. He felt numb.

“What in Mahal’s name-” Dori stood in the open doorway to his shared room, disturbed as everyone was by the ruckus. He looked at Ori, shaking and defeated, at Thorin frothing with rage, and he knew in an instant what would have happened. He _collapsed_ , gripping the doorway as his knees weakened.

“I should have known.” Ori lurched in Thorin’s rock-hard grasp, the words dull and blunt in his ears. It was like he couldn’t hear any of them. He saw vague shapes, shifting in the blur, and he knew that they weren’t alone; the screaming had lured the dwarves out of their rooms, and at least half of the Company bore witness to Thorin’s ugly fury. “I should have known you would never keep your repulsive hands away from my nephew!” At the end of the hallway, Thorin pushed Ori to the ground.

“Dwalin let me go Thorin’s gone crazy-”

“Kili _shut UP!”_ Thorin’s roar left their ears ringing. Sprawled out on the floorboards, Ori pressed himself against the wall, cowering away from Thorin with his hands over his ears. “You – you twisted unnatural _freak!_ ” Ori’s face crumpled, the air tripping over his quivering mouth and coming out in choked gasps. “You will never come near _any_ of us again you hear me? You are _finished_ Ori! You are out of the company – of Erebor – of Durin’s folk – you are _done!”_  He wanted to kick him, kick him like a dog, curled up against the wall, shaking and stammering shapeless words and trying desperately not to cry. “You are _banished_ – you will never set foot in our lands again, do you understand me?” Ori covered his face with his trembling hands, unable to stop the broken sobs from spilling through his bony fingers. “I said _do you understand me!”_

“Y-y-yes.” Ori coughed the word out, feeling his eyes well up and over. Kili was gone; Dwalin had dragged him away somewhere, somewhere hidden and private, where he couldn’t see this, where Ori couldn’t see _him._ He knew he wouldn’t see Kili again, not ever. Thorin would make sure he never even laid eyes on his nephew, for the rest of his life.

“Get him out of here.” Thorin spat in Dori’s direction, but Dori was sagging, grey-faced and unable to move. He turned on his heel, staring at the cluster of dwarves peering anxiously from their doorways. Without another word, he marched away from Ori, leaving him huddled against the wall, cold and humiliated.

“Oh Ori.” As soon as he was sure it was safe, Bofur crouched down before the young dwarf, gently taking his wrists. “Shh... Hush, just breathe.” He masked his own shock and confusion, putting on a smile for Ori and brushing his hair back. “Breathe Ori – listen to me. In and out, all right.”

“I-I... I d-didn’t I didn’t d-do anyth-thing.” Ori couldn’t speak; the words came out in a jumbled, stammering mess. Bofur slowly coaxed him into a standing position, leading him by the hand into Dori’s shared room. Ori staggered, leaning heavily on Bofur as his vision swayed in a blur. Soft fabric rushed up to meet him; he was set down in a chair, someone was winding a blanket over his shoulders and murmuring softly into his ear.

“Nori, s-someone find Nori _please.”_ Dori staggered over to his youngest brother, sinking to his knees on the floorboards. “Ori what did you do.”

“Noth-nothing.” Ori’s teeth chattered. Thorin’s voice was thrown back at him, ugly words sounding over and over. Words like _banished_ and _disgusting_ and _freak._ His heart was in pieces. “I didn’t... I didn’t Dori I _didn’t.”_ This wasn’t happening it _couldn’t._ Thorin couldn’t throw Ori out – he couldn’t do it to him. It was impossible. _He couldn’t do this._

But he could. Thorin was Ori’s king – he had complete control and could do whatever he wished. It wasn’t often Thorin flexed his absolute right as king, his prerogative over life and pride and liberty. But he could, he could have Ori exiled or killed and no one could lift a hand in defence to save him. Who was Ori, really? It was like Nori said, he was the bastard son of a whore. He was disgusting and unnatural. What right did he _ever_ have to consider himself one of Durin’s Folk?

Dori was rubbing his arm and saying something, but it was a low hum in Ori’s ear. He couldn’t make out the words, but he didn’t need to. The tone was enough. Confused. Disappointed. Trying to be soothing but not quite able to muffle the anger that Ori had done this to himself, to his brothers. Ori pushed him away, drew his knees up to his chest and hid his face in the blanket. He couldn’t face anybody. He didn’t deserve to. Nobody should have to look on someone so abhorrent. Dori couldn’t save him. Nori couldn’t either. And they would tell Kili now – they would have to. They would sit him down and tell Kili how repugnant Ori was, the awful feelings that Ori had kept locked away. They would spin it all around, they would tell Kili that Ori didn’t _really_ care about him, he just pretended to be his friend, pretended to like him in some sort of perverted seduction, trying to win him over before getting inside his clothes...

They tried to pull Ori out, but he remained hidden under the blanket. He cried, frightened and lonely and sick with self-loathing. Everything, _everything_ he had tried to build up for himself, it came crashing down. It was a glass tower built on sand. It never had a chance. Ori didn’t just lose Kili all over again – he lost _everybody_ , with Thorin’s screaming words. It was done – he was _gone_ , he would have to pack up his few pathetic things and leave, leave them all and go off alone with no one to help him...

And just a few minutes ago, Kili had thrown himself into Ori’s embrace and the two of them almost believed that everything was going to be all right.

It wasn’t _fair._

* * *

“Hey – I said let me _go_ Dwalin you can’t do this!” Kili kicked out and struggled with every step, his thin little body like a stick against the carved stone of Dwalin’s sturdy chest. “What’s going on, Thorin just went _crazy_ and – Ori I need to see Ori how _dare_ Thorin do this to him what’s wrong with him?”

“Sit down.” Dwalin was uncharacteristically angry, shoving Kili into a chair and slamming the door shut behind him. They were in Dwalin’s little shared room, Thorin’s voice a low boom beyond the thin walls.

“What’s going on.” Kili’s hands curled on the carved arms of the little chair. Dwalin stood before him with his lips turned downward, and Kili didn’t dare to move. “Why is Thorin so mad?”

“Don’t play dumb Kili.” Dwalin’s jaw was very tight. “I’ve told you haven’t I? For _years_ I’ve tried to be tactful and tell you to be careful and you never-”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Kili half-stood up, eyes wide. “Be careful about what? Why is Thorin calling Ori disgusting?” His eyebrows met in his forehead. “What... What did Ori do?”

“I don’t know if you’re really this dense or just playing for innocence.” Dwalin dragged the second chair across from beside the fireplace, so the two were sitting face-to-face. “You must have noticed something. Mahal – Balin and I saw it, Bofur saw it... I tried to be subtle.” Dwalin looked frustrated. “Without outright saying it I tried to tell you to be careful and – you’re so _stupid_.” He tugged at his beard in frustration.

“Just _tell_ me!” Hurt, Kili crossed his arms. “What am I supposed to already know?” Dwalin heaved a deep breath of air, eyes up to the ceiling. He really didn’t know.

“Ori is... He’s not normal.” Dwalin looked Kili in the eye. “Do you understand what I mean?” Kili’s knitted brows etched deep lines across his forehead. “He can’t marry.”

“What?” Kili’s hands loosened in his lap. _I can’t marry either_ , he felt like shooting back in his shock. He had no idea what Dwalin meant. It was a closed concept to him. “Why not?”

“Ori likes dwarves.” Dwalin had to be blunt about it. “Husbands, sons. Not dams.” Kili’s head sank a little; he rested his elbows on his knees, hands covering his mouth.

Something hot and tight writhed in Kili’s stomach. Ori, so stumbling and red-faced, tentative to come near him when others were around, who always held his breath when Kili touched his arm or shoulder or leg. Ori, who drew picture after picture of Kili in that book, with more care and attention to detail than he had with even his own brothers. Ori, who never seemed _quite_ right, so awkward and fumbling, never chasing skirts, never talking about dams at all, now Kili came to think about it...

“Me.” Kili felt like he had been dropped into a pool of ice-cold water. It robbed the air from his lungs, left his cheeks red and tingling. The writhing increased in his stomach, a pit of snakes swirling in his gut. “He... He likes me.” _Ori._ His head was spinning. Kili closed his eyes, shaking his head. He tried to make sense of it. It was impossible, _absurd_. It didn’t happen, no one had ever mentioned that sort of thing going on at Ered Luin, not ever.

“It’s been going on for a while.” Dwalin tried to be calm about it. No sense in screaming about it, the way Thorin did. Kili just seemed in shock at the news, sitting with his hands over his mouth, frowning down on his knees. “He tried to keep it all quiet.”

“Me.” Kili repeated, not making sense of it. “Am I so...” Soft, girlish. He self-consciously rubbed at the sparse stubble on his face, not able to look Dwalin in the eye. His shoulders hunched over, Kili stared down at his knees, trying to pick the tangled mess apart in his head. No one had ever liked _him_ before. Fili always had girls hanging off him, always had dates off down the lake that Kili swore to keep secret. But no one had really been interested in Kili before. Not skinny, stupid beardless Kili with his thin face and little nose. He had always been ugly in comparison to his braided, golden-haired brother.

“I know you wouldn’t have encouraged him, not intentionally.” Dwalin reached out patting Kili on the knee. “You’ve always been so warm and bright to everybody, Kili. And Ori... He’s never been popular. You can probably blame his brother for that. It’s just misplaced affection.” He tried to talk Ori’s love down, tried to make it seem as though it was really nothing all that special. “He saw someone who liked him and paid attention to him, someone his own age. He was just a little sweet on you. But Thorin found out... he blew everything out of proportion. And then he walked in on you... what exactly were you two doing?”

“Nothing.” Kili sounded blank. “It was just a hug. He was just trying to make me feel better.” And he did, for those soft few moments. He had felt genuinely _relieved_ that someone, finally, was listening to him, wasn’t filling his head with stupid ideas of fixing him, who understood him, and understood Fili too, who articulated his rushing thoughts better than Kili could express.

“Oh that stupid boy.” Dwalin rubbed at his eyes. “I knew he wouldn’t have tried anything. He’s far too shy for any of that at the best of times.” Kili remembered how Ori’s hands rested around him, almost as though he was afraid to touch him, as though it was a dream and at any moment, he would be started awake.

“What’s going to happen to him.” Kili’s voice was very small. Dwalin opened his mouth to speak, but found his throat stuck, blocked with a thick, painful lump. “Dwalin?” He lifted his head, threads of dark fear in his brown eyes. “What will Thorin do to him?”

“Oh Kili.” That pat on his leg became a tight grip. “He’s in trouble.” Dwalin couldn’t lie. “He’s staring at exile, at the very least.” Kili’s eyes grew very wide, lips trembling.

“No – no he can’t do that.” He reached out, grabbing Dwalin by the wrist. “He can’t do that to Ori.”

“Hush, don’t shout-”

“I won’t _let_ him!” Kili tried to stand up but Dwalin held him down in his seat. “No – if I talk to him, if I explain-”

“You will make it worse.” He was firm. “You don’t understand Kili – you can’t say a _thing_ here. You have to keep your mouth shut and play dumb. Don’t give Thorin fuel.”

“But-”

“There’s nothing you can say that will save him. Not now.” Dwalin watched him carefully. Kili’s reaction was quite remarkable. It was nothing like Fili’s anger and violent disgust, Thorin’s revulsion. Once the initial shock had worn off, Kili was fiercely anxious to protect Ori from his uncle. He didn’t see any loathing in Kili’s eyes, not at all. “You can’t try keep him afloat Kili. He’ll only pull you under too.”

 _I don’t care._ Kili wanted to beat his fists against Dwalin’s chest and scream. This wasn’t fair – none of it was fair. Ori was the only one who even _tried_ to understand him, to pick apart his frantic and desperate mind and what did he get in return for it? He’d lost everything. He was going to be sent away, going to leave Kili alone with these people who didn’t know him at all. Panic and fear rushed; he groped at the dwarf’s arm like a desperate child.

“I can’t.” Kili was on the verge of crumbling. “Dwalin I can’t let Ori go.” Whether it was a little crush or a full-blown obsession seemed meaningless to Kili. He knew it should have disgusted him, left him reeling, to learn the secrets his close friend had kept hidden. But he wasn’t angry or sickened by Ori, not at all. He felt angrier at _himself_ , more than his friend. What was so wrong with him, to attract that attention? Kili had always been unusual, but to be the object of _Ori’s_ affections – he felt like a freak.

The door opened. Dwalin and Kili both seized up, thinking that it was Thorin marching across the threshold, to accuse Kili or worse. But it wasn’t. Fili closed the door behind him and ran across the room, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle on his trousers.

“Fili-”

“I heard.” He cut over his brother, motioning for Dwalin to get up. He sat down in the vacant seat, reaching over and taking Kili’s hand.

“Fili he didn’t do anything. Thorin’s got it all wrong, you have to talk some sense into him.” The blonde didn’t look at Kili. He kept his eyes trained on Dwalin.

“Did you tell him?”

“’Course he told me.” Kili pulled at his brother’s hand, coaxing Fili to look at him. “Listen to me, he didn’t do anything wrong, he _didn’t_. It was just-”

“Answer me one thing.” Fili broke in, an edge of steel to his sharpened voice. “Did you do anything – _anything_ that would have led him on?” Kili drew back, eyes wide.

“No! I didn’t even have any idea, Ori and I are friends, _just_ friends, Fili. Like we always were.” A muscle twitched in Fili’s neck as he nodded silently. “Please – tell me you’ll help him. Thorin still likes you, he respects you he’ll _listen_ to you.” Fili’s eyes lowered. “You’re the only one who can stick up for him.”

“Kili, I-”

“He doesn’t deserve this.” Kili ploughed on heedlessly. “Dwalin’s saying Ori will be exiled – or worse. Please, I-I know it might disgust you, knowing how he really feels about me, but you can’t let it cloud your judgement.”

“It’s not news to me.” Fili’s lips barely moved. “I’ve known for months, Kili. Since... Mahal, since before the Misty Mountains.” Kili swallowed, hard. “I’m not disgusted at him. He’s one of my best friends. He stopped me from falling apart, when I thought I lost you.” He gently ran his fingertips over Kili’s bony knuckles. “He’s one of the sweetest, kindest, bravest people I know.” The last words felt disconnected, a jumbled mess coming from Fili’s mouth.

“Then you know you can’t let him do this.” Kili begged. “ _Please_ don’t let Thorin send Ori away. I felt like I was screaming at the top of my lungs, and he was the only one to hear me. He never said I was broken, that I needed help or fixing or getting better. He just wanted _me_ , as I was. Even like this, all corrupted and marked and changed. It didn’t matter to him.”

Dwalin and Fili locked eyes. Kili didn’t realise just how much those words were hurting his brother – those protestations of Ori’s kindness, the way he seemed to understand him nobody else could, it _hurt_ Fili. It made him feel jealous. It shouldn’t be Ori’s job to pry Kili open and stare into his heart. It should be _his._

“I have to go.” Fili’s voice was cold. He stood up and turned away from his brother, not letting Kili see his face.

“Please tell me you’ll talk to him-”

“I have to get ready for dinner.” Fili didn’t look at either of them. “You do too. It’ll still be on, although I don’t think Ori or his brothers will show.” Kili made a strangled noise in his throat. Dwalin gripped his arm, keeping him seated.

“Fili!” Kili’s high voice cut through his skin. The blonde closed his eyes, breathing out heavily. He felt sick. He wanted to hit Ori. He wanted to tell him to leave his brother _alone_ to never touch or come near Kili again, that it was Fili’s job to look after him and no one else’s...

Fili was being a horrible person and he knew it. He left the room in silence, closing the door to Kili’s cries of protest and leaning heavily against the hallway wall. That familiar throbbing in his heart, the one laced with anger, it rose, swelled in his throat and left his fingers shaking. He closed his eyes and tried to breathe. He couldn’t call upon his uncle in tears. He had to be strong for Kili, for Ori, for all of them now.

 _Strong._ He wasn’t sure he even knew what the word meant anymore.

* * *

They waited in the drawing room.

No one could bring themselves to speak. Kili sat on the edge of the windowseat, temple pressed against the wall. Dwalin anchored himself to Kili’s right, gently rubbing small circles in the young dwarf’s back. Kili sat numb and still, eyes half-lidded, trained on the floorboards. He looked shrunken, lifeless.

Fili paced before the dead  fireplace, wringing his hands and casting frequent looks to the doorway. There was no sign of Thorin, or of Ori and his brothers. The others sat on chairs and couches in a room that felt too big for them and their diminished numbers. Of the Company, five had borne witness to Thorin’s outrage – Dori, Bofur, Bombur, Oin, and Gloin. Everybody else had of course been told in moments; it was a secret to nobody that Ori was troubled, that something had happened between him and Kili, and that Thorin had thrown him out.

The door creaked open. Fili turned on his heel to see Dori stepping into the drawing room, and after a moment, his two brothers following. His throat closed. Nori was guiding Ori reluctantly, the youngest dwarf keeping his head bent downwards. His eyes were very red. Dwalin’s hand tensed on Kili’s shoulder. The silence grew thicker than ever as Ori sat precariously on the edge of a spindly chair. He wound his arms around his waist and kept his eyes on his knees, visibly shaking. They tried to collectively ignore him.

Thorin’s arrival strained the air to an impossible intensity. He entered the room silently, turning the latch and standing before them all with his mouth in a hard line. Kili held his breath as he stared at Ori – at the pieces of Ori, at the outline of what he used to be. He was utterly destroyed. The life had been beaten out of him. He couldn’t stop thinking about what Dwalin had said about Ori’s true feelings. They still left his stomach hot and tight, but his mind wasn’t reeling any longer. He was sane enough to pull it all apart, examine it from different angles. And in that tense quiet, Kili knew that he wasn’t afraid of Ori. He wasn’t sickened by him. He was shocked, confused, even a little angry. Kili still felt like so much of it was his own fault – that somehow, in his strangeness, his utter _lack_ of dwarvishness, it now seemed like no surprise that Ori had liked him, while all the girls left him alone. Kili had long ago come to terms with being odd and different – this was just another confirmation to him that all along, even before his disappearance, he just wasn’t quite _right._

Eyes darting from Ori, Fili started to talk towards his uncle. “Thorin, I-” He was silenced with a flattened, upturned palm.

“Not now.” He sounded so _old._ Kili dipped his head, staring determinedly downwards as hot anger throbbed in his veins. “We’re expected to attend a feast in Bombur’s honour tonight, and I do not want to let our hosts down.”

“ _Thorin-”_

“Nobody needs to know what transpired here this afternoon.” Thorin’s voice rose. Ori’s hands covered his face. Nori stood behind him, knuckles white on the wooden chair as he fixed a hard stare on his king. “It is not something concerned with the affairs of men. We will _all_ act as though nothing is out of the ordinary, understand?” Dwalin gripped Kili’s arms tightly, preparing to hold him back.

Fili swallowed, realising just how far Thorin was going to take this. He was going to keep this illusion going, in front of the Master and his people. He was going to pretend, for the sake of Lake-Town, that there was nothing amiss, that they were all brothers-in-arms. Ori was held at arm’s length, but still nevertheless in sight. As long as they were in Lake-Town, Ori was still a member of the Company – by name, if nothing else. And Fili still had a little time to turn his uncle away from his awful brand of justice.

“I don’t want any indication of this ugly business to continue.” Thorin turned away from Fili with a little shake of his head. “Now,” he opened the door once more, pointedly making his way back into the hallway. Ori had to be supported by Nori, following his brother in a disjointed, lopsided limp. Kili was one of the last to move. It took Dwalin’s urgent hand on his wrist, pulling him up, to get him to stand on his feet. He didn’t move of his own accord – he simply let Dwalin drag him along, eyes dull. The fight had died in him. He was angry, _so_ angry at what Thorin was doing. It was sadistic, to expect them all to simply act as though everything was all right. They didn't have his weathered experience in hiding their emotions. But he was shrunken and helpless. Thorin, Fili, Dwalin - they were all against him in this. He would fight alone and he would lose. It humiliated Kili to keep quiet, to douse that hot fury with this vacant numbness. He was powerless to stop any of this. There was nothing he could do. He could only watch with tight lips and heavy eyes, watch the pieces of Ori shuffle along and tear his own heart into pieces. It was as though he was backed up against a cliff, facing his family who threatened to push him over if he tried to fight back. Fight and fall, or remain still, helpless. Kili was starting to feel sick.

"Dori," Fili managed to snag the dwarf by the sleeve in the dim hallway, pull him into a little side-room that looked like it was made for storing cloaks and shoes for guests. Dori was an outline, a low, disembodied voice in the little cupboard. "What did he say to you?"

"Thorin?" Dori's voice quivered. "Nothing. He made Balin tell us." Fili watched as the shadowed outline lowered his face into his hands for a moment, a broken, short gasp spilling through his fingers. "Ori's gone. He's still invited to the feasts and public gatherings for appearances, but the moment we leave Lake-Town, he's gone. No goodbyes, no nothing. Thorin's torn his contract in half." Fili closed his eyes, tried to force back the sour panic rising in his throat. "If Nori or I leave with him, it's desertion and we get nothing either. Nori said he'll go, he told me to stay here, to protect my share in the gold so I can try to help-" He stopped as his voice cracked. "Don't make me speak of this Fili, please." 

"I'm so sorry." Fili whispered to the shadow. "Dori, I'm so-"

"Save it." There was no placating him. He'd lost everything; Ori Nori and his hard-fought reputation in one fell swoop and nothing Fili could say would ever make it better. He turned away from the blonde, stepping into the hallway and leaving Fili trapped in the dim light. He smoothed down his wild curls, tried to force some sort of blank resignation on his face before he too left the shadows and the darkness. Resolution hardened in his soul. He wasn't going to let this lie. He would fight Thorin on this. He would fight Thorin and he would win.

They left, Thorin Oakenshield and Company – a fragmented company. A company divided. A company that was starting to splinter, not into a clean half, but into pieces, fragments too small to ever be put back together.

A company that numbered fourteen, for what would be the very last night.


	62. I Don't Even Know You

It was no concession, to admit that Thorin was afraid. He watched the oars dip into the water, white foam bursting from the boat in sporadic waves. The maroon velvet of his fine robe felt heavy on his shoulders, like a thick mantle of fur laced with gold. It weighed him down.

His heartbeat was a constant throb in his ears, muffling the low jokes of the oarsmen, the occasional strained murmur of his subjects. He sat at the head of the boat, looking out onto the water and feeling six pairs of eyes settle on him. His hands in his lap, Thorin twisted the heavy carved ring on his finger.

His own words echoed back at him, in his mind. Words that had tumbled out of him in white-hot anger. Words like _disgusting_ and _perverted_. Thorin closed his bright blue eyes, breathing outwardly through his nose. He felt the gentle rocking of the boat stir him back and forth. Like hands on his shoulders, moving him like a restless child.

Thorin opened his eyes as the sensation became too much. He kept his face still, his jaw hard and eyes bright. He kept himself looking like a king. He was a king. An anxious, terrified, uncertain king, but a king all the same. That was what he had asked Balin that afternoon, locked in his own luxurious room with only the elderly dwarf for company. He’d thrown things, pressed his hands into his face and screamed in a rare breakdown that he couldn’t bear anyone else to see. He had kneeled on the ground and Balin stood over him, murmuring in his ear that it was natural for his rage, that Thorin had done what he needed to do as a king. But his voice was heavy as he spoke and Thorin wasn’t sure how much Balin believed his own words.

“And Kili.” Thorin had croaked in a shaking voice. Shame and failure welled in his eyes. “I’ve failed Kili. How do I make that right?”

Balin didn’t have an answer to that.

It was a failure. Thorin had no one – _no one_ – to blame for what had happened, but himself. He had done it, _he_ had driven his nephew into Azog’s arms, had left him for dead and washed his hands of everything that had happened next. It was a suffocating agony, to think on how much Kili had fallen. How much of that brightness that tarnished and turned dark. He had skirted around Kili, had let him be in the hopes that Fili and Dwalin would have stepped in and done their duty to aid him. But every night, when he gripped Fili’s shoulder after dinner and murmured low in his ear _how is he?_ Fili would only shake his head with that same stormy expression in his eyes. 

It was like a sickness, a foul parasite that had crept inside Kili and sucked him dry. That corpse, that _beast_ he saw walk and talk in Kili’s skin was not his nephew. He lay awake, night after night and slowly came to grips with the cold reality that he was never going to hold Kili in his arms, hear him laugh, see him smile. Azog had killed him, as ruthlessly and completely as if he had beheaded Kili or torn out his heart. It _hurt_ to repeat that idea in his mind. It brought tears to his eyes. But Thorin knew, when he saw those brief glimpses of Kili, those flashing eyes, that snarl in his lip whenever he came near, that he had to accept Kili’s loss like a real death. He couldn’t hold on to those memories the way Fili could. He couldn’t breathe life into his own mental picture of Kili and superimpose it over the bad copy that they had. Thorin was too practical and distrustful for that.

But he kept that dark reality to himself. Later he realised that it was a plea for time – for hard evidence, one way or another that would confirm or deny the worst of his suspicions. Maybe if he hadn’t have waited, he could have somehow stopped what happened next.

* * *

Cheering. Clapping. Kili listened to it all with the same fixed, tense expression on his face. Fili’s hand was on his arm, Fili guided him along the hall, past the rows and rows of eyes. The men had already taken their seats at the head table, and Kili had to stop in front of every single one of them, had to shake their hands and bow in gratitude. Their introductions were a muddled mess in his brain, a blur of different faces and names that he couldn’t match up. He wondered how much they knew. The Master beamed when he saw him, said it was an honour to have the youngest of Thorin’s nephews finally grace his table. Said that he hoped Kili was finally feeling better, and Kili wasn’t sure quite how to take meaning from that.

Fili pulled back his chair and gently guided him into it. Fili gently patted his knee underneath the table, smiled at him and murmured that it was all right, he was doing well, that this would all be over before he knew it. They sat in a long row, facing outwards. Thorin in the middle, of course. Bilbo at his right, Balin beside him, and Fili at the king’s left. Kili beside Fili, then Dwalin, then the lesser dwarves, down the end to Ori, flanked by his brothers, locked in his silent disgrace. Kili tried to lean forward and catch a glimpse at him, but his brother’s hand pulled on his shoulder, forcing him back. Kili turned and saw Fili shaking his head.

There was a speech. Kili didn’t hear any of it. He stared down at his empty plate, clenched his hands into fists on the table and watched as they shook. He held his breath until the blood throbbed in his ears and he felt sick. Then he let it out. He looked up when he heard cheering. Four long tables of nameless faces looked up at him. He saw Bain, sitting next to his father on the far left quite closed to the front. Bain waved madly and grinned, and Kili allowed his lip to flick upwards in a half-smile. Just for a moment.

Then the food arrived. Kili waited politely until it was all served before reaching out. He chose lamb, soft and juicy, cutting it on his plate and watching the blood run out. The hall broke into a cheerful babble. The Master bent his head in conversation with Balin and Bilbo with Thorin leaning in and Fili was finally able to speak to his brother unimpeded.

“How’s the lamb?” He kept his voice low in the rising chatter. Kili swallowed, feeling the lump of meat stick in his throat for a moment before sliding painfully down.

“Rare.” He replied tonelessly. Kili hid his face in a mug of pale, taking a half-hearted gulp.

“The pork’s good.” Fili tried to keep up conversation. “Nice and juicy. Want to try a piece?”

“No.”

“You sure? It’s really good.”

“I can’t eat roast pork.” Kili cut a potato in half, watching the steam furl. Leaning on his elbow, Fili bent his head.

“But – it used to be your favourite.” Kili frowned down at his food. “Why can’t you eat it?”

“Because it tastes like something else.” Kili shovelled in a mouthful of bloodied potato, burning his tongue. At his left, Dwalin listened to the pair silently.

“Oh? Like what?” Fili was painfully innocent. He didn’t realise what Kili was trying to say. Kili closed his eyes and tried to stop his ears against his brother, but Fili touched his elbow, a crease deepening on his forehead. “Kili? Like what?”

“Like _you_ if you were spit-roasted for a few hours.” Kili growled the words down at his plate, watching his brother’s arm jerk back. He heard a sharp little gasp, catching a flash of gold as Fili rapidly shook his head.

“I-I didn’t...” Fili’s voice was thick. “I didn’t _know._ ” Kili set down his knife and fork, palms flat on the table as his he turned his head to look at the blonde. Fili stared at him with horror written plainly on his face. A sharper horror than when he saw the mark on Kili’s wrist. A horror tempered with disbelief and disgust. His lip trembled.

“Well – now you do.” He could feel his throat tighten with those words, felt the blood rush hot along his face. Kili dipped his head, hair falling over his eyes and obscuring his view. “Is there anything else you want to know?”

“No.”

Fili pushed his plate away and didn’t talk to his brother for some time.

* * *

Ori pushed a mess of peas and sweet potatoes around on his plate, feeling what little he had swirl uncomfortably in his gut. At his right, Dori whispered for him to eat. Ori shook his head silently.

“Leave him alone.” Nori growled, chewing on a chicken bone. He spat out a piece of cartilage, nose wrinkled in a snarl. They sat apart from the rest, the three brothers. Technically, they were evenly-spaced, with a regular distance between Bifur and Dori as with Bofur, but the three of them felt plainly alienated.

“You need to eat Ori.” Dori’s voice trembled. “You need to keep your strength up for...” He couldn’t finish. For when he was cast out, alone.

“He’ll be all right.” Ori groped under the table for his handkerchief, dabbing briefly at his eyes. “Ori’s a tough little squirt, brother. He’ll pull through.”

“Oh it’s all right for _you._ ” Dori snarled, keeping his voice low. “You’re _used_ to this, being an outcast, being alone, wandering from place to place because you can’t go home.” Nori listened to his brother in pained silence. “But Ori _can’t._ He’s too young for this.”

“He’s twice as old as I was when I left.” Ori dipped his head as his brothers started to fight. “Stop _babying_ him. I told you – I told you not to _do_ this Dori. Spoiling him and keeping him under your thumb all at once. You can blame Glori for this all you like but if you let him grow a spine then maybe a dam would have looked twice at him and we wouldn’t be in this mess.” Ori screwed up his eyes, pressing his moist hanky over his nose to muffle a choked sob.

“Do _not_ pin this on me!” Ori’s shoulders hunched over. “I did my best. Do you even know what you did to us? I fought for _decades_ , we were almost respectable despite our mother and then in one fell swoop you and your greed ruined it all. This is _your_ fault Nori. You sanctioned this with your life of crime. How could I keep Ori on the right path with you stomping all over bad ground?”

“Stop it.” Ori’s lips barely moved in a soft whisper, voice smothered in his ragged hanky, and neither of his brothers heard him.

“Oh you’re always _so_ quick to judge.” Ori choked down a mouthful of warm mead. “But when push comes to shove and you’re needed as a brother, you’re nowhere to be found. Clean up your _damn_ mess, just once in your life.”

“My mess? It’s your mess! I have given the both of you _nothing_ but love and support and all you do is throw it back in my face-”

“I said _stop it!”_ Ori slammed down his mug, and even Bifur, staring into space with a fork halfway to his mouth, started. “The both of you – you’re being awful.” He tried to blink back the tears. “Stop blaming each other for how _I_ turned out. This isn’t because of our mother or Nori or anybody. This is me. All me. It’s _my_ heart that’s not working right.” Ori thrust his hanky in his pocket, trying to convince himself that he wouldn’t need it anymore. “I’m the one in love with someone... Someone so wrong.” His voice wobbled. “I was the one stupid and selfish enough to think that I could get away with it. I just wanted to see Kili happy and I thought... I thought if we were just friends again, if I was judgeless, he might open up to me and maybe I could help him.” Ori took in a long, shuddering breath. “I knew what I was doing. I knew it was wrong and I should never have done it. This is _my_ mistake. Th-These are my consequences and I have to live with them.”

“Not alone you don’t.” Nori cast his older brother a look over Ori’s bent head. A peace offering. Neither of them had realised just how much Ori was hurt by their bickering words. Dori reached out, squeezing Ori’s shoulder tightly. “I’m not going to leave you, you hear? We’ll make it through this. All of us together, as a family.”

“As a family.” Dori repeated, feeling sick. A whore, a thief, a twisted freak. His family. He wanted to scream out that it wasn’t fair, that he had worked so _hard_ , his entire life, to show how above all of this he really was. Instead, he rubbed his hand along Ori’s arm. He pushed his anger and frustration away, plastered a smile on his face. “Nothing will force us apart.” Even if the smile on his face was false, the love that swelled in his heart, that was real. Dori was wracked with guilt. He saw the first spark, that tiny flame _years_ ago when Ori had thoughtlessly murmured that Kili’s smile was the sweetest thing he had ever seen. He tried to contain it, tried to beat the flames back but he had nothing to give. It had taken hold, and Ori was inflamed. It was a miracle that they had managed to last this long without burning down.

Ori tried to lean back and catch Kili’s eye, but the other dwarf was sitting with his head bent over his food. He refused to look in Ori’s direction.

* * *

Fili ate a little of the second course. He chewed and swallowed on chicken and slow-roasted yams, with Kili’s words still screaming in his ears. _You, if you were spit-roasted for a few hours._ Fili had never considered before that his brother would have been reduced to something so foul and depraved. He wasn’t even sure that he had always believed it of orcs. It seemed like some sort of rumour made to discredit them, to foul their name to an impermeable blackness. But he looked into Kili’s downturned eyes, saw the darkness in his memories, and knew in a heartbeat that it was all real. The food shifted uncomfortably in his stomach and threatened to come up. The word hovered on the edge of his mind and he tried not to directly think about it. But it sounded in his ears, a soft, accusatory whisper that made the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. _Your brother is a cannibal._

He watched Kili eat now. He ate slowly, like a fussy child, examining every mouthful of food before swallowing it. Kili kept his head bent, not looking up for a single moment. He just wanted to serve his time and get out, flee to the safety of his room and hide away from the world. Fili didn’t know if he wanted to recoil and draw back, or wrap his arms around Kili, in front of everybody, and damn anyone that said it was improper. After a few stiff moments, Fili reached out underneath the table, his fingertips brushing Kili’s leg. His brother stiffened, gripping the knife on instinct and turning to stare at his brother.

“I’m sorry.” Fili scratched at his stubble with his spare hand. Kili’s grip on the knife fell slack. “I shouldn’t have pried.” Dark eyes were fixed on him. “I didn’t realise.”

“Why would you.” Kili turned back down to his food. Fili waited for another response, but the younger dwarf fell silent. He paused, casting Thorin a quick glance to make sure he was still busy, before turning back in.

“I’ll do anything Kili.” He whispered, sounding desperate. “Anything at all to help you. You name it and I will do it.” Kili slowly set down his knife and fork, eyes turning to greet him. “ _Anything.”_

“Anything?” Fili nodded. Nostrils flared and Kili bit on his lip. “Save Ori.” The hand fell away from his leg. “Don’t let Thorin do this to him.” The words remained stuck in Fili’s throat. “He’s worth ten of everybody else. I-I don’t know what would happen, if he wasn’t here to keep me sane.” Fili blinked his stinging eyes. His lungs hummed, with an inward groan. Kili didn’t want him. He didn’t want his brother. He wanted someone else. He wanted _Ori,_ Ori with his judgeless love, his unnatural affections. Fili swallowed very hard, convinced he was going to be sick then and there.

If he was a selfish person, he would have destroyed Ori. He would have stood by and let him fall, let Kili crumble alone. He would have waited for Kili to come crawling back to him, desperate, breaking down with nobody else to save him. He would have made himself _needed_. But he looked at Kili now, read into his heart and saw that violent fear, and he knew that he could never be so cruel. He couldn’t ever hurt him. He knew his own Kili, his baby brother, still lingered, trapped in the depths of that awful prison of his head. He knew that he could still be saved, that despite Kili’s violent protestations that he was marked for ever, that there was no redemption for him, that he could really be made whole again. And Fili had told himself that he was the only one who could do it, the only one who knew Kili so entirely and exclusively. But if he wasn’t – if there was someone else who could dig deeper than him, who had a sensitivity that he didn’t, then Fili wouldn’t hold him back.

And he _knew_ Ori. He trusted him. Ori, who taught him how to braid his own hair, who sat with him while he cried under the eaves of Mirkwood, alone, convinced that his brother was gone for ever. Ori, who still wanted to be Fili’s friend, even after everything that Fili had done to him. Ori, who never had much of anything and just wanted to hold on to those slim threads of happiness that he still had, who wanted to show that he was worth something, that there was a place for him in this world and he didn’t need a family name to prove himself.

And Fili smiled.

“I’ll protect Ori with everything I have.” Fili leaned in, whispering the promise in Kili’s ear. Kili reached beneath the table, found his brother’s hand and squeezed his wrist fiercely. Kili looked into his eyes and smiled back. He was confident that they could resolve this, that Thorin could be turned away from his desperate anger. Fili-and-Kili, they would make him see the light. And Ori, Ori would make Fili see how wrong he had been. Fili would listen to him now, Kili knew. Fili would realise that there was no going back, only forward. They couldn’t reforge something this broken. They had to shape and temper, begin anew. And then Kili could tell him the truth. He could reveal his deepest secrets. He could tell his brother just how far he had fallen, how he had thrown himself into Azog’s protection, how the two of them had worked together, become partners, a surrogate father-and-son.

The doors were flung open.

A cold breeze tore through the bright hall. Kili shivered, and his gaze with Fili was broken. They both looked to see no less than fourteen soldiers march into the feast-hall, the door pushed shut and bolted closed. At his place before the table, Gunner rose to his feet. They all fell silent, turning their confused, mildly interested gazes to the captain of the guard as he crossed the hall to where his guard stood, armour shining in the firelight.

“What do you think they want?” Still gripping Kili’s hand, Fili leaned sideways to whisper into Thorin’s ear. His uncle only shrugged with a little frown, watching as Gunnar leaned in deep conversation with his second-in-command, and after a long murmur, nodded. He straightened, hand resting on the hilt of the sword. His eyes shot across the room, and fixed on the dark-haired dwarf at Fili’s left.

“Whatever is it, Gunnar?” Fat and full of food, the Master lolled on his seat. “Trouble?”

“My Lord, there’s been a very unfortunate incident.” His eyes were cold, boring into Kili. Kili stared back with a confused frown. “A girl was reportedly attacked this morning.” The feast-hall broke into shocked mutterings.

“Oh my. Yes – that is unfortunate.” The Master replied. “But perhaps not at this moment. With our honoured guests in attendance this is hardly the time to apprehend the culprit.”

“I’m afraid not, My Lord.” Thorin slowly set his half-empty mug down on the table. “It was a dwarf who carried out the attack.”

“ _What?”_ It was a simultaneous cry, uttered by both leaders at the head table. The colour drained from Thorin’s face, and the Master rose to his feet. “Explain!” His greying hair straggled over his face.

“The girl – the daughter of the Master draughtsman and carpenter Elric – has claimed that she was approached in an alley behind her house this morning. She identified the assailant as a dwarf, beardless, with long dark hair.”

Kili stopped breathing. Fili’s hand slipped away, and he stared at his brother, mouth falling open. They _all_ stared at him now, the townspeople running their eyes across the row of dwarves and resting their gaze on Kili, dark-haired, beardless Kili.

“That’s ridiculous.” Kili tried to keep his voice steady. “I-I don’t know what he’s talking about.” Gunnar paid no heed to the dwarf, ploughing on ahead.

“She claims that he tried to drag her away. When she refused, he beat her quite severely. He gagged her so she wouldn’t scream and... And had his way with her.” Kili felt numb, His head spun and his vision swam. He slowly shook his head, but he couldn’t speak. “Kili, where were you this morning?”

Kili froze. He was with Ori. He was with Ori and he knew he couldn’t say it, not now. If Thorin knew that he and Ori had been spending those long hours alone together, there was nothing Fili could do to save him. If Kili was honest about his whereabouts, Ori would be truly gone. Thorin could call a conspiracy against his nephew, could accuse Kili of being unnatural too. Why else would the two of them be alone together all the time? The colour draining from his face, Kili closed his mouth and said nothing.

“This is a mistake.” Thorin also stood up, looking pleadingly at the captain. “I promise you – my nephew would _never_ do something so heinous and barbaric. I am sorry but she must have been confused with somebody else.”

“These are very serious charges.” Gunnar agreed. “However, she has strong evidence. She claims that while he did he deeds, he spoke to her. He said there was no escape for her. He said he had been trained by orcs, that he could fight off anyone who tried to stop him. He bragged at length that he was a trusted ally of Azog the Defiler, that he had personally helped him in the apprehension and torture of the elf-prince Legolas of Mirkwood, and that if she didn’t keep quiet, he would do the same to her.”

Kili couldn’t move. His hands were frozen half-way to his mouth, disconnected whispers of sounds, protestations, spilling from his lips. _No no no no_ this was some sort of horrible nightmare – it had to be a nightmare, it couldn’t be real, _this couldn’t be happening._

“What?” The Master looked from Gunnar to Thorin to Kili, livid. “Azog – trained by orcs what are you _talking_ about?” At the other end of the table, Dori and Nori both grabbed their brother by the arms, making sure to hold him still in his seat.

“Kili.” Thorin gasped in pure horror as the full force of the captain’s accusations came crashing down on him. “Kili _no.”_ He gripped the edge of the table, feeling his legs sway under his weight.

“You’re crazy!” Fili shot up, eyes wild. “These lies – these fabrications, they’re just made to discredit my brother! He wasn’t an ally of Azog! He was a prisoner – he was imprisoned months ago and he’s been a captive ever since!” Sweat broke out on Kili’s brow, and he let a low moan. Dwalin stared at him, equally horrified. Fili gripped Thorin’s elbow. “Thorin – tell him! Tell him he got it wrong, tell him about Kili!” He pointed at his brother.

Thorin’s eyes were dead. He stared outward, his lip trembling. The world had fallen away from him, leaving him in a black void, filled with screaming and a terrible rushing in his ears. The condemnation of his nephew had left his skin as cold as ice. The things Gunnar had said, his accusations – it contained information that nobody else could possibly know. Things that had remained a secret shared by Thorin, Kili, and Bilbo.

“Thorin!” Fili shook him. “Thorin, _tell them!_ Tell them they’re wrong!” Thorin turned his dead eyes to his nephew, unable to speak. Something broke apart in Fili’s chest, as he scoured Thorin’s blue irises. “Th-Thorin?” He realised with the most _horrific_ wave of pain crashing in his heart, that those words were true. “No – _no!”_ He turned on his heel to stare at Kili, shaking his head as the shock cleaved through the numb ringing in his ears.

“Fee.” Kili shakily tried to stand, his voice small and pathetic. “Fee please-”

“You were his _friend!”_ Fili burst into tears. The horror overflowed in his broken heart, and leaked out of his eyes. “How _could_ you!” In that moment, it overrode his senses. It left him raw and open. Fili was wrong about his own _brother_. He was darker, more twisted and corrupt than Fili could ever have possibly imagined.

“I presume her story is correct.” Gunnar’s voice rang through the shocked silence, crisp and clear. Fili shook his head, staring at his brother as the tears poured down his cheeks. _How could Kili do this?_

“Yes.” Thorin’s brittle voice was a whisper by comparison. But enough people heard it. “It is true.” He couldn’t move, could barely breathe. His limbs were as cold and dead as stone, and he felt like his heart had stopped beating. His worst fears became realised in his mind. Attacking someone, hurting them, bragging about what he had done – Kili really was a monster.

“Fee.” Kili reached out to his brother, shaking madly, but Fili pulled away. “It’s true – I’m sorry I’ve been trying to tell you.” The handful of guards began to stride across the room. The rest of the dwarves had also stood up at this point, staring in shocked silence at the awful scene that played out before him.  “I didn’t want this – any of this I just wanted him to stop hurting me. He got inside my head – he turned me against all of you but I never stopped believing in _you_ Fili I-I promise.” The words came out of him in a desperate rush. “Fili I _swear_ I never meant any of this!”

“I don’t even know you.” Fili’s vacant whisper was like a knife in his heart. Kili drew back, eyes welling up.

“I didn’t hurt her.” Kili begged. “Th-the rest is true but I haven’t laid a finger on anyone here!” But Kili wasn’t a fool. He knew how it looked for him now. Now he had admitted that half of the story was true, who would believe him when he said the rest were lies? “Fili I didn’t hurt her!” But Fili’s heart was hardening, hardening against Kili in his numb shock and Kili knew he wouldn’t get in. The guards were at the head of the table. Kili stepped forward, he reached out and grabbed Thorin by the arm.

Ori opened his mouth to scream, but Nori clapped his hand across it. “Don’t make a sound.” He growled, voice very low. “Don’t move. Leave it.” He watched carefully, the shock and rage and pain, while Ori struggled and writhed in his brothers’ tight grip.

“Uncle Thorin _please!”_ The king turned at the hand on his arm, his flat eyes settling on Kili. “You know me – you know the truth. I didn’t do this – I wouldn’t ever attack someone unarmed. I wouldn’t hurt an innocent girl!”Gunnar paused, signalling the rest of the guards to halt in their march. The Master had scurried back, as did the rest of the men, staring at Kili in a terrified cluster. Thorin stared at Kili, at the tears in his eyes, his heaving chest. He looked sideways, at the Master and his closest men, at the captain and his throng of guards close by, waiting to take his nephew away. “ _Please!”_ Kili shouted, clawing at his last chance of safety, in his desperation clinging to the person he thought he hated most of all.

He looked at his nephew now, and he remembered his brief glimpses of Kili in the past, those flashing eyes, that snarl on his face. He remembered that cold anger in his chambers that night as Kili threatened him, threw him against the wall and spat at him. When the captain had asked Kili where he was that morning, his nephew remained silent, looking down at his plate in fear. His heart cracked, it broke into pieces and Thorin slowly shook his head, not wanting to believe the horrible charges brought against his nephew. He couldn’t truly comprehend how Kili, his Kili, once so bright and soft, could be capable of something so violent, so cruel and _evil._ But Kili – he had done worse, he had _admitted_ to worse, in front of everybody, right _here_ , he admitted that the story was true, that he had forsaken them all, that he had become Azog’s ally, that he had tortured a prince.

Thorin’s other hand closed around Kili’s wrist. Kili let out a choked sob, his face sagging in relief as he misinterpreted the gesture as a show of comfort and solidarity. His grip fell lax. Thorin lifted Kili’s hand away from his arm. Kili’s eye’s snapped wide, a broken scream coming out as his uncle dropped the quivering limb, spurning Kili’s hold on him. Fili stood beside Thorin, trying to stem the flow of frantic tears that choked the air in his lungs. Kili stared at both of them, his heart sinking like a stone in his chest, as the cold, dead horror closed in on him.

They weren’t going to save him.

“ _NO!”_ Kili snapped into life at the first hand on his arm. He drove his elbow into the stomach of the guard, into the weak point between his breastplate and his thick belt. The man doubled up, winded. Kili turned at the next-closest guard, punching him square in the face and knocking him out cold. As the man fell, Kili tore the sword from his waist, determined that they weren’t going to catch him. They wouldn’t – they _couldn’t_ – he would fight this injustice, he would show them all that it was wrong, it was some sort of horrible mistake, a conspiracy, someone was framing Kili, setting him up for this...

He tried to use the flat of the blade, tried to injure and stun, instead of kill. But Kili was senseless, his limbs shook and he couldn’t hold the blade with the right sort of precision. He slashed and stabbed, light on his feet, striking out at anyone to tried to come close to him. It was a short, desperate battle that Kili never had a chance of winning. He managed to get five of the guards down before the blade was torn from his hands, before a sharp blow behind his legs sent him on his knees, and another sprawling on the floorboards. Coughing and choking, Kili tried to scream out. They pinned him, Kili writhing and struggling as one of the guards reached for the manacles slung at his waist.

Kili looked up, catching through thick net of legs and arms the face of his brother. Fili stared down at him, mouth a shapeless scream of horror, Thorin gripping his arms as Kili’s desperate fight seemed to prove the charges which had just been brought against him. Two of the guards were dead. Another held his bleeding abdomen, screaming in pain. In front of Lake-Town, in front of his brother and uncle, in front of the company, Kili was dragged up onto his knees, arms chained at his back.

“Kili.” Gunnar’s voice was cold. He stood with his back to Thorin and Fili, with one side of his face turned away from the Master and his men. He smirked, with that hidden side of his face, eyes narrowing. Blood ran down the side of Kili’s face. “You are under arrest for the attack on Ella Carpenter, for the murder of two of my guards, and for the grievous injury of a third.” Kili didn’t look at him. He looked beyond the captain, to his brother, blood mixing with the tears, copper-sweet and salty on his split lip. Fili stared back, an indescribable horror in his dark blue eyes. Kili was deaf to the charges read out to him. He only heard four words, resounding over and over in his throbbing head, and drowning everything else out.

_I don’t even know you._


	63. Pieces of Pieces

Four of them sat in the dim little kitchen. Thorin paced back and forth before the fire with his fingers threaded through his hair. Balin sat at the table with his gloved hands splayed out on the smooth wood, staring into an empty mug of ale. Opposite him sat Fili and Dwalin. Dwalin leaned on one elbow, face pinched and white. Fili stared down at his hands, with hunched shoulders and heavy, shadowed eyes.

This was all a nightmare. A twisted, bitter nightmare, that had closed around Fili. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t move. He could barely breathe. Fili only sat, eyes and ears open and mouth closed as Thorin stalked back and forth before the fire with shaking hands.

“How could he do this.” His voice wobbled and broke, punctuated with short tearing gasps of air. “How! attacking an innocent girl in broad daylight! And then – then to murder those guards in front of _everyone!_ What is _wrong_ with him!” It didn’t make sense to anyone, least of all Thorin Oakenshield. It seemed insane that Kili, corrupt and dark as he was, would hurt someone so innocent, seemingly at random.

“We did this.” Dwalin’s voice sounded beside Fili. Dark blue eyes flickered at the words. “We left him with Azog. He saw the tomb, he knew we gave up on him. We killed his hope and his heart died along with it.”

“This wasn’t us.” Balin disagreed. “It was Azog – he got inside Kili’s head and broke him down. He turned Kili against all of us, even Fili.” The blonde closed his eyes as the last words hit him like a heavy blow across his head. _Even Fili._ Kili had given up on Fili, had stopped believing in him. He had turned cold and distant, had told Fili that he couldn’t be fixed or saved or made better. It was only now, knowing what Kili had done, how he had turned against their people and sworn allegiance to Azog, that the magnitude of those words finally became clear, and Fili finally started to believe his brother.

“But Azog isn’t here. Not now.” Thorin paused. “He’s dead – killed and this was our chance to get him _back._ ” He let out a broken moan of frustration. “We let him slip through our fingers.”

“He didn’t trust us. How could we do anything when he didn’t trust us?” Dwalin mumbled.

“You should have tried _harder!”_ Thorin snapped. He lashed out, lay blame on anyone he could. “You knew it wasn’t working, both of you. You knew you weren’t getting through to him.” Fili screwed up his eyes, and his sharp intake of air was missed by no one. Thorin stared at his nephew, pangs of contrition tightening in his gut.

“He couldn’t be saved.” Fili’s voice was weary. “He said so himself. He didn’t even want to go back to his old life. He didn’t want this.” Dwalin gripped his shoulder, squeezing tightly. “He’s completely brainwashed, Thorin. I can’t – I can’t understand, how he could want to be with those people, after what they did to him.” Fili looked up. “He had nightmares – awful ones, he’d wake up screaming and he wouldn’t let me touch him.” Thorin stared at him with rising horror. “He’s completely broken.”

“I told him – I told him to _try.”_ The others all watched him. “I said I would look the other way, forget about all of this and let things to back to the way they were. He spat in my face.” Thorin looked in physical pain. “You’re right Fili. He didn’t want to go back.”

“He gave up on us. All of us.” Fili felt numb. “But – we can’t make the same mistake twice Thorin. We have to help him. We have to save him from this. If we try – if we get him out and we just-”

“There is no forgiveness, Fili!” Thorin snapped. The others all tensed. “There is no forgiveness for what he has done. I tried – I was ready to absolve his treachery, his alliance with Azog because I knew he had been manipulated and broken down. I knew it was out of fear and desperation. But this – he had _no_ right. He has turned down every attempt made to fix him. When do we stop? When do we admit that we’ve lost?” Fili stared, open-mouthed.

“We don’t.” He breathed, appalled. “Thorin – I won’t stop trying. I won’t give up on him I _won’t._ ” He slowly stood up. “You can’t suggest we leave him behind. You can’t be so _cruel!”_

“What am I to do, Fili?” Thorin’s voice rose. “Am I to openly flout the laws of this town? Am I to bribe and threaten for Kili’s freedom? Am I to act dishonourably, for the sake of someone who attacked an innocent girl and _murdered_ those who tried to arrest him?”

“He is your nephew.” A sick, cold terror blossomed in Fili’s chest. Thorin wasn’t going to stop this. He was going to step back and let this happen. “Hang your honour – this is _Kili_ we are talking about!”

“That monster is _not_ Kili!” Thorin’s raw voice scraped against Fili’s heart. The younger dwarf froze, eyes glimmering with unshed tears. “Kili would never do these horrible things!” He stepped towards Fili, trying to make him see. “You’re trying to protect someone who isn’t coming back.”

“Kili could be a _king_ of orcs and I would never stop protecting him.” Fili started to cry, in his shock and anger, the frustration that had overwhelmed him and left him gasping for air. “I will always – _always_ do everything I can.” He curled his hands into fists, banging them on the table. “I would still die for him.” He stubbornly clung to that loyalty, even though it seemed he held on to it alone. “I want to see him.” Fili’s eyes darkened. “I want to talk to him – I want to hear those words from his mouth.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea-”

“I don’t _care_ what you think.” Thorin froze at his nephew’s harsh words. “I have to see him Thorin – I have to understand how – _why_ – he would do something like this. I need to know where-” He broke off as the realisation robbed the air from his lungs. He squeezed his eyes shut. “I need to know where this came from.” His voice died to a low breath, attacked by violent memory. He knew. He knew the cause of that darkness, that _evil_ that had consumed his brother. It lay in his own blood, in half of his body, a claim that still bound him to a distant throne, a crown carved from stone. He sank into the chair with a gasp.

“Fili,” The dwarves both tried to grip his arms, coax him out of his shell. Dwalin smoothed his hair back and Thorin pulled at his hands. “Look at me. Tell me what’s in your mind.”

“Ironfist.” Fili spoke blankly. “After seventy-seven years, the Ironfist in him finally came out.” Dwalin’s hands on his hair, wild and golden, drew back. He exchanged a brief look with Thorin, his king tightly wrapping his hand around Fili’s shaking wrist.

“Oh my nephew, no...”

“We’re cursed.” Fili gasped. “Kili and I – we’ve always been cursed. Our father – you can wipe his name away but he’s never left. He never knew. He didn’t know how to fight it – he didn’t know that there was something so wrong inside of him, just waiting to come out.” Thorin listened silently, crouched beside the chair. “It’s what they do – they hurt and suffer and they’re _pleased_ about it – what Kili did to that poor girl...” He tried to give a voice to his jumbled thoughts but it was a scattered mess, that didn’t make sense to the others. “It’s in his blood – it always has been, like me, and I’ve been fighting and fighting for years until the goodness finally won but – but Kili, he wouldn’t have had a chance, not with Azog.”

“You’re being ridiculous.” Thorin shook his head. Fili had always been scared of himself, self-conscious, treating that hidden half of himself like a disease that threatened to kill him. But it wasn’t just Fili – _everyone_ had done it. Dain struggled to see beyond Fili’s father. Dís would wind a blonde curl around her finger, trying not to cry. Of course Fili was going to blame the Ironfists for this. “Kili is what he is because of what happened to him. This isn’t because of the Ironfists. This is because of Azog.” Maybe it was both. A battle on two fronts, inside and out, both forces pushing down on Kili until he collapsed.

“Why didn’t we tell him?” Fili lifted his head. “I knew – I knew I should have said something. I’ve been so _afraid_ of this, Thorin. I tried to protect him, I-I tried so hard but I failed... I failed my baby brother.” He turned his eyes to his uncle. “What do we do? How do we save him from this?”

Thorin gritted his teeth and forced back the burning, waiting for the swelling in his throat to subside before he could speak. The revelation had broken Fili, he spiralled into hopeless despair and clawed desperately for his uncle to stop this. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t wave his hand and undo this, make it all go away. He was powerless to stop this from happening. He couldn’t bribe the town or threaten to go to war with them or cut off trade. He wasn’t a real king yet. It would take only a single word, the lifting of a finger, and Thorin would go from being an honoured guest to a prisoner in a heartbeat. The beam he walked had been pulled and stretched into a tightrope by this, thin as a strand of hair on the point of snapping.

“I will try to negotiate.” It was a concession he made for Fili’s sake. Fili was stubbornly refusing to let go, and while his eldest nephew clung to that wild hope, Thorin had to at the very least indulge him. He rubbed his Fili’s arm, bracing himself for a blow. He felt cold inside at the thought of Kili – but Fili, he could see, would never think of his nephew without warmth and love. No matter what happened. “When we retake Erebor, when we have our gold and our home, something to bargain with – I will offer as much as the Master desires in exchange for his freedom. I promise you Fili.”

“And when is that? Weeks – months from now?” Fili fixed a hard blue stare on his uncle. “That’s not _good_ enough, Thorin. We need to get him out _now_ – I’m not letting him rot in a cell while we try to retake Erebor!” He pushed Thorin away and stood up. “Do you have any idea what that would do to him – being imprisoned again, after all those months with Azog? We’ll lose him Thorin, we’ll lose him for _ever_ if we abandon him again.”

“He’s right.” Dwalin’s low voice rose. “If we leave him behind, he’ll never forgive us.” Thorin listened to the pair silently, eyes on the floorboard. “You can’t put him through that, not again-”

“If I want your opinion Dwalin, I’ll ask for it.” His gaze snapped up. Dwalin froze. “Do you not realise how audacious it would be to demand for Kili’s release? We cannot ignore the fact that he has committed a terrible crime.” He tried to explain this reasonably, knowing that Fili was going to scream and shout. “I can’t flout the laws of this town for the sake of my nephew.” He repeatedhis previous claim, willing the two stubborn dwarves to understand.

“Yes you can.” Fili shot back. “You just _won’t_ , because you’re so concerned with being a good, honourable king, you don’t even care-”

“I _do_ care!” Thorin rumbled over him. “Fili, you need to listen to me. You need to understand this.” He willed his nephew to see reason, even through all of this. Reason and sense, it was all that held back the chaos that threatened to overwhelm them all. “You need to understand Fili. We need something to give in return. We need gold, land, power. And until we have Erebor, we have none of those things. The Master is a greedy man. He may even accept the _promise_ of gold for Kili’s freedom. I’ll try to offer some sort of contract but he’s more inclined to hold on to your brother until he has the gold in his hands. I will fix this, I promise you. But I cannot hold a sword to the Master’s neck and order Kili’s release. We need to be gracious.”

“Gracious?” Fili was incredulous. “There is _nothing_ gracious about any of this. They took Kili away – they accused him in front of the entire town and clapped him in irons and you are saying we need to be _gracious_?”

“Fili, one day you will understand.” Thorin whispered brokenly. “There will be times when your duty as king will outweigh all else. Friends, allies, even family, they will fall second to the throne. What makes a true king is his ability to put what is right for his people above those closest to him.”

“What’s the price this time?” Fili ground his teeth together, the rushing in his ears breaking into a roar at Thorin’s arrogant, ridiculous claim. A claim he rejected. A claim he knew was true. “Five hundred pounds of gold?”

Thorin struck him. The force of the blow set Fili crashing against the table. The accusation, the naming of Dís’ bride-price was an arrow in his chest. Balin jumped up, reaching out with wide eyes. Thorin had his nephew by the arms, screaming senselessly in Fili’s face. His voice rocked, hoarse in his throat. Dwalin leaped between the pair, trying to prise Thorin’s hands free. Fili struggled in his uncle’s hold, gasping as the sons of Fundin managed to pull king and prince apart.

“How dare you – how _dare_ you accuse _me_ of being heartless! How could-”

“You _disgust_ me!” The blood throbbed in Fili’s ears. The side of his face stung. Thorin’s attempts to placate him, his angry blow, it lit a fire inside of Fili, nerves alight with fury. “You sold your sister! You hated your brother – you let him die because you thought he was an embarrassment! And for _what!_ For honour? For your people?” Dwalin wrapped his arms around Fili, pinning his arms to his side. “I’d rather be disgraced with my brother than alone and honourable like _you!_ ” Balin’s hands were on Thorin’s wrist, but the dark-haired dwarf stood in shocked silence before the fire. Fili’s chest heaved, the fury doused in an icy wave of horror as the full impact of those words hit him. He panted, eyes locked with his uncle.

“Get him out of here.” Thorin’s voice was a low, trembling rumble. “Get him out and lock him in his room.”

* * *

A whisper broke Fili from a fitful sleep. He gasped, jerking up to find Ori standing before him, clinging to a little candle.

“Ori?” Fili rubbed at his eyes, waiting for his heart to slow. “Wh-what are you doing here? I thought the door was locked.”

“Oh, That?” He waved vaguely at the door. “I’m Nori’s _brother._ Do you think I can’t pick a lock? Look Fili, I need to talk to you.” Ori’s voice was low and rushed. He set the candle down on the table. “I had to wait for the kitchen to go dark, for Thorin to stop talking.”

“Who was he talking to?” Fili sat up, instantly awake at the memories. The cold side of the bed. Screaming at Thorin, being hit in the face.

“Balin and Dwalin.” Ori sat on the edge of the bed, wringing his hands. “They talked for hours and hours about what to do with Kili.” Fili’s jaw tightened. He had been left out. He was too violent, too passionate, too blind to reason and after sending Fili away, Thorin had reached a decision without him. “He’s going to leave Kili here a-and go on.” Ori sounded in pain at the words, his voice shaking. Fili grabbed handfuls of the sheets and bent his head.

“How can he?” But for his shocked whisper, Fili really wasn’t surprised. He knew deep in his soul that Thorin was going to do this. He saw that heavy, bowed acceptance in his uncle’s eyes. He had given up on Kili. He thought Kili beyond redemption, thought there was nothing left to save. He saw two halves of the dilemma. On one side was Kili, guilty and treacherous, broken down beyond comprehension and twisted into something unrecognisable. On the other was Lake-Town. A future ally and trade-partner, the only people who could help them within hundreds of miles. It was an easy decision for Thorin to make. Thorin never put his family first. _What makes a true king is his ability to put what is right for his people above those closest to him._ It left Fili cold to think about it. But it was _true_. Fili had evidence – he _was_ evidence, that Thorin would always put the crown first and his family second.

“He cried.” Ori murmured. “He’s hurting so very much. Dwalin was against it from the start and they couldn’t bring him around, but he won’t go against his king. Balin knows it’s horrible, he said so, but they have to be sensible.” Fili was shaking. “You don’t think he did it, do you?” He watched Fili’s reaction carefully. Dark blue eyes clouded, and he bit down on his lip. Fili didn’t know. He had lain in bed for _hours_ after Dwalin had locked the door, staring at the ceiling and reliving the short flashes of the evening over and over in his head.  

“The things he did with Azog – to Legolas...” Fili swallowed. “Ori, I don’t know. It hurts – to think that Kili would do something so horrible, it really does hurt.” How could he explain it? How could he explain that heavy, dead feeling in his heart, where he subconsciously knew it was too cruel and awful to believe, but with the evidence against Kili, with his new darkness and anger, the whispered threats, the snarls, the revelation that he had _turned_ – Fili had realised, with a painful jolt, that his brother had become a stranger, and he didn’t know what Kili was capable of, anymore?

“I know he didn’t do it.” He reached out, fingers resting on Fili’s knee. “The captain – he said it happened this morning, right? Kili wasn’t out alone this morning. He... was with me.” Fili would understand, he had to. Fili was the only one who could fix this. “We were at the archery range. Bain can attest to this. We were there almost all day.” Fili was very still. “They made it up. They _must_ have. Kili wouldn’t do this. I _know_ him, Fili.” The blonde fixed his gaze on Ori. “Please – please believe me. Kili’s innocent.”

 _Innocent._ The word sounded so soft and strange in Fili’s ears. Innocent – Kili hadn’t been innocent in a long time. He stared at Ori, his wide pleading eyes, lips curled in the beginnings of a smile. Kili wasn’t innocent. He may not have been guilty of _this_ , but the other crimes stacked in his name – it had already tipped the balance and sent the scales crashing to the floor. The true meanings of Ori’s words didn’t quite resonate with him yet. He didn’t understand just what Ori was trying to say.

 “It’s not just this awful mess with the girl.” Fili’s voice sounded small and far-away. His fight with Thorin had wrecked him. “He turned against us.” Betrayal flashed in his eyes. “He turned against _me_.” Ori watched him quietly. He didn’t have that same inner fire, after lying in that cold, lonely bed. He felt afraid of Thorin, of Kili, of _everything._ He knew there was no apology that would undo the wound his words caused in Thorin’s heart. He wouldn’t be forgiven for an outburst so violent and cruel. He thought of his brother in the feast hall, covered in blood, kneeling on the ground, looking up at Fili with hurt and fear in his eyes. “Kili – he gave up on us. He forgot who he was, he forsook all that goodness inside of him. You don’t know him Ori. None of us do.”

“Stand up.” Realisation flashed inside Ori, his last sunny memory before being thrown into this darkness. He grabbed Fili by the wrist, trying to coax him out of the bed.

“What-”

“Stand up, get up.” Ori pulled at his sturdy body. “C’mon, hurry up.” Fili obeyed, hissing as his bare feet hit the cold floor.

“What are you doing?”

“Kili didn’t give up on you.” He reimagined those soft brown eyes, downcast and afraid. “He didn’t forget.” He got his fingers under the thick heather mattress, lifting it up. There it was, the dirty little scrap of paper. It looked like a stain on the bedstead. Fili frowned down at it. “Take it.” Ori panted. The mattress was _heavy._

“Do you know what this is?” Fili took the folded paper as Ori let the mattress fall back down with a _thump._ “What is it?”

“Kili told me yesterday. He kept this, the whole time.” His fingertips brushed Fili’s knuckles. “Look at it.” Slowly, Fili unfolded the paper. It was ragged, creased and smudged. Ori saw the outline in the candlelight through the dirty page, as Fili angled the paper to see better.

“No.” The page shook. Fili fell against the bed, as the air was knocked out of him. His hands clenched on the paper, the drawing blurred. It was of _him._ Him and his brother together, Kili braiding his hair. He recognised the paper. It was one of Ori’s drawings, from the book that had been lost in the Misty Mountains. Kili had mentioned he’d been back to Goblin-Town, in the first week of his capture. Fili couldn’t _breathe._ He would have seen this, torn it out and kept it hidden, for months. It was his hope, his light. He imagined Kili now, in those rough orcish clothes and grey skin. Waiting for the rest of the camp to sleep, waiting for that moment of solitude when he could reach inside his pocket, pull out that worn drawing of his brother and look at it in the moonlight. Hoping, remembering, keeping that love burning inside of him while everything else sank into an inky blackness...

“He said he n-never gave up on me.” Fili’s voice was choked. Ori sat down beside him, staring at the worn picture. “I thought – I thought he was lying – I thought he hated me.” Fili gently touched Kili’s face in the drawing. It was smudged with what looked like ash. He wondered if his brother had purposefully smeared grey on his own face. “He _didn’t._ ” It was a like a fire in his chest, as though he had stepped into a midsummer sunshine. _Kili still loved him._ He was so desperate for hope, a scrap of evidence to prove that all these awful things about his brother weren’t quite true. And now he had it in his shaking hands. Fili pressed the paper to his chest, head bent.

“We have to save him.” Ori gripped Fili’s shoulder. “Tonight. We have to get him away – we could run. All three of us. We could just leave in the night and never be seen again.” Fili lowered the page. “I’m finished Fili. I’m _exiled._ There’s nothing for me here. And Kili, he can’t keep going on. We can try and say he’s innocent, but no one is going to believe us. Wh-what’s my word, against the captain of the guard? Thorin won’t trust what I’ll say and he won’t listen to a child. And those guards he killed – the families will want blood for it. They won’t let him go. Everything is stacked against him. No one else will understand how much this means.” He gestured to the paper. “Kili said... He said he wanted to run away. He said he hated it here, he wished he was back with the orcs. That’s how _bad_ it got for him.” Fili’s lip shook.

“Away.” He repeated. Away from Thorin, from Dwalin, from Erebor and Smaug and the Company and his name. Away from everything that he knew. He looked back down at the page, at Kili’s smile. A smile he didn’t know if he would ever see again.

“Kili isn’t going to _ever_ fit in with the dwarves.” Ori sounded heartbroken. “He’s too wild. We can’t make him go back to that old life.” Was he being selfish? It could sound like that. He braced himself for the backlash, for Fili to shout that it was all just a ploy for Ori to have Kili to himself, to keep on seeing him and being close, to tear him away just because his own name had turned to mud. He flinched away and closed his eyes, holding his breath. But it didn’t come. Ori slowly opened his eyes to see Fili staring down at the drawing, his shaking fingers tracing Kili’s skinny limbs. He let out a shaky breath of air, rubbing his wet eyes with the back of his hand. Fili slowly folded the page, turning the creased drawing over and over in his fingers.

Away. Fili tried to wrap his head around the idea. Abandoning the quest, forsaking his uncle, in the name of his brother. Casting aside everything he had worked for, his _entire life_ , to keep Kili safe. Letting go of the crown to hold on to Kili.

_I’d rather be disgraced with my brother than alone and honourable like you_

“You’re right.” He failed Kili once. He would not fail him again. Resolution hardened in his stomach. Fili stood up, groping for the clothes he’d left in a pile at the foot of the bed. He dressed quickly, fumbling over the buttons of his tunic with trembling fingers. “Damn Thorin. Damn this stupid town. Damn _everything.”_ He knew he couldn’t sever his bond with Kili, the way Thorin needed him to. Fili paused for air. “Kili – he’s more important than any of them.” He was being senseless, and he knew it. But Fili didn’t care. He didn’t care about _anything_ else at that moment. It had left him stunned and throbbing, looking on that drawing to realise that Kili had held onto him, even in the face of that horrible darkness and suffering, he never let go of his brother.

And now, Fili wouldn’t let go of him.

They stole away along the dark passageway. The pair took the back exit, leading into a narrow alley piled with filth. There was a real risk that the front at least would be watched. Fili pulled a hooded cloak over his wild curls and crept along the narrow boardwalks, with Ori behind. He carried his sword in one hand, keeping close to the walls. It was a short walk to the guard’s chambers, but with their quiet sneaking, it felt to Fili like an age. But finally, the pair stood before the ajar door, light spilling into the dark street. Fili swallowed, and with Ori behind him, he pulled open the door, and stepped inside.

He held his sword out, ready to subdue whatever guard had been posted to watch over his brother. He’d cut down anyone that stood between them, in a heartbeat. He wouldn’t let anyone in his way. Fili whirled around, eyes adjusting to the light as he looked for movement, strained his ears to any possible sound.

But there was nothing. Fili stood before the cell door, taking it all in with a cry. The sword fell from his hand, clattering loudly to the floorboards as another broken scream tore from his throat. There was a single, solitary figure slumped against the bars of the cell, dressed in guard’s armour. He hung by the neck, crooked knees resting on the ground. Dead. Strangled, Fili realised. Garotted. The cell door had been flung open, keys dangling crookedly from the lock. Empty. _Empty._

Kili was gone.


	64. Free

They took Kili’s boots and tunic, leaving him to shiver in his too-large trousers and a thin undershirt. It was a small cell, barely six feet across with a lace of iron for a door. The captain pushed him in, stone-faced as Kili was sent sprawling to the ground. His head hurt. There was a sharp pain in his ribs where someone had kicked him, and he still tasted blood. Kili pulled himself up onto his knees, head bent. He could feel Gunnar’s eyes on him, sizing him up.

_I don’t even know you._

Kili’s head sank into his hands as he tried so very hard to hold himself together. Fili’s shocked stare burned into his eyelids, his broken cry playing over and over and over in his ears. Kili heard the shuffle of fabric, a creak of ageing bones; he looked up to see Gunnar crouched on the floor, an ugly expressing twisting his face.

“I didn’t do anything.” Kili’s ghostly whisper made the captain’s snarl deepen. He grabbed the front of Kili’s shirt, the dwarf gasping as he was thrust painfully against the bars. Iron dug into his scarred back.

“You little _shit.”_ He was choking Kili. “You murdering piece of _scum._ ” Kili groped madly for the captain wrist, unable to breathe. “You’re going to pay for that Kili. You’re going to _suffer.”_ He released his hold, Kili gasping for air and pressing trembling fingers against his throat. The captain wound a skein of dark hair around his fingers, hauling Kili to his feet. Kili bit back a cry of pain, hovering unsteadily on the balls of feet, trying to keep his face still.

“I won’t make that mistake again.” Kili’s hands were slick with blood. He glimpsed his stained fingers, panic pushing in his throat. He felt every slice, every stab into flesh as he desperately tried to fight the guards of Lake-Town off, as though his own nerves raced along the beaten blade. The smell of blood wouldn’t leave.  “You’re not going to move, you’re not going to _breathe_ , unless I say so.” He let the hair fall through his fingers. Kili pitched forward, taking two unsteady steps before turning back, back pressed against the wall. “You’re going to wish you were dead.”

The blood throbbed, hot and angry in Kili’s veins. He lifted his gaze, his own lip curling in a sneer. It was like a blow to his chest. The stark realisation of where he was, what was happening to him, it cut through the foggy haze of shock and pain bound across his skin. Another jail cell. Another cruel figure standing over him, threatening him. Another promise that he would suffer. This was _so_ familiar to Kili. He knew the cold hatred in those flat eyes. He knew the curl of his lip. He’d seen it all before, on someone stronger and fiercer and crueller than Gunnar could ever hope to be.

“There is _nothing_ you can do to me that would make me wish for death.” And for a brief moment, Kili wasn’t afraid. This was _nothing._ It was almost an insult, to have this pathetic grey-bearded man standing before Kili. It brought out a fire he thought had died. He was nobody. Azog couldn’t break Kili’s will to live, in the end. And if Azog couldn’t do it, _nobody could._ Kili had stared into the blackened heart of evil and darkness, had come out alive. He was a cracked mess of pieces that didn’t fit together right or were missing entirely. But he lived through it all and no one could ever take that away from him. “Don’t flatter yourself if you think for a _second_ you could break me.”

“You’re a nasty piece of work.” Molten rage burned in Gunnar’s eyes. Kili gave him a silent, level stare. “Are you _proud,_ is that it?” Kili didn’t blink. “Drop the act. We both know you never touched the girl.” A muscle twitched in Kili’s throat. “But I know what you did. I know you hurt Thranduil’s son and swore allegiance to Azog the Defiler and his tribe.” The captain spat on the floorboards. “After everything that monster has done to your people. Disgusting.”

It took everything Kili had, every fibre of himself, to keep that stoic, blank expression on his face. He wanted to scream out. He wanted to hit this awful man and watch the blood flow. All of those horrible thoughts rushed through him – but he kept calm. And when he spoke, he kept his voice steady and level without a hint of a tremble. One of the many things Azog had taught him was how to camouflage his true feelings beneath a mask of stone.

“Why did you frame me in front of my family.” He challenged Gunnar, keeping his head up and hands at his sides even though he was so small. “What was the point of your show?”

“I’m merely acting under orders.” Kili’s eyes widened. He saw the Master’s shock, the way he looked at Kili with that sharp surprise and fear. He knew the captain wasn’t working underneath _him_ , not at all. His mind made the connection in a heartbeat, the realisation like a hot wire piercing through his brain.

“Thranduil.” Kili gritted his teeth, trying to stop the torrent whirling in his head. _Thranduil had orchestrated this._ He collected the guards of Lake-Town, tied strings to their limbs and turned them into his puppets. Of course he would – Kili heard the whispered threats from the guards in Thranduil’s halls. They promised that Kili would suffer for what happened to Legolas. He was in the middle of a conspiracy, secret back-dealings that dealt in vengeance and blood. He realised now how far Thranduil was willing to go to get his hands on his last living chance at revenge. He had made a cruel, powerful enemy, the night Azog kept Kili at his side beneath the eaves of the cursed wood. “What did he offer you in return?” He kept his chin up, refusing to bow to him. He knew he couldn’t, not now. He knew that the moment he showed a sign of weakness, Gunnar would strike. He couldn’t afford the opportunity. “Gold? Power?”

“Not enough.” He took a step towards Kili, voice rumbling low in his throat. “Not enough to cover the damage you’ve done.” He looked at the blood on Kili’s fingers. The dwarf caught him staring; rather than curling his hands into fists and hiding them, Kili flattened his palms against the wall, spreading the thin digits wide. “Thanduil can take his payment and he can _fuck himself_ with it.” Kili’s mouth fell open as Gunnar stepped very close to him, hands on their side of his face. “I was willing to pay a favour to a neighbouring king – but _you.”_ He gripped the front of Kili’s shirt. “Thranduil said that his soldiers had no trouble capturing you. He said you were small, you wouldn’t put up much of a fight.”

“I wouldn’t have lived as long as I have if I didn’t put up a fight.” Kili kept his palms flat against the wall. He had been through worse, much worse than this. He held a knife to his own throat and challenged Azog. He earned the respect of an orc who had literally been called Man-Killer. Kili tried to tell himself that he was not afraid. “It was _your_ mistake to think I would go quietly, when you framed me in front of my brother.” He closed his eyes briefly as the captains clenched fist tightened, pushing into the base of his throat.

“I’ll make you regret this.” He breathed the words out, a low threat. “Thranduil won’t care who does it in the end. He just wants to see you suffer.” Kili’s Adam’s apple pushed against Gunnar’s hand. “Thorin won’t stick up for you. Your people are terrified of you. The only friends you have left in the world are those _disgusting_ orcs you dared to call your brothers.” Kili tried to keep the fear down in his stomach, tried to stop it from ballooning in his chest, pushing outwards into a gasp or cry.

“Do your worst.” Kili felt icy inside at the horrible words. He saw what was going to happen, spread out before him. Gunnar was going to make him hurt. He was going to torture Kili, make him suffer in payment for the blood that clung to his fingers. And no one was coming to save him. For the first time, Kili was truly guilty, _deserving_ of the punishment in store for him. He was a murderer. It was always just a matter of time before the awful things he had done caught up with him.

“Oh, I will.” He stepped back, and with a final snarl, turned to the open cell door. “They were good men you slaughtered, Kili. They deserve nothing less in vengeance.” Kili closed his eyes as the door closed with a bang, and he slid slowly along the wall until he hit the ground.

He refused to let himself crumble in panic. Kili breathed in, felt that sickening wave rush over him for several endless, painful seconds before he lifted his head, trying to hold those cracked pieces of himself together. He couldn’t break. He couldn’t give that awful man the satisfaction of showing how afraid he made Kili feel.

 _Breathe._ He commanded himself, knees drawn loosely up to his chest. _Don’t be afraid._ Kili’s eyes slid to the side, at the guards who milled about in the open quarters, pale and bloodstained. They glared at him, faces contorted in hatred. There would be no mercy there. Not after what he had done to their brothers-in-arms. The outside room was part office, part armoury, part waiting-room, with a chunky wooden desk, a cupboard half-filled with tarnished armour, low benches along the walls. Kili watched as Gunnar sat heavily at the desk, head sinking into his hands.

There was silence for a long time.

* * *

Ashlûr smelled the warg-pit long before it came into view. He strained to hold the two beasts in his thick arms, chains wrapped tight around his wrists. One huge and brown, teeth and eyes flashing, another a little grey runt not much older than a pup. He kept them in line with snarls and kicks to the side, leading them along the low tunnel beneath the stone.

The keeper, a fat lolling thing with pale, bleary eyes, grunted and stood up when he saw Ashlûr kick through his door. The air was filled with growling and snapping.

“Tûguz, I have these for you.” The muscled in his arms bulged as the larger beast pulled against the chain. “ _Krum!_ Back you stupid brute.”

“Oh, this one’s nice.” Tûguz crouched before the brown, paying no attention to the runt. “Where did these come from? Do you have names?”

The orc smirked. “Murûk and Nardur.” There was no need to explain who was who. With the names _bear_ and _small,_ it was obvious. “They belonged to the traitor healer from Isenguard.” Tûguz looked up at him, frowning. “Oh – you didn’t hear?”

“No one tells me anything.” Tûguz ran his hand along Murûk’s flank. He jerked his head towards the pens. “Lock the beasts up and tell me.”

Ashlûr handed Murûk’s chain to the keeper. “Well – you know the business with Azog in Mirkwood, surely?” Tûguz nodded. _Everyone_ knew he’d been murdered by elves on the hunt for the dwarves who tore through the Misty Mountains. It had set the caverns abuzz for days. “This fellow, turns up out of nowhere three days ago coming from the direction of the elf-scum’s lair. Naturally Morzgut got suspicious.” He referred to the odious creature who ruled over their outpost town. “So they work him over, and eventually he admits that _he_ killed Azog. The whole tribe. Poisoned them.”

“ _No.”_ Tûguz rested his hand on the pen door. “Azog was killed by his own?” The other nodded. “But why?”

“ _That’s_ the interesting point. Azog managed to snatch one of those dwarves, months and months ago.” He bent over to release the chain. “Didn’t kill him. He kept him alive, as a ransom or a pet, I don’t know. But he managed to turn him. Had him eating and talking like _us._ Kili. That's right. His name was Kili.” He kicked Nardur into the pen. “They bonded. That there? His. Azog found him a warg that was small and stupid enough to listen to him.”

Tûguz slid the bolt home on the pen door. “I’ll believe that when I see it.”

“I swear this is what was said. Azog gave him one of his teeth.” The other orc froze. “I _know._ It sounds ridiculous but the story matches up with the rumours Morzgut heard. Anyway, so Nazarg – that’s the traitor’s name – saw what was happening to this Kili, and he hated it. He waited for the right time and poisoned them all, and took the dwarf to the elf-scum’s hideout.”

“You’re making this up.” Pale eyes narrowed at Ashlûr. “Azog bonding with a dwarf?”

“I’m not. Kili was beside himself. Apparently they were _really_ close.” He shrugged. “Weird business. The wargs there, they’re yours now.” Ashlûr gave a deep, throaty laugh. “ _He_ won’t need them anymore.”

“Dead?”

The orc shook his head. “No, still alive for now.” A wicked smirk twitched on his lips. “They’re waiting for Bolg. He’s been making his way along the Grey Mountains with an army for weeks. War is in the air my friend.” Tûguz stared at him. “It’s been peaceful for too long, don’t you think?”

* * *

Kili’s head lifted at the sound of the opening door. He’d remained hunched over on the floor for what felt like hours, nerves slowly filed away down to the bone with every breath of air. He didn’t look at the few guards still milling around in the front room, at the captain who remained bent over his desk in silence. He kept his eyes fixed on his hands, watching as the blood dried and started to flake off as he touched his loose trousers.

It was one of the servants. Kili rested on his knees, a deep frown creasing his brow as the young man sat down at the stool offered to him, before the desk. He’d had dinner with him once or twice, with a few others around. He’d smiled at Kili, once. He tried to remember his name now.

“Alan.” That was it. Kili’s mouth was dry, and he felt his hands reaching out, bloodstained fingers clasping the bars. Alan didn’t look in the direction of the cell, didn’t notice Kili at all. He was a small, hunched figure in the shadows. He kept his eyes fixed on the captain of the guard. “So what were you able to glean?”

“You’re safe.” Kili’s hands tightened. Of course. Of _course_ Gunnar had servants under his pay, looking in on them, spying. Of course they were being watched. “Thorin will not contest this, at least, not yet.” Kili rested his forehead against the iron, heart sinking. It was what he already knew, but it still _hurt._

“Of course he won’t.” Gunnar leaned back in his chair. “I knew we wouldn’t have any problems.”

“There is one problem.” Kili held his breath. “The blonde, Fili. He won’t let this lie. He’s insisting Thorin work to free him, now. They fought over it – physically from what I heard.” His lips opened in a gasp, but Kili’s throat was closed. _Oh Fili._ “He could prove an annoyance.” Fili didn’t hate him _Fili didn’t hate him._ Kili dipped his head, pressing his lips together to muffle the sound. Fili wanted him safe and free. _Fili didn’t hate him._

“No concern.” Gunnar dismissed it with a wave of his hand. “What else did they say? The story – do they believe it?”

“Yes, Sir.” Kili listened in silence, hands starting to shake. “Considering the crimes against him, they had little choice.” Despite that rush of joy, the dwarf gritted his teeth. How? How could they think he was capable of something so awful and monstrous? How could _Fili_ think him so brutal?

“Was there anything else of interest?”

“I – forgive me but I don’t think their family matters plays into this-”

Gunnar growled. “Tell me.” Kili watched, ignored and unnoticed. He pressed his cheek against the bars, turning in on himself silently. “I need to know _everything_ Alan. The more I have to work with, the better.”

“Fili – he blamed his father for this.” Kili’s head snapped up, eyes growing very wide. “He said the both of them have bad blood.” His mouth fell open, a rising horror churning in his stomach. _What._ Gunnar nodded at the servant to continue. “The young brothers aren’t pure-blooded dwarves of Durin’s line.” Kili’s vision swam. He struggled to hear the damning words over the low buzzing in his ear. “Half Ironfist, apparently. Whoever _they_ are.”

“Oh, _that_ is interesting.” Gunnar rose to his feet. Alan watched as the captain strode towards the cell, face growing white as he noticed the small form slumped against the bars. “I’ve heard one or two stories about those barbarians from the Eastern traders.”

Kili fought back a rush of nausea in his throat. He bowed his head, groping helplessly at the bars as a broken shadow of a moan sounded from his lips. He shook his head, bound in shock and rage. It was a lie – _it had to be a lie._ Fili swore he didn’t know – when they were children he said he didn’t know a thing and in his foolish, desperate need to keep the faith in his brother burning Kili believed it. _Fili said he didn’t know a thing._ The secret had remained hidden, Kili tried to tell himself that it never mattered and for so long the darkness had been pushed away.

“No wonder they believe it.” Kili couldn’t breathe. He felt his limbs quake horribly, screams bottled up in his throat. _Barbarians. “_ That’s a nasty little family secret, isn’t it Kili?” Kili didn’t respond. He stared down the captain’s boots, chest writhing in hot agony, as though someone had lit a fire there. _Bad blood._ He grew in a short, ragged breath, shaking his head.

“He didn’t know.” Alan’s voice was very small. Gunnar’s smirk spread into a grin at the surprise. He crouched before the bars, rattling them a little to get the dwarf’s attention. Kili slowly lifted his head. “They never told him.”

“Is that true?” Kili didn’t look the captain in the eye. “That must be quite a shock, for someone who is supposed to be a prince.” A lazy drawl crept into his tone. “Do you know much about the Ironfists, Kili?”

His voice was stiff. “No.” It creaked out of him, rusted and broken. Gunnar’s smile widened even further. He was enjoying this immensely.

“Well – _I_ do. We trade quite extensively with the Eastern provinces and they’re always talking. They’re wretched, foul creatures you know. The other dwarves, they don’t go near them if they can help it. Even the orcs are afraid of them. Now – if the orcs know to stay away, they must be bad, hm?”

“Shut up.” Kili breathed, trying to hold back his tears. He felt broken inside. He was going to be sick.

“Rapists and murderers, the lot of them.” Gunnar’s fingertips lingered on the iron bars. Kili closed his eyes tightly.  “I wonder – was your mother even married or-”

“Shut _up!”_ Kili struck, reached through the bars and seizing the front of Gunnar’s shirt. That smouldering rage blossomed into an inferno and broke inside of him at the mention of his mother. He wouldn’t let him say it. He wouldn’t let the words break free. The captain’s gasp turned into a short cry of pain as Kili crushed him against the bars, forehead bashing against the iron. “Don’t you say that don’t you _dare!”_

“Oi – get him off!” The captain tried to fight Kili off and brace himself, stunned from the blow. Kili managed to bash Gunnar against the bars once more, two guards fumbling with the lock. They burst in, seizing Kili’s arms. Kili was wrenched away and thrown to the ground. He saw what was coming and tried to curl into a ball, protecting himself from the heavy, cruel boots of the men. He caught through his hair and arms a brief glimpse of Gunnar, kneeling white-faced on the ground with a blood-soaked rag pressed to his forehead. The first kick got Kili in the stomach, a strangled gasp breaking in the cold air. Another, and another. Kili was beaten until they were sure that he could not move, hunched over on the floor of the cell.

“You _brute!”_ Lying on his side, facing away from the door, Kili coughed, once more tasting blood. The captain’s words seemed hazy and far away. “You’re _dead_ Kili _you are dead!”_

“Come now – Sir, you’re bleeding.” Kili groaned, agony flaring with every ragged gasp of air. “Oh it’s bad. You need this sewn up. Alan run ahead and wake the healer, tell him it’s urgent.”

“No – let me at him _I’ll kill him!”_

“Tomorrow Sir – tomorrow.” Kili shook, listening to the guard and his captain debate over his life. “Not like this.” Kili’s cheek was flushed and hot against the cold floor. His limbs felt sapped and dead, his bones throbbed in pain. “Edward, you watch the psychotic little monster and _don’t_ go near him.” Kili coughed, spasms wracking his thin frame.

 _It couldn’t be true._ This truth was more horrible than anything Kili could have _ever_ imagined. He’d known, always, that there was something that just wasn’t quite right, that there was something dark and secret that he’d been kept apart from. The words that his brother had supposedly uttered, Gunnar’s sneering insults, they haunted him. _Bad blood_ and _barbarians. Rapists and murderers._ How could he have expected this? And to hear it – not from Fili but from a spy, to have Gunnar sneer it in Kili’s face, mocking him, using the truth to _hurt_ him...

After what felt like hours, Kili thought he had strength enough to get up onto his elbows. He hunched over on the ground, breath a burning fire in his lungs. It took a long time for him to lift his head. He clutched at his ribs and sat up slowly, shuffling across the tiny cell until he leaned against the wall. It was too much to think about. It hurt. Kili tried to close his mind to all of it, tried to put those words out of his mind.

He was going to die in the morning.

Kili licked his lips, tasting blood and tears. He had sealed his own fate. Striking out against the captain, making him bleed – he had doomed himself. Kili’s legs spread out before him. His ankle throbbed from someone standing on it. He leaned forward and rubbed it now, wincing in pain. After all of this – after being kidnapped and tortured and imprisoned and _turned_ he was going to die at the hands of some inconsequential captain with nobody to save him. Kili wanted to scream in frustration.

This couldn’t be how it ended. He looked to the side, and saw in the light of the lantern the single remaining guard, sharpening his sword with his eyes firmly downcast. His hands shook. Kili stared for a long time, the rasp of stone on steel the only sound in the room apart from Kili’s low, heavy breathing. This couldn’t be Kili’s last night on Middle-Earth.

Kili looked down at his hands. His hands that had spilled blood and ended lives, too many for him to ever settle the debt. He shivered. There was no mercy or redemption for him, not from this. He was a monster, inside and out. The words whispered in his ear again, _bad blood_ and _murderer_ and he shook his head, trying to free himself from the barbed tangles. Fili hadn’t told him – he never did he didn’t–

Fili.

Brown eyes snapped wide. The name in his mind was soft and warm. _Fili still wanted to save him._ Kili’s hands twisted in his shirt at the thought. Fili fought Thorin – for _him_. Fili still thought there was something worth protecting and rescuing. His stupid stubborn brother, he still clung to the hope that Kili could be saved, even now, when he knew exactly what Kili was, when he thought Kili guilty of something cruel and brutal. He still wanted to protect his brother.

The person Kili lived for, the person he had _slaughtered_ for, still loved him. Kili’s lip trembled. Fili hadn’t given up on him. He was a liar and an idiot _but he still didn’t give up._ His heart swelled and throbbed sickly in his chest. Kili pressed his palm against it, feeling the pulse beat against his skin.

He was going to get out of here. Alive. He wasn’t leaving in a box. Kili’s eyes scoured the shadowy room, looking for something, anything that could save him. There was only the straw pallet against the wall, foul-smelling and stained and Kili didn’t go near it. A thin blanket over it, worn into holes and rags. He ran his fingers lightly across the floorboards, hoping to brush against a possible weapon or lockpick, anything that could help him. This was his only chance, alone with a single guard, waiting for the morning. Wrapped in solitary darkness, this was the only opportunity he would ever have.

There was nothing. Kili swallowed, rubbing his soft, oversized trousers. He was so thirsty. There was nothing that could help him, nothing...

His fingers brushed the clasp of his belt. Kili’s mouth fell open. And he remembered. Slowly, he hunched his shoulders, angling away from the lanternlight, but keeping Edward’s bent figure in the edge of his vision. Carefully, making sure not to jingle the metal, he unbuckled the thin belt. He wound one edge of it around his hand, thinking.

He had gotten close with Azog. So close. Kili saw it clearly now, inside that hollowed-out tree, with the warm sunshine of a dying summer burning his skin. Taking his chance, catching Azog off guard and winding that chain around his neck, and pulling, pulling until there was no air left. It was the first time Kili had tried to fight back, and oh, he was deterred from trying again for a very long time.

 _But he wasn’t going to die here._ Kili listened for the sound of sharpening, working by touch in the darkness. He practiced threading the leather one-handed through the buckle in silence, biting his lip. He nearly dropped the belt more than once and froze, heart pounding in his ears. But on the other side, the guard continued sharpening his sword, hoping the sound would keep Kili awake and on edge.

His hands trembled in anticipation. Kili knew he would only have one chance to do this. If he stumbled over the clasp, if he was caught, there would be no mercy. The guard would strip every thread of clothing from him and chain his hands and feet. He closed his eyes for a moment and breathed.

Kili was going to commit another murder. He couldn’t put that thought out of his head. It wasn’t something that he could side-step. This was another life that was going to end, snuffed out by his cruel hands. Someone who didn’t deserve this. Kili could feel his control slipping. How much of this could he rationalise? How could he justify this? How much was his own life worth? The body count kept growing. Kili was leaving a trail of dead across the wildlands and he didn’t know when or how it was going to stop. His knuckles whitened around the belt.

This would be the last death.

He walked slowly across the cell. Kili still ached from the beating, his chest flaring up every movement. He felt numb. His bare feet were silent against the floorboards. Kili felt removed as he climbed on the first rung of the iron bars. There were four running across, several feet apart. He stood at almost six feet tall now. When the guard approached him, Kili would be slightly above his eye level.

“Hey.” Kili’s voice was harsh and ragged. Edward paused in his sharpening, and looked up. “Cut it out. I’m trying to sleep here.”

“Shut up.” The guard muttered, gaze returning to the blade. Scraping once more filled the air. Kili growled, driving the heel of his free hand against the bars, making the iron lock click.

“I said _stop it.”_ He repeated, putting a hard edge of anger on his voice. “Mahal, can’t you give the walking dead a moment of peace?” Kili banged on the door again, biting back a wince of pain. Edward only snorted in disgust.

“Only one breaking the silence is you with that awful ruckus.” He droned, stretching back and examining his blade in the low light. They both knew the sword was well-sharpened by now, and that the guard did it only for show.

“Please – please I just want to _sleep.”_ Kili wound his empty hand around a bar. “I’m going insane in here-”

“Tell someone who cares.” Kili didn’t blame the guard for being rude and cruel. How would he react if someone killed Bofur or Nori, right before his eyes? He faked a groan of frustration and started rattling the bars. Loudly. Edward listened in silence for a full minute, teeth gritted before lifting his head. “Stop that.” The guard lowered the blade, narrowing his eyes.

Another minute passed. Kili kept rattling. “Make me.” His fuse blown, the guard stood up. He blocked the solitary light source, throwing the cell into shadow. Kili held his breath, watching with darkened eyes as he strode across the front room. The sword remained on the bench, abandoned. The keys stuck out of Edward’s pocket. _You fool._ He was doing it to himself, Kili told himself. Approaching someone as dangerous as him, he should really have known better. He was _told_ to leave Kili alone but he had a temper that Kili had picked and picked at. He was brittle and raw from all this death. Everybody was.

“You pathetic _excuse_ for a human creature.” Edward kicked the bars, Kili flinching away for a brief moment. “What, lost your nerve now?” Kili’s right hand stretched up above both their heads, threading the leather noose around a single bar. He looked like he was just trying to hold on and keep his balance, resting on the iron. The guard didn’t notice. He was too busy snarling at Kili, nose deeply creased and eyes flashing. Kili stared right back, lip shaking. He only needed another moment. Just one more moment...

Edward blinked as the belt slipped around his neck. He was suspended, frozen in a half-second of shock before realisation struck with a gasp. But by then, it was too late. Kili pulled, tightening his leather noose. He was terrified that the brass clasp would break under the strain. He stepped back, bracing one leg against the bars as the guard struggled. His gloved hands stretched out, flailed and groped wildly for any inch of Kili. He tried to pull the belt from Kili’s hands, but the dwarf had an iron grip that would not break.

Kili couldn’t look the dying man in the eye. He kept his gaze averted, pulling tightly, waiting until the awful choking noises faded, until the sound of struggling and the tugging on the belt had fallen away. He gritted his teeth, ignoring the sting in his eye. He whispered _sorry_ , a silent, shapeless word that was lost in the sound of choked scrabbling.

And then it was quiet.

Kili dared to look. The figure had slumped onto his knees, limp. It wasn’t a person anymore, not really. The belt fell, loose on the iron and a low gurgle of air came out of the dead man’s throat. The sound stuck into Kili’s heart, tearing like a knife. It left his knees weak. He lurched forward, blindly, reaching out for the bars and leaning against them, taking care not to touch the corpse.

“What have I done.” Kili’s forehead dug into the rough metal as his haunted whisper came out, warm and wet. “Someone help me.” He didn’t know who he was whispering to. There was no one who could save him from this. Kili’s buried his face in the bars as the panic threatened to overtake him. “I’m so sorry.” He rubbed his arm over his eyes, shivering in the cold. “I’m so s-sorry.” Kili traced his fingers along the bars towards the corpse. He brushed a lock of hair and drew back as though the touch had burned him.

How could he _ever_ come back from this? Kili limped, crouching down with a wince. He jerked clumsily, reaching for the keys. He unlocked the door and stepped out. But he didn’t feel free. Kili didn’t look at the body again. He staggered, like something small and frail about to crumple under a massive weight. He found his clothes and pulled them on with shaking hands. Kili sank down on the bench, pressing his fingers over his lips as another cry rocked his chest. He couldn’t afford to break down _, not now._ But he couldn’t have that cool, removed detachedness that he knew he needed. He couldn’t turn his face away, ignore the body slumped against the bars, forget that he was the one guilty of cold, calculated murder.

And a whisper of a memory breathed in his ear. Contrition, that was what set him apart from those monsters. Knowing he had done wrong. Feeling sorry. That was where absolution lay. Kili lifted head, mulling quietly over Nazarg’s words. He remembered the orc _insisting_ that Kili wasn’t like the others, not at all. He had believed so firmly that there was a way for Kili to come back, a way to repair the damage that had been wreaked on his soul.

But it was clear now there wasn’t. Kili stood up slowly, eyeing the open guards’ cupboard. He couldn’t just _sit here_ and wait to die. He had precious minutes, a few hours at the very most, before they would start looking for him. He had to get away, vanish like a thief in the night without a trace. He took a sword, buckled at his waist. A heavy woven tunic that was too long, but Kili knew he would need in the approaching winter. His own new shoes were sturdy enough and the boots he knew would be miles too small. Kili dressed himself as warmly as he could, rifling through the desk for any possible supplies. But there was nothing here. Bundled up to the neck, Kili stood in the middle of the room and realised there was still one more place to visit.

He left without looking back.

* * *

Bain groaned at the hand on his shoulder. “N’yet.” He brushed who he thought was his father away sleepily, trying to bury his face in the pillow. “Soon...” But it didn’t let up. He was shaken harder, a sharp sense of urgency in that hand. “All right...” Bain rubbed at his eyes, half-sitting up in bed. He started. It wasn’t his father. He didn’t recognise the hunched figure at first, half-bent over him, a rising shadow in the gloom. He thought he smelled blood.

Bain opened his mouth to scream. The grubby hand pressed over his lips. The figure bent further. In a small beam of weak moonlight, the child caught brown eyes, a scarred cheek in a thin face marked with stubble. Kili pressed a finger to his lips, and Bain nodded silently, heart thudding with shock.

Bain led him down the tiny winding staircase into the narrow one-roomed bottom floor of their modest home. There was enough moonlight peeking through the shutters for Bain to find the a stub of candle and light it. He turned to look at the dwarf, face half-lit in gold and darkness.

“What’s going on?”

“Keep your voice down.” Kili couldn’t look at him. His whisper was hoarse. “Do you have anything to drink?” Bain set down the candle and brought him a mug of water. Kili sat at the chunky table. His fingers shook around the vessel.

“Papa’s a heavy sleeper.” The child toyed with the hem of his nightshirt. “We’ll be all right – but Kili, I thought the guards took you away.” Bain breathed, leaning in. “What’s going on? What’s Gunnar saying about you and Ella?” His face was pale. “It’s not true – is it?”

“He claims I did it yesterday morning.” Kili breathed after a long moment. Bain’s dark brows met in his forehead. “Yes, I was with you and Ori. All day. He made it up.”

“Why?”

“Because...” Kili bit his lip. “The second half of the story... about Azog and I. About us being friends. That was true.” He couldn’t look the child in the eye. But he had to know the truth. If Kili was going to ask all of this of him, Bain deserved nothing less. “I turned against my family. I was lost and scared and-” He broke off, rubbing tiredly at his eyes. There was no use in wasting his breath, gabbling out a half-hearted apology. “I need your help Bain.” Now their eyes finally met. “Will you help me?”

Bain looked _sick._ He lowered his troubled eyes to his knees, obviously wrestling with what he’d seen, what he’d been told. He digested Kili’s words slowly, but it wasn’t the great shock to him he thought it would be. Bain had already spent the evening tearing that awful feast apart in his head, half-listening as Bard instructed him to _never_ go near Kili again, to never say his name or even think about him anymore.

“You’re nice.” Bain looked up. Kili stared, openmouthed. “You’re way nicer than the rest, ‘scept maybe Ori.” That familiar smile came back on his peaky face for a moment. “Are you going to run away?”

“Yes.” Kili placed his elbows on the table, resting his temple on a clenched fist. “I’m running away. Alone. Tonight.” He watched the boy. “I need things. Things like food and a flintstone, a knife, blankets. Have you ever been on a journey?”

“I almost went on a hunting trip once.” His lower lip jutted out in thought. “How long are you going away for?”

Kili held his breath. “Forever.” His heart clenched at the word. Bain looked down, uncomfortable. Kili’s agony was obvious. “If you get a pack together, I _promise_ my brother will pay you back for everything.” _Fili._ Kili’s throat closed. “And paper. I need paper and something to write with, first.”

“Papa keeps that stuff in this box.” Bain pattered across the narrow, cluttered room, reaching into the shadows. “Stay here. I’ll get everything.” Kili lifted the lid. He took out the sharp little black quill, the inkpot. Taking in a deep lungful of air, he lifted his eyes up to the ceiling, trying to collect his jumbled thoughts. And pressing the nib against the page, Kili started to write.

His words were lopsided and jagged at first. He realised that it had been _so_ very long since he’d written a letter. It took a few minutes for him to get into the fluid motion of writing. The quill scratched against the paper, and he blotted the page several time in his eagerness to get the words out. This could be the last time he would ever speak to his brother again and there was _so much_ he needed to say. He apologised for everything. He expressed his shock and anger at finding out about his father, at _how_ he found out. He wrote for a while about Azog. He even mentioned Nazarg. He explained just why he had to leave. He told Fili not to follow him. He reminisced on a few old memories. He swore he would never forget as brother, as long as he lived. But he _begged_ Fili to forget him. He wrote that he knew Fili was going to be greatest king Erebor had ever seen. He told Fili to apologize to their mother on his behalf, to say that he didn’t mean for any of this to happen. He revealed to Fili just how many lives he had really ended.

By the time Bain tugged on his elbow, Kili’s hand ached and his writing had turned rough and sloppy. He finished up in a few brief sentences, spreading the pages of drying ink out before him. Five pages, double-sided. This handful of paper was the last piece of contact he would have his brother – and Kili didn’t know when, or even _if_ , they would ever meet again.

He cried.

Kili pushed the long letter away, resting his forehead on the table. He bit down on his sleeve, trying to muffle his sobs. Everything he wanted to do for his brother, everything he wanted to say, it whirled around in his head, destined to remain internal. He never got to braid his brother’s hair properly. He never got to sleep beside him, comfortable and happy. They never laughed together. All of those precious memories that Kili held on to, they didn’t resurface. Their relationship was anxious and strained. Neither of them knew what to do. Kili had been so closed-off, so angry and dark and bitter. There was no going back for him. Fili was gone, treading that same path he had been destined for since he was born. But Kili had spun off, fallen, and now he wandered, lost and alone. He was _terrified_ of what was going to happen to him.

Bain’s hand on his shoulder made Kili start. He looked up, to see the boy had dragged a chair close. He perched on the end of it, trying to be comfort Kili but unsure just how. He gave a watery attempt at a smile, holding out a grubby handkerchief.

“Thank you.” Kili whispered. He dabbed at his eyes and blew his nose, trying to regain his composure. He felt exhausted, hollow and dry and more tired than he’d been in months. He waited for his eyes to dry, for the painful throbbing in his throat to fade, before turning back to the page. He rubbed at his left arm out of habit. “This... You have to give this letter to Fili.” His eyes were black in the candlelight. “Please Bain, this is very important. He _needs_ to get this, as soon as possible.”

“Of course.” Bain watched as Kili gathered the pages and folded them all up. He took the letter and disappeared up in to his little alcove room. Kili ran his fingers through his hair in the brief flash of isolation. He felt strangely silent inside, after writing that letter. It was almost as though a part of him was at peace. Kili leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. He didn’t have that awful threat hanging over him, that anger at Thorin, that anxiety. It was all _gone._

“Here, take this.” Kili jerked up. Bain held out his own oilskin cape. “It’s waterproof and should fit you all right. Better than Papa’s things, anyway.”

“Are you sure?” Kili ran his fingers over the thick fabric. “This looks expensive. Your father will kill you.” Bain shrugged.

“You need it.” He pushed it into Kili’s hands. “I don’t know if you’ll fit your arms into it, but it should go over your shoulders.” Kili put it on now, fastening the clasp at his throat. It was a little tight but the perfect length. Bain had filled up his father’s pack and left it on the ground. Kili rifled through it quickly, checking. There wasn’t anything he couldn’t see that he would remember needing. With his good arm, Kili swung it over his shoulders.

“I can’t thank you enough.” Kili looked at the boy. “You’ve saved my life Bain. You really have.” Bain shrugged and looked at the ground, embarrassed. “I owe you more than you’ll ever realise.”

“Don’t mention it.” Bain pushed a wild curl back from his face. “You’re so _cool,_ being a dwarf and an archer and surviving all those orcs.” It was Kili’s turn to look down and blush. “And breaking out of jail – I haven’t heard of anyone doing that, not here.” Kili didn’t speak. He hadn’t mentioned the guard he had killed to do that. “And it was so _fun_ , messing around with you and Ori.”

“It was fun.” Kili would treasure those memories more than Bain would ever realise. It was evidence to him that it _wasn’t_ all bad, that maybe in some other life, Kili could have stayed on, could have learned how to be good and whole and normal again. It was the only weapon he had against Azog’s corruption.

He hugged Bain tightly. It was an impulsive move, one he didn’t think through. It was almost desperate, in a way. Kili didn’t know when he would be close enough to another person again. He needed it to prove that he was still human, even after everything he had done. There were still people out there who trusted him, even someone as innocent and thoughtless as a child.

He left as moon waned on the horizon. Kili only had a few hours before dawn. He crept silently, making sure to give the guardhouse and the dwarves’ home a wide berth. He managed to sneak into the abandoned archery range. There was the bow Bard had made for him, right where Kili had left it, and a stuffed quiver of arrows. He readjusted the burdens on his back and crept very quietly down to the docks.

He chose a little rowboat that looked like it wouldn’t be immediately missed. Kili pushed off, trying to row as smoothly as he could. His eyes ached with tiredness and his chest still throbbed, but Kili’s mind was racing and _alive._ He scooted across the quiet lake, keeping his head down. He headed west, the beginnings of a plan forming in his head. He knew there was no going back through Mirkwood and risking Thranduil. That part of the world was closed off to him. He knew they would suspect him of heading east, where the land was wildest and criminals were welcomed with open arms. Where the Ironfists lay.

Kili bent his head and tried to push those thoughts out his mind. The shock and pain and outrage, that _everyone_ had kept such a devastating truth secret, it just hurt too much to dwell on. He tried to rationalise that they would have had their reasons, that there was something else at work, something that now he would never, ever know. But then _bad blood_ came up in his mind once more and Kili knew this wasn’t something he could ever simply forget.

North. He tried to gather his thoughts. North was where he had to go, at least for now. He wasn’t worried about surviving through the winter. He knew he could weather the storms. He knew the lands of the south were too wholesome for him. The lands of Rohan and Gondor wouldn’t harbour criminals. And Kili would be recognized. No – if he wanted to disappear, then he needed to go somewhere he would never, ever be found.

The sun rose as Kili was perhaps a quarter mile from shore. He stopped for breath, lifting his head and opening his eyes in surprise at the beauty spread out before him. The lake was as smooth and still was mirrored glass, reflecting the brilliant pink and gold of the dawn sky. Lake-Town looked like a toy, made of twigs. Kili gripped the oars but remained still, looking across the water. Fili. Ori. Dwalin. Thorin. He was giving them all up. There was a cold finality in this dawn. Kili was saying goodbye to the only life he thought he ever really wanted.

But he didn’t want that. He didn’t want the whispers, the secrets, the lies. He didn’t want to be shunned and stared at. He didn’t want to be mistrusted. And he knew that there would never be any trust for him, there. Even if he was innocent of one crime, he was still guilty of so, so many others. Crimes he had committed to save himself. Crimes he committed under orders. Crimes that came in a hot flash of anger that he couldn’t control. There were so many reasons _why_ he did what he did, but it all had the same ending.

Kili dragged the oars into the boat, allowing himself to drift for a moment. It was so shockingly still and quiet. He started to hum, an old childhood lullaby. The same one he tried to play with that bloodstained fiddle on the traders’ ship. It cracked. His voice already felt disused. Kili kept humming. Subconsciously, his hand formed a fist at his neck, closing around the sharp little tooth. Azog hadn’t let go of him, not yet. Kili didn’t know if he would _ever_ be free.

He mouthed the word now, the hum falling silent in his throat. _Free._ What did the word mean? No cages. No rules and laws. No duty. No honour.

He laughed. It was a high, alien sound to him, breaking in a chatter across the still water. It was like a kettle boiling over, the tension grew and grew until it broke in his chest and came out in the most unusual sound. Kili wondered if he was losing his mind. He fell silent, pressed his lips against the closed fist. He didn’t have any of those things any more. He told Fili to forget about him. He was going somewhere lawless and wild. There was no chance of ever regaining his honour. There was no one else, _no one_ , who could give him a single command here.

So yes. Kili looked up at the sky, red and orange and gold, like the hands of gods on fire, stretching out to him. In a way, he was free.


	65. Don't Burn Out

Fili lay awake with dry eyes fixed on the ceiling. The window casement was wide open, and he could hear the soft sounds of morning filter into the chilly little room. He heard a screech of laughter from a child. Thumping boots. The barking of a dog.

He licked his lips and he waited.

Ori had to hold him back in the early morning, had to hold his hand over Fili’s mouth and muffle those wild screams that burst from his terrified lungs. Fili scratched and howled and fought in protest, sobbing and sobbing, but Ori didn’t let go. He merely waited until Fili had exhausted himself, and they both sank to the floor, their foreheads pressed together and Ori’s hands tight on his trembling limbs.

“No.” It was all Fili could say. He couldn’t _believe_ it.

It was Ori who staggered up, who touched the body and whispered that it was cold and stiff. Kili would have committed the deed a few hours before. There was no finding him now. Fili pressed his face into Ori’s chest and gasped for air, knowing in that dead quiet of night that his brother was lost to him.

He didn’t know quite how Ori was able to help him home and get him into bed. It was all a red haze, with a constant muffled groaning in his ears. He remembered the feeling of wool against his face, smelling like tea and lavender. Ori hugged him for a long time, whispered with a trembling voice to pretend to be asleep when they inevitably came banging on his door.

Surely it wouldn’t be long now. Surely the guard would have been changed at dawn, and they would have come in to find the cell door open, find their own man strangled and the jailhouse empty. How long would it take for them to instantly blame Kili’s own kin for plotting some hare-brained escape? What other leads would they even have?

He heard thudding. Banging on the door. Loud and desperate. Fili breathed in and out, closing his eyes. He curled his hands into fists beneath the blankets. He felt _humiliated,_ lying safe and warm in his bed when Kili had vanished like a thief in the night, leaving only bodies behind. He should have left then and there, should have climbed into a boat and set off in the grey light. Should have left all of _this_ behind. He hated Ori, in a brief hot flash, for backing away and leaving his brother behind. Stupid, sensible, practical Ori. Fili wished that he had been more reckless.

How could Kili run away and _leave_ him? Why was he allowed to vanish, while Fili was left to drown, left with these hands pushing him down, holding him underwater while he struggled and screamed and couldn’t breathe? He almost hated Kili too, for a moment. Then his hand slid under the pillow and brushed worn, ragged paper and that stab in his heart melted away like ice in a furnace.

There was a sound at the door. They were unlocking it. Fili tried to breathe slowly, in and out with his eyes closed. He turned away from the door with the blanket pulled up to his nose. Slowly, in and out-

“Get up.” It was Dwalin. Fili feigned a sleepy groan, pressing his face into the pillow. “Up Fili. _Now.”_ He was merciless. He tore the blankets away from Fili and dragged him up by the elbow. Fili caught a glimpse of the elder dwarf through cracked eyes and saw that Dwalin was physically holding back tears.

Dwalin pulled him down to the drawing room in his bedclothes. Thorin already sat, fully dressed with his head in his hands. Gunnar paced back and forth with a bandaged head. His face was bone-white.

“You!” As soon as Fili stepped into the room, the captain struck. He grabbed Fili’s wrist and tore him away from Dwalin, a snarl heavy on his face. “Where is your brother? What did you _do?_ ”

“Wh-what?” Fili mumbled, rubbing at his eyes. “What are you talking about?”

“He’s gone, Fili.” Thorin’s voice rattled in his throat. Fili forced himself to look shocked as well as sleepy.

“What? _”_

“He strangled one of my guards and slipped out.” The grip on Fili’s wrist didn’t relax for a moment. “Do you think we won’t find him? We have boats on the water, scouring the eastern shores. We’ll catch that _filthy_ murderer, you just wait-”

“Kili’s _gone?”_ Fili forced a tremor in his voice. “Wh-when – how – I don’t understand, why would he-”

“Because he is guilty as sin.” Gunar finally relaxed his hold, stepping back and studying the blonde. “And he knows it. He ran away like a _coward_ before we could bring him to justice.” Fili looked from Thorin, sitting silently on his chair, to Dwalin, leaning against the doorway with a dead, haggard expression set into hard lines on his face.

“No.” Fili didn’t need to act, to sound so weak and plaintive and afraid. He didn’t need to pretend to be horrified. It was all real. Too real. He stumbled forward, sank into a stiff-backed chair and raked his hands through his wild curls. “ _No!”_

“Did he try to contact you? Did he leave a message at all?” Those grey eyes were fixed on him. Fili shook his head silently, not trusting himself to speak. “You slept here – all night, in your bed?”

“He was locked in.” Dwalin’s grey voice came to Fili’s defence. “He couldn’t have done anything Gunnar. You’re wasting your time here.”

“If _any_ of you have a shred of information, it is to come to me.” Listening was a hard effort over the roaring and thudding in his ears. But Fili was seemingly innocent for now. “I trust, Thorin Oakenshield, that you will co-operate with me on this.” Fili watched as Thorin slowly lifted his head. His eyes were cold and flat, mouth in a line. Everything, tears and passion and anger and guilt, had already been wrung out of him. He was empty. Hollow.

“No dwarf is above justice.” Last night’s words came rushing back to Fili. Thorin’s assertion that the duty of a king was prized above _everything._ There was no help coming from there. If there had been anything left in Thorin, any ragged hope that Kili could be saved, could be _worth_ saving, it was torn apart with the news that he had killed yet another guard and disappeared into the night.

“I need to go.” Fili finally choked the words out. He couldn’t look at them. “Please – I – alone, I need to be alone.” Thorin inclined his head in a single wordless nod. Dwalin couldn’t bring himself to stare in Fili’s direction. And he fled. He fled along the passageway and up the narrow stairs, through the upstairs hallway. He had to get out of here, he had to somehow get away and jump into a boat and row, row as far as he could and try to find _Kili_ before those awful guards did. He couldn’t let his brother slip through his fingers, not again. He wouldn’t fail Kili a second time. He wouldn’t let him fall. Fili stepped through the door and closed it, pacing the room with shaking hands. It took two laps before he saw the bird perched on the windowsill, a beady eye fixed on him. It was a little brown thing, with a creamy breast dotted with black. A thrush.

Fili stood in the middle of the room, staring wide-eyed at the bird. It was the _tamest_ looking thrush he’d ever seen. She gave a single melodic chirp and fell silent, cocking her head. Fili realised then that the thrush carried a burden. A little lump of something, wrapped in brown paper and tied on a length of twine. He approached the bird slowly, keeping his hands still. The thrush tweeted again, waiting patiently for Fili to approach her. He slowly untied the little bundle, and as soon as he had, the thrush spread her brown wings and took flight through the open window. Clutching the little parcel, he leaned out, watching as the little brown bird dipped into the street below, dotted with people – not busy, but far from silent. He lost the thrush, but saw a very familiar head of brown curls turn quickly, walking away from the dwarves’ home without looking back.

Fili sat on the edge of the bed, unwrapping the brown paper and tearing through the fragments of brittle twine. It was folded paper. Fili held his breath as he looked at it, recognising that familiar handwriting in a heartbeat. It was a rushed, slanted writing, barely legible in parts. It was Ori who taught his brother to write well in the end, and it was that quick scribe’s hand that Kili had adopted, even though Thorin despaired to see it.

Fili leaned against the headboard, tapping the folded letter against his knee. He was working up the courage to read this. What could be his last goodbye – no, no Fili _wouldn’t_ let that happen. He wouldn’t. He opened his eyes and, wiping his nose, Fili unfolded the pages and began to read.

_I’m so sorry it came to this. These last few hours have been a waking nightmare and I’m still struggling to get my thoughts together. I hope you can understand the gaps and the mistakes._

_I can’t make excuses for what I have done. I’m not going to try. I’m ashamed of myself. I’m ashamed of the crimes I’ve committed just to keep myself alive. I have killed ­forty people since I was captured. Thirty-four goblins, a boy on a trader-ship, the three guards of Lake-Town, and Azog himself. Does it surprise you, to know that I killed him? I never got to tell you or Thorin that he died by my hand. I poisoned him and his entire tribe with arsenic, and when that wasn’t enough to end Azog, I slit his throat with a knife. It wasn’t the elves that killed him. Don’t give them the credit. It was me. _

_After he made me hurt Legolas, I realised with a horrible jolt just how much I had fallen. I realised that soon it would be you, that I would have to hurt you the same way I hurt that poor prince and I just snapped. Even though we were close, Azog was nothing to me in comparison to you Fili. Not ever. He had to go. They all had to go, so you could live. I get a little thrill of joy in my chest, even now, when I think about that. It’s probably the bravest thing I’ve ever done. Thror and Thrain and Thorin couldn’t kill him. It fell to me. And I did it. I won. I think I won the fight, but it’s like I gained a fatal wound, in the process._

_I am ashamed of the crimes I have committed. But I don’t regret them. Shame and regret are two different things. I did what I had to do to survive. If I gave up now and let them kill me then all the pain I’ve caused and suffered would have been for nothing. That sounds selfish. I don’t expect anyone to understand that. You can’t understand, Fili. Not ever. There aren’t any words in language I know that can express this feeling in my chest, when I think about dying now. It’s not terror. It’s beyond it. I just – I can’t. I can’t even try._

_I know it must hurt to wonder how I could put my faith and trust in somebody who broke me down so completely and caused our family such awful hurt. It’s disgusting. It’s abhorrent. That’s what you must be thinking. Maybe you’re right. It’s so hard to explain how I feel about Azog now. I’m not even sure. I know I was duped into thinking that I was special. Maybe that’s how he got me. I never was much to Thorin or Balin or anybody else. I’d always been Just Kili, in your shadow and second-place. I was happy with that. I didn’t mind supporting you. I let you step on me to raise yourself higher because I thought that was what little brothers were supposed to do._

_Being ripped away from you was the most terrifying thing I have ever known. I felt like my skin had been torn off and I was bleeding to death. I don’t need to talk about how much it hurt and how much I missed you. I know you felt the same. But, I couldn’t keep bleeding forever. I had to be strong alone. Every moment became a complicated game. I had to figure out what to do and say to avoid a beating. I had to keep my head down but I had to make sure that the rest of the goblins didn’t walk all over me. And when Azog said things, that I was strong and smart, that I wasn’t useless, it was like a light going off. I felt happy. He seemed happy, and I just wanted that to keep going on. That was what mattered to me, just living without pain. It’s such a raw, animal feeling. I became a beast, forced to learn orders and beaten for disobedience. And every dog learns to love his master, even if they are so cruel to him. Azog was smart, Fili. He knew just how to bring me under his spell and make me his. And I was so desperate and lonely and in agony, I just didn’t know what else to do. _

_I didn’t turn at once. It was in small degrees, day by day until I realised that I hated Thorin, that I felt sick at the thought of going back. When I escaped from the goblins and rescued Legolas, I didn’t plan on returning. I planned on going with the only friend I had, an orc-healer, into the wildlands. The thought of going home was too frightening for me. But he convinced me to return home. He said I wasn’t as bad as I made myself out to be, that I would regret it for the rest of my life, if I didn’t._

_He was wrong. I think of the hurt I’ve caused, what I’ve done to Ori and you and those Lake-Town guards and I just feel sicker than ever. I didn’t want any of this to happen. It wasn’t supposed to go like this. We were supposed to be happy together. We were supposed to love each other and be Fili-and-Kili and face the world as one and nothing would ever touch us again. I thought for a long time about what changed things. I guess we both had to learn how to be apart and live alone, like a stone broken in half, and all those raw edges were weathered away and filed down. And when we came back together, there were gaps. We don’t fit anymore. It’s not all Thorin’s fault. He was an ass but I can’t blame him for what I did. I lied about what I’d done because I didn’t want to hurt you. I thought I could keep it a secret._

_And you lied to me._

_I know about the Ironfists, Fili. I know our father is from the east and he was a terrible person. Your secret conversation about what to do with me wasn’t so secret. Be careful about what you say. The servants are listening in on you. Alan the serving-boy especially – don’t trust him. The guards all know. Their captain knows. He mocked me with it. It hurts Fili. To have something uncovered by a stranger, and then to have it thrown in your face and used to hurt you by an enemy is agony. I can’t tell you how angry I am that this was kept from me. But at the same time, I combed through my mind, thinking about when we were dwarrows and I asked you about our father, thinking about how cold you turned, how you would get quiet and angry and tell me to go away, tell me that he was dead, or not say anything at all. And I wonder how I could have been so stupid for so long._

_But I know why you did it. It’s the same reason why I kept my treachery secret. Protection. We use secrets and lies like armour. We put it around ourselves and around the ones we love. We build up, and draw strength from them. We treat the truth as a weapon that could hurt us. But Fili, there are things we can’t hide from. We can’t hide from who we are, where we’ve come from, what we’ve done. It will always haunt us. And I am so sorry that it took all of this for me to see it. It has to stop. I’ve been honest here, I’ve told you how many people I’ve hurt in order to save myself. I wish you could have taken the chance to be honest with me, completely. Because now I will never know who our father was. I will never know what caused this darkness around him. I will never know why his name has vanished from our mother’s wrist._

_I can’t come back. You have to understand why. There’s no return for me. Not in Lake-Town, not in Erebor. Nowhere. The trail of blood I’ve left behind stretches for hundreds of miles. There’s no redemption for me. I’m innocent of one crime but I’m guilty of so many others that it’s meaningless. I didn’t hurt that girl, Bain and Ori can tell you that well enough, but I’ve already killed enough people to stain my name. _

_I need to figure out what life I can lead now. Alone. And no one, not you or Thorin or Ori or Dwalin or anybody can answer that for me. I broke my own destiny and now I have to fix it. I’m not being a coward by doing this. I promise you Fili, I’m not just running away. I’m going to face up to this, in my own way. I’m trying to be brave and strong. There has to be something else out there, something other than this. I can’t sit in a cell and wait for them to kill me. I can’t let that be the end, after all I’ve been through.  _

_I am so sorry that it had to end this way. I’m sorry that I won’t get to see you reclaim our home and stand at Thorin’s side with you, and watch you be a prince and a king. I’m sorry I won’t see you marry and have children and lead our people to greatness. I don’t want to leave you. I think of living without you and I feel as though I’m going to throw up all over the paper. But I have to do this. You need to forget me, Fili. You need to... ~~ish~~ damn I can’t remember the Khuzdul for it. What’s it called, when we strike someone’s name from all records and never speak of them again? I can’t remember._

_But you need to do that. You need to forget me. I can’t be a part of your life anymore. You have this amazing destiny laid out before you. I’m not bitter. Honestly, I’m not. You’re going to be the greatest king that Erebor, no, that Middle Earth, has ever seen. I know you are. You’ve been preparing for this your entire life and you are ready Fili. Not only are you perfect at everything you do, but you know when something is wrong and you want to fix it. You have the guts to stand up to Thorin and fight for things you love. But don’t fight for the wrong things. Don’t fight for me. Fight for Ori. Fight for the poor and the hungry and the people Thorin doesn’t seem to care about. Change things. Make them better._

_I promise you I’m not insane. In this moment, just now, my head feels clearer than it has in months. Getting this all out, it hurts so much but it’s a good hurt. Like digging out an arrowhead, or resetting a broken bone. Maybe now, I can heal. But I’m scared. I don’t want to leave you. Even though things went so wrong between us, thought of leaving you again, it paralyses me with fear. But being alone is better than being dead isn’t it? And I’m dead if I stay here. I know you’ll go on without me and be all right. Dwalin said you had done so well on your own. Just pretend I’m dead again, and it will all be fine. _

_There’s so much more I want to say. I could write for a hundred pages, but I have to stop. My hand aches and Bain is hurrying me up. I need to be gone before the sun rises._

_Tell Amad I’m sorry and I’ll always love her._

_Burn this and save yourself._

_I love you._

There was no signed name. There didn’t need to be. Fili read through the letter twice before letting the last sheet fall onto his chest. A choked sob battled the muscles in his throat, and he brought his hands up to his face.

He rushed with guilt. Guilt because he knew he _could have stopped this_. If Fili had just _listened_ to his brother, days and days ago, then he could have prevented this crash from happening. He could have steered it all off course and his brother would be here, beside him.

Fili pressed the letter close against his heart and breathed in deeply. He’d never burn this. His last fading link with his brother – he would _never_ let this fall into fire. The terror and pain kept beating in his throat and he knew he was so very close to breaking down.

He lifted the pillow after a time, taking the picture and unfolding it. He could almost see the lines of Kili’s face beneath that smudge of grey. Almost. Surely, Ori could draw over it, or even draw him a new picture entirely. Something to keep Fili sane. Something to hold on to.

His brother’s assertion that he would be all right, his begging for Fili to stay on that same path and tread it alone, to head on to Erebor alone and fulfil his destiny while he still could, it was a heavy blow in his heart. Fili felt in that morning light sick at the thought. He didn’t _want_ it. He didn’t want the gold or the power or the glory.

He just wanted Kili.

Thick fingers trembled, shuffling through the papers. He read the letter again and again, until he knew whole passages by heart and he could hear Kili’s voice reading it to him, clear as day in his head as though he was still sitting beside him.

But he looked up and there was only empty air.

* * *

Fili didn’t know how he managed to pull himself together in time. He dressed quickly, and combed and braided his hair in a dream, with the words of Kili’s letter still rolling about in his head like the glass marbles they used to play with as children, shuddering and bumping.

He hid the letter and the drawing inside the waistband of his trousers. The rooms could be searched. He couldn’t trust _anybody_ now. Every servant, every serving-boy and maid and kitchen-hand was an enemy to him. He kept his eyes down as he trailed through the luxurious apartment, quiet and cautious.

Thorin had summoned him. He had summoned them all for an early lunch, after giving himself several hours to agonise over what his nephew had done. Fili was one of the first in the room and he took a seat where he should at the long kitchen table, at Thorin’s right hand. The paper crinkled as he sat. His blue eyes settled on the scratched boards and when an empty plate was set before him, Fili didn’t look up.

There was a tear in his soul, right down the middle, and he was pulling and picking and toying with it. Fili didn’t _know_ what to do. Kili was still there, whispering in his ear, begging him to stay, to follow his destiny. To pretend his baby brother was dead. _How could he ever do that?_

He wondered if there would be any news yet. Surely if Kili had been found, he would have known about it by now. Thorin would have been told and Fili would be the first after him to hear it. His uncle wouldn’t keep him in this agony. He couldn’t. Thorin and Balin were in low conversation, little more than a buzz in Fili’s ear. He longed to brush the insects away.

There was the scraping of chairs, more soft talking. Everybody knew by now. Fili hated them all. It _wasn’t_ a source of gossip. This was _Kili_ , one of their own, a prince and their brother, who had been so badly let down, so desperate and frightened that he thought the only way out was to escape with the blood staining his fingers. A thrum of anger flushed in Fili’s chest.

“Now.” Fili lifted his head at Thorin’s voice. “I am sure you have all heard the news of... of Kili’s escape.” Dark blue eyes caught Ori, hunched over at the other end of the table. He remembered Kili’s plea. _Fight for Ori._ “I have been in talks with the captain of the guard, and agreed to give my full co-operation in this matter. If anybody has _any_ information regarding Kili’s escape, if they think they saw anything, they are to report to me _immediately,_ do you understand?”

A grunt of assent, low nods. Shuffling. Fili watched as Bilbo picked at his trousers, looking absolutely miserable. Fili stared at his uncle, feeling the flush of anger swell and take hold. His stupid, arrogant, ass of an uncle. He wanted to hit Thorin in front of everybody. _How can you betray your nephew like this_.

“Our welcome in Lake-Town is wearing thin.” There was a bitter, downwards twist in Thorin’s mouth. “We will leave at dawn tomorrow.” Fili stared back down at the tabletop. “You have this afternoon to gather supplies and settle affairs in the village. Dinner tonight will be a quiet affair in this room and everyone should turn in early and get plenty of rest.” Kili had robbed Thorin of his grand farewell, his hero’s blessing as he made the last step towards Erebor. Instead, they were slinking out the door before their hosts awoke, like unwelcome guests.

They finally ate. Conversation was muted, and nobody talked to Fili. Bilbo tried to give him a few encouraging smiles, but the blonde struggled to muster a response. The paper kept pressing into him, Kili kept whispering in his ear, and that tear down the middle grew bigger and bigger and threatened to split Fili in two, entirely.

Stay or go. Kili or his destiny. It was a stark choice, black-and-white before his eyes. There was nothing else to consider. Fili _ached_ for his brother, already. He could feel that emptiness in his chest as sharply as he did when he held Kili’s bloodstained cloak in that desecrated orc-camp. Lost, alone, as though someone had cut off his hands and ears, put out his eyes and cut out his tongue. He couldn’t be _alone_. He couldn’t bear that crushing fear, that monstrous burden on his shoulders that made him stumble and fall, again and again. He had to fight for Kili, he had to find him and hold him and tell him everything would be all right.

And...

And...

Fili stared into space, eyes unseeing. There was nothing before his vision. Only darkness, swirling before him. A yawning pit. A deep pool of black water. His brother had already fallen and he stood on the precipice with his hand stretched out, knowing the only way to grab hold was to fling himself into that blackness and search blindly until his fingers brushed hair and skin. A blackness filled with monsters too terrible to name, both real and imagined.

If Kili had asked him to follow, Fili would have left in a heartbeat. He would have severed every link he had with these people and _swam_ across the lake if he had to. But he didn’t. Kili didn’t want him anymore. He wanted to do on his own. He wanted to fight those monsters alone in that darkness, he wanted to find his own way into the light. He didn’t want Fili to follow him. It ate away at Fili, turned him brittle and hollow. There was a chain around his ankle – no, around his neck, like a noose – pulling him back, pulling them _apart_ and once it was broken it couldn’t ever, ever be reformed.

And Kili didn’t want that chain broken. Not for his sake. Fili was bound to that crown. They had spent their entire _lives_ in a cycle of shifting blame and burden. Kili took the guilt for _everything_ , broken plates and missing ale, empty beds, bruised skin. Kili draped himself over his brother’s body like a shield and let the blows fall on him. He was right – Fili _did_ step on him to make himself taller. He had always been second-best and unimportant. _Just Kili_.

Fili brushed at his eyes, hoping nobody saw him. He _never_ got to tell his brother that he wasn’t _Just Kili_ , he was braver and sweeter and strongerthan anyone Fili had ever known. Everyone might have thought Kili didn’t mean much. But he meant the world to Fili.

And now his world was gone. He saw what Kili wanted him to do. He wanted Fili to thumb his nose in Thorin’s face, take the crown and be the sort of king that would make sure this _never_ happened again. Fili closed his eyes and bent his head over his half-eaten food, lips barely moving in a silent promise.

_I’ll make a kingdom you can come back to, brother._

It was like a little thread of gold silk. It pulled those two halves of him back together, stitched them up and left a scar on his soul. It was clumsy and the pieces didn’t match up the way they should. But it was whole again. He didn’t have the same awful sharp breaking in his chest, just a dull ache. He looked up and saw Ori once more, picking at his food with his face turned away from everybody. Resolution clenched in a fist around his heart.

“Uncle.” Fili’s voice was very low. “May I speak to you, after we have finished?” Thorin’s eyes caught his, and very slowly he nodded.

Fili tried to gather the pieces of his thoughts together in those few minutes. He knew he couldn’t fail Ori on this. He had to defend his friend. For Kili’s sake, and his own. Ori was all he had left. The only one he could trust. The only one his own age, the only one who really knew the truth. He wouldn’t let Ori slip away. Not like his brother did. Because while Kili did do some awful things, Ori was _completely_ innocent. And to suffer the way Kili had, just for thinking and feeling, was nothing short of cruelty. It wasn’t justice.

They both sat in their chairs and waited for the servants to clear away the plates. Thorin leaned back and nodded at the young men, while Fili watched with gritted teeth. He couldn’t speak a word around these people. He wondered how much he had already let slip. Kili knew about his _father_ , because Fili was stupid and thoughtless. A half-truth that may never be fleshed out. He would never, ever forgive himself for that.

“What is it, Fili.” There was a low seriousness in Thorin’s voice. They locked eyes. Fili took in a breath, steeling himself before continuing.

“I want you to recant your banishment of Ori.” Fili lifted his head, voice strong and clear. Thorin froze. “With Kili gone, there’s no threat anymore. Ori can’t do anything to hurt either of them.”

Thorin growled. “Fili, it’s not that simple. We could keep it a secret before, with so few of us knowing – but the entire company, _everyone_ is aware-”

“Because you told them!” Fili cried out. “Because you threw Ori to the ground and called him names in front of a crowd. _You_ did this to him Thorin! _You_ paraded him about like some sort of freak!”

“He did this to _himself.”_ Thorin sounded unyielding. “I told him not to be alone with Kili. I told him not to _touch_ your brother or sit beside him and what to I find? The two of them, alone in a room, embracing like-”

“Like _friends!_ ” Fili thumped his fist on the table. “Thorin, they were just friends. Ori was trying to comfort Kili because he was _so_ scared and afraid. None of us listened to him, none of us realised how badly he was hurting. If Ori had the chance to be close to him from the start, then perhaps...”

“You cannot sway me by playing ‘what-if’, Fili.” Neither of them looked away. “Don’t think I have forgotten your outburst from last night. You’re not in control of yourself. How can I take you seriously if you refuse to listen to reason?”

“Forget about last night.” Fili swallowed. “Forget about Kili. Forget about you and me. Forget about all of that Thorin and _think_ about what it is you’re doing. If you send Ori out alone, he will _die._ Orcs or wargs or some other beasts, they will find him and he will be defenceless. It’s not justice, what you are doing. It’s cruel.” And then Thorin did look away, across the room at a hanging picture on the opposite wall. “You’re sentencing Ori to death.”

“I gave him a chance.” Thorin’s teeth were gritted. “A warning. And he _flouted_ it-”

“He flouted it for Kili.” Fili pressed his palms on the table. “I would have done the same thing – Mahal Thorin, I almost did last night, didn’t I? If that’s the punishment for disobeying your orders, then shouldn’t I suffer the same fate?”

“Don’t be ridiculous-”

“But because I’m a prince, I’m safe, right?” Fili reached out and took Thorin’s wrist, silently demanding his uncle look at him. “Because I’m your heir and you _need_ me, you let my disobedience slide. But because Ori’s _nothing_ , just the bastard son of a whore, you can do whatever you like and you know no one will stick up for him.” Fili kept his chin up high. “Well – you’re wrong. Because _I_ will stick up for him.” Thorin stared, eyes growing wide. “I won’t let you hurt him.”

“Fili,” His voice was _shaking_. “Don’t start with me-”

“Recant your banishment.” Fili rose to his feet. “I am asking you, as your nephew and heir, as a prince of Durin, to recant your banishment of Ori.” Thorin stared up at him, silent. “Show leniency. Show compassion. Can you stand to lose another member of the company after Kili?” He managed to keep his voice steady at his brother’s name. He didn’t know how he managed to do that.

Thorin rose to his feet. He didn’t face Fili, not yet. He turned to the fire, staring into the flames with his hands behind his back. He stared for a long time. Fili waited, with his heart thudding in his ears and hands balled into fists under his sleeves. When Thorin turned back, his mouth was pulled heavily downwards, a dark look in his eyes.

“Do you realise what you are doing, Fili?” He stared directly at him now. “Yes, sometimes things like this are... are put aside. People look the other way. But not for people like Ori. Not for bastard whoresons.”

“Ori is worth ten high-born nobles.” Fili refused to back down. “Are you asking if I would publicly support him, knowing that people would hate me for it?” Thorin didn’t move. “I would. I would stand by him no matter what. Because he deserves _nothing_ less, after what he tried to do for Kili. He deserves more than I can ever give him.”

“I will not reinstate his contract.” Thorin sounded bowed and defeated. Fili knew he had won. “He will never hold any sort of office. He will not enter any guild. He will not join court. If you agree to this, then I shall recant my banishment.”

Anger dampened Fili’s sense of victory. He was _furious_ at Thorin’s compromise. What life would Ori lead then? How could he ever make something of himself if he wasn’t allowed to earn an honest living, if he couldn’t join society properly? If they couldn’t even consider him a real _person?_ But he looked into his uncle’s eyes and knew there was no bargaining further. This was the best Ori was ever going to get.

“I agree.” Fili held out his hand for Thorin to shake. “I’m glad you saw the light in the end, Thorin.” But the darkness in Thorin’s eyes held no joy for the promise he had just made.

* * *

“What about socks, do you have spares?”

“Three pairs, good woollen ones. Should be enough.” Fili leaned in the doorway with his arms crossed, watching the little scene unfold. Ori sat on the edge of the bed with his head bent. Nori leaned against the fireplace, smoking his pipe while Dori ran back and forth, rifling through two heavy packs and tapping his chin in thought. “It’s the pipe-weed I’m worried about. I don’t know if I’ll have enough to The Wold.”

“Oh, hang your blasted pipe!” Dori stamped his foot. “What about food and blankets and weapons – you’re going _hundreds_ of miles before setting food in civilised land, without the dwarves to help you.”

“I’ve got plenty of all that, calm down brother.” Fili stepped into the room, the two looking up at the sound of his footsteps. “Oh, Fili. Come to say goodbye?”

“It’s a big early for that, isn’t it?” Fili shoved his hands in his pockets. “Ori is _that_ what you’re going to wear?” He eyed the heavy cloak and hood, the thick layers of clothing. “A bit much, isn’t it?”

“Not when you have the wildlands to contend with in winter.” Dori sounded gruff, aching to be polite. He still bore a very deep grudge.

“I’m sure we’ll all be cosy in the Lonely Mountain before the first bad storm hits.” The eldest dwarf cocked his head, thick brows knitted together. Ori’s head jerked up. “I spoke to Thorin, Ori. You’re not going anywher- _oof!”_ The wind was knocked out of him. A little auburn-haired flurry of thick wool rushed at him, Ori crashing full speed into Fili and gripping him in a breathless embrace.

“Oh Mahal, please tell me you’re serious.” Ori was trembling, not trusting himself to speak. Dori choked the words out, shaking his head. “ _How?”_

“Because I’m Thorin’s nephew.” Fili wrapped his arms loosely around Ori’s shaking frame. “I told him he can’t do this. And he listened.” He rested his chin on the mope of bowl-cut hair, feeling Ori’s sharp intakes of breath. He was so _small._ How could Thorin ever see him as any sort of threat? “Oh – it’s all right Ori.” He whispered. “It’s all right.”

Arms around his neck, Ori pressed his face into Fili’s collarbone, feeling hair slide along his wet cheeks. That horrible crushing fear had been torn away, a rotting, mouldy curtain that simply fell apart in Fili’s hands. His knees were weak and he didn’t know if it was laughter or sobs that made him shake so violently. Maybe it was both.

“Ori, you have to help me.” Fili’s breath was soft in his ear. Ori held his breath and fell still. “You’re the only one I can trust.” Ori nodded against Fili’s shoulder. “Please. I’ll protect you and you’ll help me. Together.”

“Together.” Ori whispered, gripping his wonderful, compassionate prince with all the strength he could muster, refusing to let go.


	66. Day and Night

When Kili reached the edge of the lake, he used a heavy rock to bash a hole in the rowboat. With the water at his knees, he pushed it out and watched it sink in the morning light.

There was a tiny settlement a quarter of a mile along the coast. Kili crept up carefully. Half-a-dozen small thatched huts, soft grass scattered with livestock. There were a number of fine looking horses that looked as though they were kept for the guards, a couple of donkeys, and a little rust-coloured pony corralled in a low wooden fence.

The morning was early, but the homes were far from still. Kili scooted around the closest cottage and waited for a brief moment of quiet. He stole a saddle and bridle from a dingy barn when the young lad dipped inside. Kili slipped the gate, leading the pony around to the blind side of the barn and saddling her before tearing back into the paddock, scattering the horses and letting them bolt. That would keep them occupied for a few hours at least.

And if the guards _were_ following him, they would have nothing to ride.

It was a chilly, clear morning. Kili forced the pony on until the homes were lost in the rolling grass, when the lake was nothing but a silver glimmer on the edge of his vision. And slowly, as the day wore on and the sun arced across a sea of endless blue, the grass beneath his feet turned grey, shrinking away to stone and naked dirt.

The desolation stood before him.

Kili gripped the reins tightly, staring out at the bewildering landscape. He had heard the lands surrounding the Lonely Mountain had been burned to ash, and nothing dared to grow in the waste. But it had always been a fairy story, a low hum in his ear. It didn’t seem _possible._ Not after everything he had seen – for all the violence and darkness in the wild, he couldn’t deny the life that sprung from the dirt and stretched into the sky. A wood was a wood, no matter what it held.

He looked at the broken, charred stump of a tree, fifteen feet to his right. His stomach tightened. Erebor stood before him, still fifty miles off but closer than ever. It was proud and tall, thrust into the sky. Standing before it, alone on his pony, Kili found it hard to breathe. He thought of the history that lay beneath the stone, the rivers of gold that spread through the rock, the wealth of a fabulous dynasty hiding untouched from sight. The homeland of his people. A home he had never known. It filled his vision, a jagged pillar of ice, snow and granite. And Kili began to panic, staring at the shell of Erebor. He would never know any of it. He would never see the halls that his uncle sang to him. He would never see those hopes and dreams come to fruition. He would never see his brother sit on that throne.

But he remembered, as that panic had welled up inside of him, a swelling tide threatening to overflow, of a grubby map he once held in his hands. He remembered that ship’s cabin, sitting at the table and running his fingers over the paper and examining the patterns of ink for what seemed like hours, until his eyes stung. He remembered looking at Erebor, that insignificant mark on the page, a tiny _afterthought_ , a little point drawn in ink that was less than a quarter-inch tall in a map two feet wide.

 _This world is so much bigger than they know._ Kili closed his eyes as cold breeze cut against his cheeks. It stretched beyond anything that they had ever known. Kili could travel for years, decades, without running out of strange land. It was a wide, open world that he walked upon. And it was all his.

Kili travelled towards the mountain, for now. But he didn’t look at it again.

* * *

Tauriel sat before the heavy desk on a low stool that had been fetched for her. She crossed her legs, one over the other, gently tapping her knee as she waited for whatever poor defence Gunnar could contrive.

But he remained silent, staring at her with hollow, shadowed eyes beneath a thickly bandaged head. He was guarded in anger, feeling it rise with every moment, every tap of her long bony fingers on the green fabric of her knee.

“I suppose you want an apology.” The tapping throbbed like a hammer in his brain and he couldn’t take it anymore. Gunnar sat up a little straighter, holding his head up high. “I suppose you want me to grovel for my failure and _beg_ for Thranduil to find forgiveness.”

She regarded him silently.

“You’re not getting it.” Her lip flickered faintly. “You should apologise to _me.”_ He rose to his feet, the hot fury in his heart getting the better of him. “Three of my guards are dead. One is gravely wounded.” He gripped the edge of his desk, leaning over it. “I _never_ would have agreed if I knew there was a risk, Tauriel. I _lied_ to me, you said he wasn’t a threat!”

“Honestly, a lone dwarf.” She merely sneered. “He shouldn’t have been a threat.” She could recall the little grey figure so clearly in her mind, lost and broken. But something began to gnaw away at the edge of her mind. Maybe the Kili that she had heard about, the ones the goblins told her, had come out again after his respite. “ _My_ scouts had no trouble in finding him.”

“I am telling you.” His voice lowered. “He is _dangerous._ ” Gunnar thought of his guards now, thirty remaining men who had ventured out on the water looking for a sign. In his rage, he had sent them out and told them to _find him_ at all costs. He had the horrible thought that bodies might be returned. “You are not taking him.” Tauriel froze. “He killed _three_ of my men. He will be brought to _justice_ for this!” His voice rose, fist crashing down on the table, as though a violent outburst would assuage his guilt. “I will not be your messenger-boy any longer Tauriel.”

“Don’t push yourself.” She rose to her feet, three inches taller than him in the dim, grubby room. “You will make an enemy of Thranduil. Is that what you wish to do Gunnar?” She scoured his grey eyes, searching.

“The way I see it, we both want him dead.” There was a heavy snarl on his face. “Should we not venture towards the same end?” Her own eyes narrowed. “I’ll need help finding him. You have hundreds of dedicated soldiers. They’ll catch up to him in no time on those wonderful horses of yours.” Gunnar sat back down, slowly, gesturing for the elf to do the same. “You can do what you wish with him... As long as my men and I are to watch.” It was a concession he realised he would have to make, staring into Tauriel’s brown eyes. He saw Thranduil’s stubborn obstinacy, reflected there and realised there was no prying Kili free from the elf-king’s grasp.

He stretched his hand out. “We’ll find the scum, Tauriel.” She still regarded him with a suspicious anger. But after a moment’s consideration, she took his hand and shook it.

“Together.” She repeated, her voice an unsure echo.

* * *

Thorin pitched camp in the shadow of Erebor. He sat with his back to the mountain, staring into the flames with hunched shoulders. His face was pale and drawn, and he didn’t speak to anyone. His tension was contagious – conversation was muffled and weak, with downcast eyes and sad little shrugs. Bilbo sat on one side of the exiled king, and Balin on the other, but neither of them deigned to speak. But when the hobbit reached out and squeezed Thorin’s wrist, Fili saw him relax visibly for a few moments, that stone-carved expression dissolving into a loose glimmer of a smile.

They felt cold, sitting with that awful mountain looming over them, the winter breeze an icy chill in the dark. Fili drew his furs over his shoulders and watched his uncle carefully. This was the final leg of their quest, the end of over a hundred years of exile. Home. But Fili didn't feel like he was close to home. He felt like he was further than he had ever been, and as he sat still in the shadow of the firelight, it kept drifting further and further all the time, and Fili didn't know which direction to even look.

Was Fili supposed to feel guilty? He knew he had to claim some responsibility for the way Thorin felt. He saw the way his uncle looked at him as they had left that morning, with his jaw tense and eyes burning blue fire. He felt betrayed. Fili had always – _always_ – been steady and smart and strong. He never acted out against Thorin, was never disobedient. He had always been perfect. Fili looked at him now, and knew that he was going over everything in his mind. Fili’s words, Kili’s bloodstained escape, the bitter memories sticking into him and clawing at his brain.

But Fili didn’t feel tense or strained or betrayed. He felt _freer_ than he could ever remember. He looked across the fire at the dwarf who refused to stare in his direction and felt those snares falling away. He had been blind, for _years_ , and it was only now, with everything stripped away and pulled out in the open, that he could set Thorin for who he really was. Stubborn. Prideful. Single-minded. And insecure. Frail, even. There was a small child nursed inside that armour of courage, something weak and defenceless. Fili ached with pity, looking at Thorin. It was that same brittle internal anxiety that he himself had kept secret for so very long, wrapped in layers of false conviction.

But the only difference was that Thorin could never go back. The hurt was too old, fading to a scar. He had never known that pure, judgeless love that Fili had. He didn’t have a Kili. His own brother had died, so horribly after a brief lifetime of anger and isolation. It was a piece of sharp metal that still stuck in Thorin’s heart, like a broken sword-point that still throbbed in pain long after the wound had closed over. Fili knew that of the two, right then and there, that he was the stronger.

Thorin took the first watch, knowing sleep was beyond him. They all bunked down for an uneasy night of slumber, staring up at the stars and whispering to each other, complaining about stones and twigs so sharp in their backs after the soft two weeks of feather beds and eiderdown blankets. Fili lay between Dwalin and an empty bed, turned on his side and staring at the cold furs. He waited until the whispers faded to snores and sighs before getting up, picking his way through the layered web of sleeping dwarves and to the hunched figure beside the fire.

“Evening, uncle.” Fili sat down close, their sides touching. Thorin looked at him briefly, a muscle tensing in his neck before he nodded, eyes back at the fire. Fili swallowed, realising that he was going to have to do the talking for the both of them.

“I know you’re upset with me.” Fili stared down at his hands, gleaming softly in the firelight. “I know that you think I betrayed you, with what I said.” Thorin kept his gaze fixed forward. “And – I am sorry. I’m sorry it came out like that. I was upset. Thorin – this is _so hard_ for me.” Fili balled his hands into fists. “He’s my _brother_ and he’s gone... I could have helped him, I could have saved him but I didn’t.” This wasn’t supposed to be an appeal for sympathy. It was supposed to be an apology. But once Fili started, he couldn’t stop. He knew that Kili had to leave. He knew there was nothing left for either of them together, that things had changed, their severed bond was beyond repair and they had their own paths to tread. But for all those noble thoughts, when Fili felt the paper crackled against his side, he felt nothing but pain and misery. He _never_ ever wanted this.

“You couldn’t save Kili.” Thorin’s weathered voice barely creaked over the flames. Fili held his breath. “He wasn’t your brother after Azog was through with him.” Fili bit down on his lip to hide the trembling. “He was a monster.”

“A monster.” He echoed, feeling sick. “Is... Is that what you think of him, now?” He turned to look at Thorin directly.

“A murderer and a monster.” Thorin repeated, his voice steadying. “You need to let go of the picture in your mind.” His eyes finally shifted from the fire. “He is not coming back. He has no place among our people.”

“If we found Kili,” The earth felt like it was rolling under his feet, in that awful realisation, “You would send him away. You would banish him.”

“He _is_ banished.” Thorin looked his remaining nephew in the eye. “For your mother’s sake, I will not make it formal. I won’t do to him what I did to your father. But he is not coming home. He is no son of Durin. I’m not giving you false hope, my nephew.” He reached out and squeezed Fili’s shoulder. He tried to be comforting. “Don’t think that you can find him and bring him back. You need to start thinking that you have no brother.”

“Are you going to tell her?” Fili whispered. “Are you going to look _Amad_ in the eye and tell her that you lost Kili? That he’s wandering and we don’t where?” Disgust writhed in his stomach. “Will you tell her how wounded and broken he was when we found him, how we couldn’t fix him?” Thorin’s eyes slowly widened. “Will you tell her how you searched for _two days_ and gave up without a body?”

“Will I take the blame for mistakes that we all made?” His grip on Fili wasn’t comforting now. It was hard and painful. “Even though it was Balin and Dwalin who first thought Kili dead? Even though it was _you_ who failed to heal his soul in Lake-Town?” He leaned in, voice very low. “Will I shield you from her anger when she learns what happened to her youngest son?” Fili couldn’t speak. He looked into Thorin’s eyes, the indescribable pain that was wrought in that cold blue. "Is that what you are asking?" Thorin would take the blame. Thorin _always_ took the blame, even when it wasn’t his fault. It always came back to him. Always.

“You’re the one saying he is banished.” Fili breathed. “I would never, _ever_ send Kili away. No matter what he did – no matter what crimes he committed, I would never _consider_ it.” He hung his head. “Thorin – my brother is _gone._ ” The last word came out in a ragged gasp of air. “I can’t – I can’t do this.” Thorin paused, watching as Fili started to slowly come undone. “I can’t forget him – I can’t _ever...”_

“Hush.” Guilt flooded him. Thorin released his tight gasp on Fili’s shoulder. He wound his arms around his nephew instead, pulling him in and crushing his face against his chest. “I’m sorry, Fili. We will get through this.” But Fili didn’t dissolve in Thorin’s arms, the way his uncle obviously wanted him to. He didn’t cry like a child. He was tense. His arms remained at his side. The tears remained unshed. It was a stiff, strained hug, and Thorin endured only a few moments of it before he let go and Fili pulled away.

“I should go back to bed.” Fili stood up slowly, keeping his hands balled in his sleeves. "Night, Thorin." He felt defeated. He had tried to open up to his uncle, make him _understand_ , and in return Thorin treated him like a child throwing a tantrum, holding him and saying it would be all right. Like a little dwarrow having a nightmare. Fili wanted to scream at him. This wasn't a nightmare - this was _real_ , Kili was really gone and he could see now that his uncle would never, ever have him back. Kili knew him best of all, it seemed. He anticipated this, he knew that after what he had done, he could never go home. Fili was the one nursing a stupid, failed hope. He saw the outline of Erebor against the stars and he started to feel very, very afraid.

If Thorin could be like this to his nephew, how would he treat his enemies?

Thorin only nodded silently, looking back at the fire with those dull, hollow eyes. "Good night, Fili.” There was a sense of loss as his nephew walked away from him, returning to his bed. He knew that there was something missing between them, something bent out of place. Their relationship had changed, with Kili’s bloodied departure. Fili was turning away from him and this time, Thorin wasn’t sure if there was anything he could do. This wasn’t like the anger-veiled grief that had consumed him in Mirkwood. This was something sharper. It was a painful, unsettling sensation that rested in his stomach.

He could only sit by the fire and wait for the light.


	67. Winter Sun

The weeks passed. The desolation faded and the grass began to grow again, soft and green beneath his feet. He walked beneath trees and through meadows. There was a watery sun that beat down on him. Then there was rain, cold and chilly that soaked Kili to the bone and left him shivering. Once, it snowed in little flurries that didn’t quite stick to the ground. He often woke with frost over his blanket and started to sleep with the waterproofed oilskin on the outside of his little bundle of a bed. He was heading further and further north, away from Erebor now. Towards a land completely unknown. Kili lost track of time. He couldn’t read the stars or trace the path of the moon, and the nights slipped through his fingers, falling unnoticed to the ground. It didn’t matter to him how much time had passed, not really. After all, he had a _lifetime_ of this wandering ahead of him – what was the use in worrying over a few dozen nights?

Kili lay awake often, watching those nameless stars and wondering what he really was going to do with himself. He ached with emptiness as he hurried across the wastelands between Mirkwood and Erebor. He knew he was still being pursued by the men of Lake-Town. He knew that Thranduil wasn’t going to let go of him yet. Sometimes he thought he could see glimpses of them, tiny dots on the horizon like ants against the distant sky. Kili wondered if he had made the right decision by heading north. He thought he was being clever, going in the direction they would not expect, but now he was half-convinced that this was the wrong way, that he would walk straight into some camp or outpost and he would be finished. But he couldn’t turn back now. He didn’t sleep more than a few hours before dawn, and when he did, it was fitful and restless, filled with memory-dreams that left him shaking and gasping for air.

He could feel himself growing thin again, as the precious few pounds he had gained in Lake-Town fell away. Bain had given him everything he could but his home never had the sort of food Kili needed for a long journey. He regretted not giving it more thought, now. He pushed himself to the limit, trying to cover thirty miles a day and walking half of it to spare the poor pony. There was still enough dwarf in him to endure the toil of marching.

But he grew weary. Kili trudged along, dragging his feet in the dirt, head bowed and grip slack on the reins. It wasn’t just the hunger or the tiredness that kept Kili so weathered and worn down. He felt _lost_. That initial burst of freedom which had been such a hot ember in his chest felt short of fuel. Kili hadn’t quite realised just how long and tiring this would be. This was better than whatever other awful fate that had been cooked up for him, and he had no regrets about what he had done. But he grew bitter with his lot, he cursed Thorin’s name in whispers and felt the despair start to nibble away at the edges of his soul.

He tried not to let that hope fade away – he tried to keep reminding himself that he was doing this for a reason. He couldn’t give up after so long, and let Azog win. He spoke to the pony in a low croak, telling her all about his journey, his childhood and about Fili, about Thorin, about _everything._ It hurt at first, to remember. But eventually, Kili could talk about his brother with a smile, and the pale winter sunshine felt a little warmer on his face as he relived those distant memories. It helped a lot, to think about his incorruptible brother. No matter what happened to _him,_ Fili was still there. Fili would always be there, rock-steady and grounded. Kili had nothing but love for him, even after all this time. He held on to that hope that Fili would break free of that awful spell that seemed to harden Thorin’s heart against him. He would.

He _had to._

He stopped the pony on the brink of dusk, let her nose about the thistles and brown grass that scattered the ground. Armed with a sharp stick, Kili lit a small fire for comfort and warmth, and to hopefully cook whatever he could find, foraging in the dirt. Sometimes there were thin, withered roots a foot below ground. Sometimes Kili had to hold his nose and gag on worms and beetles. _Anything_ was better than starving. 

But he was lucky tonight. _Maathbughnrakh_. Relief coursed through Kili’s veins when he saw the familiar leaves in the grey light; he sank to his knees and drove the stick into the ground, loosening the dirt and shoveling it out in handfuls. His hands closed around a tuber about half the size of his fist. Sweet potato. Kili dug around and found another, slightly smaller. The rest were simply white threads of roots and he left them. He rolled them in his trousers and scrubbed with a handful of grass in an effort to shake off the worst of the dirt, and let them fall into the embers, sparks flying.

Kili leaned against a large rock, with his knees drawn up and arms draped over them. He bent his head and started to draw loose shapes on the dirt with his stick, cheeks warming in the fire. Rusty – with her dark reddish-brown fur, how could he give her any other name? – kept close to the flames, an outline against the darkness, her nosing about a warm sound to Kili’s ears.

“Say, Rusty,” the pony didn’t lift her head of course, but Kili pretended she was listening. “I never told you about Fili’s fiftieth birthday, did I? I said I would yesterday, but then we got distracted trying to chase that rabbit.” He couldn’t catch it, either. By the time he’d gotten an arrow on the string, the creature had slipped back into his hole, out of sight. Kili’s mouth watered at the memory, and he shook his head. “Anyway – it was a special day. It was his first big birthday since he came back from the Iron Hills and Thorin was so proud. He held a feast and invited all of Ered Luin. It was a decent party, and everyone had a good time. I remember Bofur getting up and dancing on the table and so many others joined him. Even Thorin looked tempted.” Kili smiled at the fond memory eyes on the dirt but vision far away.

“But – I knew it wasn’t enough really. I could tell he was restraining himself around Thorin and Balin and _Amad._ I knew he wanted more. So the _next_ night, we got all the other youngsters together and went down to Lake Malaad with a barrel of mead. We carried it halfway before realising that we could roll it.” He chucked, drawling loops and curves in the dirt, waiting for his meagre dinner to cook. “So we did and it got away on us and almost went straight into the lake. But we set it up in the end and it was _so_ much fun. I had my fiddle and Gimli a drum and everybody sang all the bawdy songs we knew. Ori got so drunk that he couldn’t walk. He was convinced that somebody had poisoned him and he was going to die. We tried to be quiet at first but after a while, nobody cared. Fili was eyeing up some young lass and he finally got the nerve to ask for a dance. He was so happy, he could barely walk and he was slurring all of his words but she kept running her fingers through his hair and saying he was so handsome.” Kil kept tracing those wavy lines in the dirt.

“To be quite honest, there’s bits I don’t remember. I had to stop playing after a while, my hands were too clumsy. But people just kept singing all the same, and Gimli kept the beat. I remember a pretty young thing with dark hair. She had the nicest smile and her eyes were so green. Her jaw was square, and she had hair right down to her chin. I liked her. I asked her to dance but she just looked me up and down and scoffed that she made it a rule to only cosy up to dwarves with thicker beards than her.” Kili scoweld at the memory, grip tightening on the stick.

“I didn’t have _any_ yet. It came in so late, people used to joke that I must have had elf-blood in me, being so thin and beardless. It was only ever in fun, but Thorin used to get so angry whenever he heard it, he snarled at them for daring to question his sister’s honour. I tried to laugh along too, but it took a while. I always felt ashamed for it, but it was Aldin who told me that if I wanted to be a real, proper archer like him, I couldn’t keep a beard anyway. He warned me and said when I got it caught in the string, I’d be at it with a knife in seconds. It took me until I was sixty, but it happened in training once and he was _right._ Ooh, it hurt. I never had much of one, ‘cause it came in late and I kept it short anyway, Fili and I both did. I didn’t tell anyone, because I knew Thorin would go spare. I did it when the rest were out and I cut myself twice actually. Got too close to the skin.” Kili rubbed his face. “Thorin was _purple_ when he saw me. He grabbed my arms and shouted in my face but I explained that I caught my beard and it hurt, that I couldn’t be an archer with one. Fili backed me up and said it was ridiculous to sacrifice my fighting abilities for something cosmetic.” His scowl relaxed into a softened, sad smile, and Kili stared at the fire for a time, silent.

“Where was I?” He spoke up to the pony. She simply chewed on a mouthful of grass, completely ignorant to his words. She was stubborn and bad-tempered, and Kili sometimes found it hard to pretend that she was really listening. But he had to keep up the illusion. There was no one else to talk to, out here in the wild. He was completely alone without her. And Kili didn’t want to be alone with himself. He couldn’t stand it. “Oh yes – Lake Malaad. It was _wild_ all right. It went on for hours but Thorin eventually came with a few of the elders and broke it up. We tried to run away but of course Thorin knew exactly who everyone was. He asked who was responsible and I said it was me, it was all my idea and I led Fili down to the lake blindfolded. I don’t know if he believed it or not, looking back. He wanted to. He pretended to.” Kili shrugged. “It was only a month of the awful jobs in the stable and the forge. It was worth it. Fili told me the next day that he’d managed to get quite far along with Sígni. He thanked me for it.”

A little frown tugged at his brow. “He had _lots_ of girlfriends. He’d try to go into detail, but I always told him to shut up. It didn’t seem fair, y’know. He had all these girls hanging off him and no one seemed to really look at me, not like that. I asked a few of the lasses to dances and dinners, but they were never interested. It’s not like my being a prince meant much, with Fili next in line and with no money to our name. It was embarrassing, I won’t lie. And eventually I stopped trying. ‘Course, I found out not long ago that someone _did_ like me, in the end.” Kili bit his lip. He got forward on his knees, reaching out to poke at his baking potatoes.

“I wish I could have asked him _why_ me and not Fili or Gimli or someone who looked more like a proper dwarf. Maybe that’s what attracted him – ‘cause, well, it’s not _right_ is it, the way he feels.” He looked up at Rusty. Her tail swung as she ate, glinting red and gold in the firelight. “So he doesn’t feel right and I don’t _look_ right, and I guess it all worked out in his head.” His lower lip stuck out in a little pout. “I should be angry that it’s all I got... But I’m not. Does that make sense?” Kili tilted his head to one side. “I mean, I don’t like him like that of _course_ , but I think it’s... well, it’s sweet, that he felt like that. I’m just glad someone finally did.”

Kili leaned against the rock. He stretched his legs out, turning the stick over in his hands. His throat was starting to feel dry. He groped for his water-skin and took a long draught, making a face at the stale water. He was sure it tasted of ash. Kili swung his feet outwards so the sides touched the earth, staring at the baking potatoes through the flames. The dirt still clung to his fingers, in black ridges beneath his nails.

“I don’t know, Rusty.” He murmured. “I don’t know what I’m doing, where I’m going. I don’t know what’s north. I don’t know if there are even people up there. I’m just – wandering, I guess. Waiting for something to happen. There’s got to be something out there but I don’t know how to _find_ it. Maybe it will come to me.” Kili bit his lip. “What is there for a homeless orc-friend? What can I do – is there some way I can help people, knowing what I know? Maybe I could be some sort of spy. Maybe I could join an army. Fighting and killing is all I seem to be good at, now.” He drew his legs up and rested his chin on his knees, thinking. “People in stories, they wander all the time. Disgraced knights, exiled kings. And they always have adventures, they always wind up redeeming themselves and going home.”

Kili’s mouth drooped downwards. “But they’re just all stories. I don’t know how many of them are real. I don’t know if there is a going home. I don’t feel like one of those brave heroes. I don’t think people will tell stories about me. If they do, it’ll be whispered in secret, like they do about orcs. They’ll talk about Fili’s little brother, the one who was lost, then found, then lost again. The one who became an orc and murdered in cold blood.” He pressed his forehead against his knee, feeling his chest tighten. “My story can’t end there though. I can’t let it end there. There has to be more to it. It has to end with – with me _doing_ something _,_ something to make this better. Fighting back. Helping people. I-I don’t know what.”

He stopped talking then. Kili waited in silence for the sweet potatoes to finish cooking. He speared them with his stick, one-by-one, wiping away the worst of the ash and charcoal. He broke them apart, burning his fingers, steam furling in his face. He ate them quickly, holding his stomach afterwards as he struggled to digest the piping hot food. Then he tied Rusty to a tree-stump and bunked down for sleep, wrapped up in a lone blanket with Bain’s oilskin draped over him. He pillowed his head with his right arm, the left curled against his chest. The wound had healed, and he was slowly regaining his full strength. It ached badly when it rained and sometimes after he woke from a nightmare he could feel it throbbing again. But there were times when he could almost forget that it had been broken at all.

Kili lay facing the firelight. It was warm on his face, and he was glad of the light in this aching darkness. Erebor was now to his south, but a new mountain range began to crawl towards him on the northern horizon. The Grey Mountains. And he knew somewhere to the west lay the northern edges of Mirkwood. He _never_ wanted to be back in that awful forest again, if he could help it. There were too many terrible memories swirling around in his head.

Kili lay awake for a long time, ears attuned to the darkness. He heard every crackle, every snap of a twig and soft whisper of air. He was growing accustomed to the sounds; he had learned to distinguish between the wind, between small animals like rats and beetles and swooping owls, and the larger foxes and wildcats. He’d even chased off a wolf once, swinging his sword and shouting until it turned tail and fled. It was a cold, sleepless night for him then.

His own words began to join the chorus of nighttime sounds. His own story. Kili never regarded himself as a hero – it was the sort of thing more suited to Fili or Thorin. He didn’t think he had anything worth telling. But this – this went beyond anything anyone could have expected. And it wasn’t going to end here, and Kili knew it. He had to believe in himself now. Nobody else was going to do it. He couldn’t lean on anyone else. He only had himself to depend on, and so far, he was doing well. He was alive. He was free. He was finding his own food and making his own way and no one had tried to stop him yet. He had passed through the desolation of Smaug and now he walked on grass and heard the sounds of birds again. He was winning.

Kili went to sleep with a smile on his face.

* * *

Fili was staring at Erebor. He could hear cheering and crowing behind him. Someone pushed past, the light of his torch wavering dangerously in the breeze. The silhouettes of his friends were black against the gleaming gold. They climbed it like a mountain, skidding down and laughing as coins and jewels scattered across the stone.

Thorin stood beside him, his hand trembling on the torch. He couldn’t speak. Neither of them could. They just watched as the others whooped with joy, threw priceless gems at each other and tried on helms and armour wrought with gold. Fili stretched his hand out, searching in the firelight for his uncle. They locked fingers and held on tight to each other, staring outward with that same tentative hope and fear in twin blue eyes.

This was _it._ After months of travelling, after losing _everything_ that ever mattered to him, Fili was home. He had made it to the house of his ancestors and he stood before a dizzying pile of wealth, beyond anything he could have ever dreamed. Alone. No stories could have prepared him for this. It was _impossible._

And neither of them knew if it was theirs, yet. The dragon had disappeared, but no one could be sure that he had truly left. Why would he simply up and leave? What was it Bilbo did that disturbed him? He’d merely retreated back through the tunnel, white-faced and trembling, and mere minutes later they heard the beating of wings and a terrible roar...

Two days of smothering darkness was enough for Thorin. He had ushered them all along the tunnel, put Bilbo through first and then waited for the all clear before stepping into the vast treasure room. He had had enough of waiting. After the rowing along the River Running, the climbing along the foothills and scaling dangerous cliff-faces, of waiting, day after agonising day for _something_ to happen, sitting on that grassy doorstep, he had grown desperate. His face took on new angles and shadows, and Fili suspected that he wasn’t sleeping at night.

But it was all a blur for Fili, and he wasn’t sure if he wanted it to end. There was a note of finality in the old, stale air. They had reached the end of their journey – they were _here_ and this was as far as Fili was ever going to travel. Thorin would keep him here, that throne would keep him here. He knew, seeing that gleam in Thorin’s eye, that he would never leave this mountain again. He would defend his family’s gold-hoard with his life and not dare to entrust it to anybody else.

Save _him._ Fili closed his eyes against the glittering, the golden glow. His head hurt to look at it. He could feel the _cram_ in his gut painfully swirl around, gurgling and growling. He wanted to hold his stomach, but one hand gripped the torch, the other Thorin, and he couldn’t let either of them go. A whisper of something brushed the back of Fili’s neck and his eyes snapped open. But there was nothing there, just Thorin and the gold, and the rest of the company clambering about. There was nothing there.

He could tell quite immediately who had been here before, and who was exploring for the first time. Nori simply crouched at the edge of the room, his hands filled with diamonds and his shoulders hunched over, unable to speak. Dori sifted his fingers through the gold and held things out to his youngest brother, exclaiming over some the device on some little ring or trinket. Dwalin looked to be searching for something in particular, digging through the gold in handfuls, eyes darting about. Gloin had found a beautiful astrolabe, trying to polish it with his sleeve. Bifur sat on top of the tallest pile with his torch between his legs, playing with a little mechanical horse. Balin and Oin picked through things together and held out the odd cup and plate, smiling in remembrance. Bofur and Bilbo were talking together with their legs stretched across the treasure, quite ignoring it. Bilbo kept one hand in the deep pocket of his jacket, and he seemed distracted. Bombur lay down and complained that it was no good to them if they had nothing to eat.

“It’s magnificent, isn’t it my nephew?” Thorin finally spoke. Fili’s breath caught, and he could only nod. His hair shone gold in the firelight, a terrible, pale copy of the brilliance that surrounded them. “This will be yours. Every coin, every gem. All yours.”

“Not every bit of it.” Fili found his voice, correcting him. “A share.” He turned his face, watching Thorin’s face freeze up for a moment, and incline in a nod. “Although I s’pose I’ll get Kili’s, Ori’s, and yours, i-in the end.” He felt faint. “Four-fourteenths.” It was still wealth beyond comprehension. _How could it get this impossibly big?_ No one needed this much wealth. _No one._

“Four-fourteenths.” Thorin repeated. "For you Fili." Fili tried not to let Thorin's words get to him, but he surged with a flash of burning anger. Was Thorin expecting a _thank you_ for destroying Fili's life, for a gold-hoard he didn't even want anymore? "All of this - it's done for you." Fili wanted to believe it. Thorin stepped forward, still gripping his nephew by the hand. Fili followed obediently, lowering his eyes to the ground. But Thorin had to let go of him to bend down and examine the gold, grabbing a handful of rubies and letting them fall through his fingers. They fell to the ground and rolled away, like abandoned peas. Fili watched the discarded jewels tumble, stop against his feet and scatter into the darkness. He bent down and picked up a heavy cold coin, feeling the weight in his hand. It had to be an ounce. Sixteen to a pound. Thror’s face in profile looked stern. Khuzdul ringed the coin. It was almost two hundred years old. Fili turned it over. Durin’s device gleamed in the torchlight. He could feel his necklace, a poor little copy of this, fingernail-sized and tarnished from the road. Fili lowered his hand and let the coin fall.

 _Goldlust._ He remembered his father’s snarling curse now, low in his ear. Fili looked up at them all, at Durin’s Folk picking through the treasure, weighing up the gems and checking for quality before deeming them fit to take, filling their pockets until they bulged. The dwarves pulled on fine coats of mail over their ragged clothes, woven with mesh-fine steel and mithril, searching for axes and swords. A landslide of gold crashed against Fili’s feet and he stepped back, watching as feet and ankles were lost in the glittering brilliance.

There was no joy in Fili’s heart when he looked at this. There was the tiniest pull in his chest, a faint, aching longing to run his hands across the gold and roll around in it, but that was crushed with a heavy agony. He could see Thorin clearly, his hard jaw and downturned eyes, the tendons in his throat pulled tight and knuckles white around handfuls of diamonds. Fili’s hand clenched into a fist against his heart as he realised in a sick heartbeat that Thorin was already falling, so easily and gracelessly, as soon as he stepped into this room and looked upon his grandfather’s wealth.

“It’s really something, isn’t it?” Fili jumped at Ori’s voice. He turned to see his friend standing with his shoulders bowed, a sad little twist on his mouth. Unlike the others, he didn’t adorn himself with gems and glittering armour. He was still Ori, plain and ragged, his hair uncombed in a purple tunic too big for him. Fili’s heart ached.

“You’ll get something.” He promised. “Part of my share. You’ll have everything you need Ori, I promise you.” But Ori only shook his head, with that same sad smile fixed on his face.

“I don’t want gold and gems, Fili.” He whispered, knowing it was sacrilege to say it here. “I just want a nice home and a warm fire and lots of books and people to look me in the eye. I want my brothers safe and happy.”

“I don’t want this either.” Ori’s eyes widened at the blonde’s words. “I don’t.” He repeated. “I look at it all and I just feel sick.” He drew in a shuddering breath. “This... This is what I gave Kili up for.” His voice cracked. He kicked at the treasure around his feet, watching it fly briefly in the cave-air. His lip was trembling and he couldn’t look Ori quite in the eye. “I’m awful.”

“No, you’re not.” Ori pulled at his elbow, bringing him in. “Fili – you fought for him and you lost. But that doesn’t mean you’ll lose again.” His smile brightened. “You won for _me,_ didn’t you?”

“I don’t have a good feeling about this.” Fili whispered slowly, raising his gaze in small degrees. “Ori... That dragon isn’t dead. He’s not just going to fly away and leave this behind.” He watched Ori’s eyes darken. “And Thorin...” He trailed off, shaking his head. “I don’t know.”

“What don’t you know?” He leaned in, even further. “ _Tell me.”_

“When you take someone, who has lived almost their whole life in self-inflicted poverty, because they are worried that they will succumb to the same illness that claimed their ancestors, a-and you give them the biggest gold-hoard imaginable...” Fili licked his lips. “What do you think will happen?”

“He won’t get sick.” Ori whispered firmly. “He’s not Thror. It’s like you said, he’s been apart from this for so long – he’ll know how to fight this. He won’t lose his mind the way the old kings did.” They both looked at him now, hunched over at the top of the pile, studying a handful of gold with the lines etched deep into his face. His eyes were darker than Fili had _ever_ seen them.

“And if he does?” Fili turned back to look at Ori, head bent down in their secret conversation. Their eyes locked. Ori opened his mouth, but found he had no answer.


	68. Dragon's Flame

“Papa, can we have some of these for dinner?” Bain held his father’s hand as they strolled along the low boardwalk. It was a clear night, cool but not cold, the last night-market that would be held for the season and it bustled with activity. He had paused outside a roasting furnace, filled with the sound of hissing, spitting meat. “It looks _good.”_

“Pork or venison, my little lad?” The fat stall-owner leaned across the wooden bench, winking at the boy. “Out of the mutton I’m afraid, snapped up like a shot.” Bain chewed his lip and breathed in deeply.

“Um... I want...” Bard rifled around in his pocket for spare copper, heaving a dramatic sigh. “Papa can I have venison?”

“Well I can’t say no, can I?” Bard pressed four little coins on the bench. “Make it two.” They strolled lazily along the boardwalk, eating the roasted meat on thin skewers and burning their tongues. Bain finished his first and threw the stick away, staring down at the planks with his brows knitted in a frown. Bard licked his fingers and rested a hand on his shoulder.

“Still thinking about the dwarves?” Bain’s mop of curls shifted, and he looked up with an apologetic shrug and a half-smile. He nodded before lowering his eyes, staring down at his shoes. “Bain I told you, stop. There’s nothing that can be done now.”

“But he didn’t do anything.” Bard forced down a long sigh and tightened his grip on the boy’s shoulder. They approached the edge of the boardwalk and stared out together, at the black shadows against the stars on the edge of the horizon, the lake shimmering with moonlight. “He didn’t.”

“Enough.” Bard’s voice was hard. “I _told_ you, stop.” The venison writhed in Bain’s stomach. “I’m still furious that you were allowed to be alone with that–" He stopped himself. "Who knows what could have happened.” It was a rhetorical statement, and Bain knew to keep quiet. He’d seen enough of his father’s rage in the last few weeks, ever since his soft admission that he and Kili had been friends, good friends, and Bain _knew_ that there was no way Kili could have hurt that girl. But he was told to keep quiet, and keep quiet he did, with a sad little frown as whispers spread like wildfire through the town, as more and more men were armed and left the town until the entire guard had vanished, locked in a fruitless quest to seek vengeance on the one that had killed their brothers.

“Hey look, what’s that?” It was a little girl that spoke, a few feet to Bain’s right. “By the mountain!” Bain leaned across the railing, narrowed his eyes and squinted.

“It looks like gold.” He breathed. Bard stood stock-still, horror rolling over him in a paralysing wave. “Papa, what do you think it is?”

“It’s the dwarves!” Someone cried. “The rivers flow with gold, just as we sung!” A cheer erupted from the growing cluster of people. Bard’s eyes widened.

“That’s not gold.” It still far off in the distance, streaming like a molten river that charged inexorably. Bard’s knuckles whitened on the railing. “It’s fire, reflecting off the water!” He gripped Bain by the wrist, screaming. “Dragon’s flame!” A collective gasp leaked from those around him. “Smaug is coming!”

There was screaming, all around him. Bain pressed himself against his father’s side, wide eyes fixed on the gold spreading out at the edge of the lake. He could feel Bard shouting, the vibrations of his chest against his ear. Something about getting women and children onto the boats, and the taking up of arrows. There was a jerk at his elbow. Bain looked up, but his father had an iron grip on him, and would not let go.

“We cannot defend this place of wood and straw against the fire of Smaug!” He wondered who was listening to him, in the clamour. But it seemed then and there that there were pinched, white faces staring up at him. Bard got his feet on the first rung of the railing, his silhouette illuminated against a growing swell of fire-gold. “Those who cannot fight, take to the water! Get to shore and hide in the trees! Someone find the Master and get him to gather what men he can!” His voice scratched in his throat from the shouting, but it seemed like a muffled whisper against the ringing in his head.

A terrible roar filled the air, one that carved Bard’s wary plea into stone. There was a collective panic, boys were sent running through the streets, screaming into the night air. Crowds rushed to the boats in a disorganised panic, people fighting and pushing at each other and falling into the cold water.

It was into this chaos that Smaug arrived. There was another great roar, louder this time, drowning out everything but the sound of Bard’s heartbeat, throbbing madly in his ears. And with that roar, came fire. The heat of it was blistering; Bard crushed his son into his arms and turned his back to the flames as a human shield. He gasped for air, smoke filled their lungs and fogged their eyes. Through the fire, Bard looked up and caught a glimpse of his wings, black against the moonlight.

“Papa!” Bard gripped the boy by the elbow, leading him to the edge of the water. The flurry for boats had doubled as the town began to burn, and Bard found himself fighting through the press of bodies. He clung to his son, using elbows and feet and fists to break through to the air. There was no chance in getting down to the docks close to the water. They found themselves jammed up against another railing, creaking dangerously under the weight of dozens of bodies straining against the wood. Small boats bobbed along underneath, filled with women and children. They stretched their arms out, shouting. People were throwing themselves into the water, scrabbling for the boats, clinging to babies and small, screaming children. Even men had abandoned the town in their desperation. They were not fit for fighting. They were labourers, merchants, smiths.

“Jump!” Bard shouted in his son’s ear, gesturing wildly to the boats below. Bain looked up at him, his face shining white and gold all at once in the dual light. “Bain – get into the water!”

“Papa!”

“ _Jump!”_ There was a heave of the crowd, and they found themselves crushed against the wood, winded. “Get to safety!” He started to pull at the boy, trying to haul him over the edge. Bain worked stiffly, clinging to the railing and ducking his head as another jet of flame shot from Smaug as he circled the town a second time.

“Papa no!” Bain’s face was streaked and he was gasping. He tried to climb back over the railing, shaking in his intense fear. “Don’t leave me!” He reached out and grabbed the edge of Bard’s coat.

“Bain!” He used his firm voice, the one reserved for scolding. Bard pulled the hand free, shaking his head. “Get on the boats – _now!”_ He pushed his son; there was no other way for it. He wasn’t going to leave of his own accord. Bard leaned over and watched as his son fell screaming into the water, reaching out to him with wide brown eyes, terrified and incomprehensible. He fell amongst a number of others and emerged choking and sputtering. Bard didn’t look away until he saw a pair of women’s arms reach out and grab his son, dragging him into the boat, wet and protesting and struggling. Bain reached out with shaking hands and wild eyes, and Bard was sure he caught a thin cry of _Papa!_ above the shouting and sobbing and crackling of fire around him. Bard crushed a sweaty fist against his lips and flung his arm out, trying to tell himself that the sting in his eyes was from the acrid smoke.

He pulled back, threw himself into the crowd and tried to fit his way back through the narrow boardwalk, in the direction of his house. It was an autonomous decision, one that Bard hadn’t even realised he’d made until he had fought through the worst of the crowd and he pushed his way past stragglers, into the heart of the shifting flames. He looked up and saw those horrible leathery wings against the sky, the glittering diamonds of the dragon’s underbelly bursting out in dizzying glimpses as he arced over the devastation. Bard lowered his head and pushed on, breathing through his sleeve as the smoke burned his lungs.

His house wasn’t on fire, not yet. He slung the quiver across his back and reached for the bow, leaning against the wall, in a smooth, single motion. Bard ran out of his home without looking back, not even bothering to pick up a remaining trinket or token of remembrance. There was a heavy, leaden feeling in his stomach that there was no point in taking anything, that he wouldn’t live to see the dawn, wouldn’t live to look into his son’s eyes and hold him, one last time. The horror that he was leaving Bain an orphan licked at his insides, hotter than any dragon’s fire, and he paused for a moment, gritting his teeth in an attempt to head off the panic.

He lifted his head as another particularly loud screech filled the air. The very boards beneath his feet were disintegrating, burning to ash and cinders. Bard ran, arching his neck upwards in an effort to gauge a clear shot. He knew he could hit the dragon, even through the smoke and fire. Bard was a flawless shot. He ran until he found a stretch of boardwalk, surrounded on all sides by fire. If there was anybody else left on the burning city, the bowman couldn’t see them. It was eerily silent, apart from the hissing and roaring of the fire eating away at the bones of his town. He was alone on the charred wreck.

Bard drew the bowstring up to his ear and fired, aiming into that black shadow. Nothing. He shot again and again, firing four arrows before the dragon flew briefly out of sight. He kept his neck arched up to the sky, arrow nocked and waiting. Then the silent fire wasn’t silent anymore. There was a bird – _twittering_ – flying around him and chirping for all it was worth. A thrush. Bard lowered his head, watching as the little creature flew around him.

“Go _away!”_ He tried to swat the bird with his bow, shaking his head. Bard looked back up at the sky, kept his arrow nocked, and waited. The thrush flew away, and Bard didn’t see it again.

“Papa!” Bain kept screaming and screaming, reaching out as his father disappeared into the writhing press of people. Someone had grabbed his arms, pulling him back from the edge of the boat. “Papa _no!”_ A cold wind whipped up in short gusts, pressing his sodden clothes against his skin. Bain shivered, and there was someone peeling off his dripping coat, the soft hands of a woman, trying to stroke his hair and soothe him. “No – let me _go!”_ Bain gasped as he was crushed against her chest, trembling in a short-sleeved shirt. He breathed in, an alien smell of sweet herbs and tea beneath the thick haze of smoke.

“Papa.” Bain tried to push the woman away, but his hands were weak. “No... Papa where is he.” He heard a soft _hush_ a _there, there_ in his shoulder and _it will be all right._ He wanted to hit this woman and scream in her face, but his arms didn’t respond. He found himself leaning into her, choking on awful great sobs as they tore from his throat and crippled his chest. How could he do that – how could his father push him over the edge and _leave_ him? Bain tried to swallow back his tears. This couldn’t happen it couldn’t _he couldn’t be alone._ Bain held his breath, curling his fingers into a damp woollen shawl, but they burst out of him in the end.  

“Bain! Bain – _listen to me!”_ He lifted his head at the voice, lip trembling. The woman who held him was very still, and Bain heard an exclamation of surprise. The thrush perched on the edge of the boat, her speckled breast shining plainly in the firelight. Bain pulled himself free of the thick arms that bound him, gripping the edge of the boat and leaning in, wide-eyed. “Your father – he’s still alive, he’s trying to shoot down the dragon alone. The rest of the town has fled to the water. I tried to tell him but he’s not _listening_ to me. He can’t hear me. The left breast of Smaug is his only weak spot. Bard is firing blind, he can’t see it through the smoke.” Bail gasped. “You have to tell him Bain! You’re the only one who can hear me. If Smaug lives, he will raze the forests and burn you all alive.”

Bain nodded as the rest of the boat, bobbing dangerously low in the water under the cramped weight of women and children, stared dimly at him. The air was filled with sobs. Bain stood up, face pointed resolutely towards the burning town. But that resolution faltered within him for a heartsick moment, he heard a particularly loud _crack_ at the largest house, the one the Master called home, collapsed into the water with a roar and a shower of sparks. Smaug’s screech hit his ears, and Bain stared out at the countless boats on the water, full to bursting, the dark heads that bobbed in the moonlight, clinging to the side but not daring to climb aboard and force the overladen boats under. Bain lifted his chin, thinking in that moment about his father, shooting the last of his arrows blindly into the smoke and striking only scales and jewels, dying in vain, alone in the flames.

There was a sharp cry as Bain dove into the water, and the boat rocked dangerously. He gasped as the cold water stung, hundreds of needles prickling his skin. His arms cut through the water and his legs kicked out. Bain was a strong swimmer, just like all the children of Lake-Town. He had to be. The water grew warmer as he approached the wreckage of the burning town somehow, and when he opened his eyes underwater he saw only a golden blur, illuminating the deep, dark waters of Esgaroth. Bain gasped as his head broke above the surface. He clambered onto the dock, water squelching from his boots with every sticky step. He didn’t have time to stop and stare at the fire. He couldn’t. He had to do this – he had to save Lake-Town. He had to save Papa. _I can do this._ Bain swallowed. _I can be brave._

He ran up the sagging steps, the fire almost blistering-hot against his face. Bain looked up and watched as Smaug arced away across the water, in a long, lazy loop. The city was in ruins; almost every building was in flames. Soon he would grow bored of this, he would start on the boats and then they would be truly lost. Bain dipped his head and ran along the thin boardwalk, keeping his eyes peeled for any edge of moment.

“Papa!” He screamed at the top of his lungs, coughing on the smoke. “Pa-Papa! Where are you?” Bain dragged his wet hair out of his eyes, pausing for a moment, ears sharp. But he heard nothing above the cracks and pops of burning wood. Bain swallowed back the sour bile in his throat and kept running. “Papa!” His eyes were burning awfully, he was starting to feel dizzy from the smoke and the fire was so very hot, all around him, he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t see...

“Bain!” The child stopped short with a gasp that turned into a wracked cough. He saw an outline of his father through the cloud of smoke, a vague shape against the flames. “Bain _what are you doing!”_

“Papa!” Bain held his breath and pressed on, feeling the charred planks creak and crack beneath his weight. He staggered forward until he was close enough to see his father. “Papa! Smaug-”

“You should be on the boats!” Bard flung his bow to the ground and now he gripped Bain by the shoulders, shouting over the fire. “What are you _doing_ , you fool!”

“The dragon!” Bain pointed to the sky. “ _Listen_ , he has a hole in his armour! Aim for he left breast and you’ll bring him down! The thrush told me – she said-”

“The what-” Bard broke off as a mighty roar drowned out his shaking voice. Bain screamed and Bard turned to see the dragon coming back for one final pass over the town. He bent down and took his bow, reaching in his quiver to find that only one arrow remained. His Black Arrow. Bard nocked the arrow and drew it back to his ear, blinking away the sweat and holding his breath as he raised the bow to the sky, aiming for the left breast in the black outline of Smaug.

And he fired.

Bain held his hands over his ears as the death-screech filled the air. It rattled them both to the bone, shooting across the water for miles and miles, suspended in the winter night. A final jet of flame burst from Smaug’s nostrils as he fell, still screaming, wings folding up close to his body, limbs writhing in agony. Bard wrapped his arms around his son, shouted at him to hold his breath as he realised with a cold horror that Smaug was going to fall on the burning wreckage of the city, _right on top of them_.

Bard threw himself into the water, keeping his grip tight on his son and not letting go. With a muffled removed crash and a hot throb, Smaug and the charred remnants of Lake-Town fell into the water. There was a jolt, a brightness as fire met water for a brilliant moment, and Bard opened his eyes as the body in his hands was jerked free, out of sheer force. He caught Bain’s face, blurred under the water, a halo of dark curls weaving around his head. They reached out for each other, the current from the falling buildings, from Smaug’s not quite dead body, forcing them apart. Bard screamed out of instinct, swallowing warer, trying to kick out as the water forced him further and further away from his son. The water grew dark, the flamed extinguished, and he lost sight of the child.

Bain choked on the frozen water, kicking out his arms and legs. The swirling current of the falling dragon was sucking him under, and he couldn’t fight it. As the water darkened, Bain turned his face to what he thought was the surface, pulled deeper and deeper. But he saw what must have been the black limbs of Smaug, flailing in the water, either in a desperate attempt to reach the surface, a death-spasm, or the fluid motions of the water, Bain didn’t know. They were _so close_ , and Bain could feel himself being pulled down with the dragon, a chain around his ankle, dragging him to the bottom. He closed his eyes and tried to swim away. But then something happened – he didn’t know what it was at first. It was a burning flood of agony in every nerve-ending, every fibre of his body. Bain tried to scream and inhaled water.

 _Nothing_ had ever hurt as much as this. Bain couldn’t think, couldn’t move, couldn’t feel anything except a rolling wave of anguish, throbbing through his fingers and toes with every racing beat of his heart. His limbs had lost their strength, his lungs filled with that cold, black water. His head was swimming and even worse than the pain was a growing numbness that spread, overtaking that agony with a terrifying quickness. He was drowning, he was dying, he was going to die beneath the water, inches from Smaug’s dead grasp with the water around him...

Then there was a hand around his wrist. Bain was semi-conscious, too weak and fuzzy to even notice. The current was slowing, enough for his father to kick his legs against the rushing water and make his way upward. There was a silver glimmer above them.

His head throbbing and lungs feeling as though they were about to burst, Bard weakly thrust himself through the water. He hauled the still body of his son up, held him close as he kept his face towards the surface. The first breath of air was the most glorious thing he had ever felt. Bard gasped, breathing in the cold wind and the moonlight and the lingering traces of smoke. He felt the rush as air flowed through his blood, arms and legs tingling, fingers hypersensitive and throbbing at the touch. Bain’s head was on his shoulder, unmoving. Bard lifted his body away and angled his face into the moonlight, the heaving gasps of air falling silent in deadly terror.

“Bard.” He held out the limp body. “Son.” He pressed shaking fingers against Bain’s lips. The boy wasn’t breathing. “No!” With a cry, Bard paddled weakly to one of the remaining fragments of Lake-Town, five or six feet of still-attached planks floating on the water. He draped the child on the wood, legs dangling in the water, kneeling over him with a moan. “No – please.” Bard locked his fingers, resting them over Bain’s chest and pushing down hard, the way every man and woman in this water-top town knew how. “Please – please – please.” The makeshift craft bucked and swelled with the man’s desperate movements, water swirling around Bain’s shoulders. “Please...” Shaking madly, Bard pressed his lips over the child, trying to fill Bain’s lungs. “Don’t – Bain don’t do this.” He pressed his hands over Bain’s chest, watching in the moonlight as water gushed from his mouth with every sharp push. “C’mon – c’mon, son.” He tried another burst of air down Bain’s throat, screwing up his face. “Please...  please Bain.” He didn’t stop, pushing down on the boy’s chest and watching the water ooze from slack lips in a trickle. “ _No_ – Bain you’re not going.” He pushed down hard, vision blurring.

Bain coughed.

Bard held his breath and bent over the child, carefully turning him onto his side. He peeled the hair away from his son’s bone-white face and went to rub his hand soothingly across Bain’s back, when he cried out and shuddered against the wood, curling into a ball and pressing his face against the swaying wood. Bard drew back as he saw what had provoked Bain’s reaction, holding a hand over his mouth. There was a long scratch across his back, looking black in the moonlight. It went from shoulder-blade to hip, a deep mark that looked like it was made with a huge knife.

Or a talon. Bard let out a shaky breath, staring at the mark Smaug had made on his son. Bain was groaning, his breathing shallow and uneven, chest heaving and face contorted in pain. Bard shook his head slowly, his own finger hovered six inches from the awful wound. Bain finally opened his eyes, and Bard caught a slivered gleam in the pale light. He forced a smile on his face, blinking away the persistent stinging and holding out his hand. Weakly, Bain placed his own fingers in his father’s palm. He looked exhausted.  Bard cradled the shivering, half-drowned body close to him, the unsteady bit of wood four inches beneath the water. Bain rested his cheek against the leather of Bard’s coat, eyes half-lidded.

“It’s all right.” Bard chanced another short glimpse at the horrible wound, his skin crawling with the sight of it. Even though his skin was frozen, his stomach boiled with hot anger and fury, looking down and seeing what had happened to his little boy. He shifted his gaze out to the broken remnants of Lake-Town, little more than charred stumps and floating debris. The tiny crafts dotted about on the moonlit lake. The twinkling glimmers of firelight at the edge of the lake, as survivors crawled ashore and tried to warm their frozen limbs. Bard look at all of it, at the pieces of his life, everything he had ever known and loved, torn apart and plunged deep, deep into the lake.

Then, his gaze settled on the tiny black shadow of Erebor, the mountain that just before his son had been staring at with curious joy and wonder. The culprit.

A snarl spread across Bard’s blue-lipped face.


	69. Going Cold

He knew when he awoke that something was wrong. There was a heavy silence in the air, something low and hazy. He felt _alone,_ truly alone, for the first time since he’d first rowed away from the wooden town and left his brother behind. Kili cracked his eyes open, breathing heavily through the frosted air and propping himself up on one elbow. He saw in a heartbeat, jerking up with a cry and throwing aside the ragged layers of cloth.  

The tree-stump he had tied Rusty to was _empty._ Kili staggered on the ice-firm ground and sank to his knees beside his makeshift hitching-post, shaking his head. He’d tied her – he _had_ , he’d knotted it twice as he always did, making sure the rope was tight… 

“Damn you.” Betrayal surged in his veins and he clenched his hands into fists. “ _Damn_ you!” He stood up, kicking at the tree-stump. He didn’t give a thought to the immediate danger, not at first. He was angry that he’d been abandoned. “You stupid pony – how could you do this!” Kili was furious. He wasn’t going to cover half the distance without her. He didn’t have much of anything- 

The breath died in Kili’s throat and a horrible thought clenched in a fist of ice around his heart. No. no no no no _no_ _!_   

 _He’d left the pack tied to her saddle._  

He stood up on the tree-stump, hands shaking. He cupped his hands around his mouth, calling out. “Rusty!” Kili screamed into the cold winter air, lungs burning with the effort. “Come back – _Rusty!”_ It took a few moments for him to realise the sheer idiocy of what he was trying to do. The pony wasn’t going to come back at the sound of his voice. She wasn’t a warg. Kili sat back down on the stump, head in his hands. Already his stomach ached with hunger and he knew there was nothing he could do about it now. All he had were his weapons, a flintstone in his pocket, the oilskin cape, and the thin blanket. After a long, chilly silence, Kili stood up and crossed the little clearing to his things laid out before the fire. Stupid – _stupid_ he should have slept with his pack close. He’d always been wary of a quick getaway; in his eyes, leaving the pack securely fastened to his mount seemed like the most sensible thing to do. Kili raked his fingers through dark tangles, trying to calm himself down, keep his head clear. He couldn’t afford to collapse.

 _It’s all right._ He bent down. Kili fastened the cape and draped the weapons over his skinny frame. He rolled up the blanket and thrust it under one arm. He had his weapons – he had to be grateful for that. He could still shoot and hunt, he could crouch in the dusk and wait for a chance deer – there was a thick forest not ten miles ahead, the dark sort with old trees, and he was sure that there was something in there he could eat. He wasn’t going to lose his head. _I’ve been through worse than this._ Kili kicked the ashes, making sure the embers had well and truly died before turning his back to the pitiful campsite and making his way across the soft grass. He tried to keep the memory of the mutinous pony out of his head. He couldn’t think about her; a hot rage rose in his chest, sour in his throat and nose, when he did. He thought they were friends but she had _abandoned him._  

“We weren’t friends.” Kili whispered the words aloud. “Come on, Kili, you don’t have any friends out here.” His pinched face lifted to the sky, heavy and grey as stone. He felt emboldened with the whispered promise. “You don’t need them.” If he thought it hard enough, perhaps conviction would meld into truth.  

* * *

Smoke lingered in the air and stained the sky blood-red with the rising sun. The survivors sat in huddled clusters around tremulous fires, coats and jackets propped up on sticks to dry in the flames. Bard sat around one of those little fires with half-a-dozen others, his head bent and eyes half-lidded. Bain slept with his head in his father’s lap, Bard’s dried coat draped over him. His shirt had been torn up and turned into bandages, damp and smelly from the lake water. In a coarse shirt, Bard fought down the shivers, weaving his fingers through the child’s drying curls with a sagging face.

They spoke in whispers, craning their necks, pointing and nudging. Bard kept himself turned a little away from the others, arms protectively across his son. It had been a long, cold swim back to shore. Bard wanted to go alone and bring a boat back for Bain, but as he tried to leave, the boy gripped his wrist and cried, begging him to stay, not to leave him alone again. He tore planks with spongy hands and made paddles their makeshift boat, the both swaying and shivering on the charred wood. It was a long, unstable ride and by the time they made it to the bank, most of the town had settled into little clusters about the fire, looking lost and cold and hungry. Bard was able to slip into a circle peopled with strangers, hanging his things up to dry and trying to take care of Bain. When the woman at his left asked him how the poor wee lad hurt himself, Bard’s voice choked in his throat. He froze in silence for a few moments, and found himself mumbling that it had been an accident, he’d slipped and fallen on a nasty piece of broken wood. He didn’t quite know why.

Bard thought that the panic would fade in his chest, like a candle that reached the end of its wick. But it didn’t. It _grew_ , the longer he sat and thought about what had happened, what he had lost, what could have been. He couldn’t see the distant peak of Erebor or her foothills from this point, and Bard was glad. If it had been in his sight, he wouldn’t have torn his eyes away. Bain shivered and sobbed for a long time, half-conscious, blind and weak as a newborn kitten and his father was sick with helplessness. Bard kept patting him, stroking his hair and whispering against his curls that he was still here, rubbing the frozen flesh and promising that he would still be here when Bain went to sleep. Exhaustion won and a few hours before dawn, the wracked gasps smoothed into long, slow breaths.

He heard a lot. Nobody really slept in their shivering circles, beyond the occasional drowsy doze. People compared stories, pointed out friends and neighbours they knew. The Master was dead. His grand boat, stuffed with his servants and hangers-on had been one of the first to pull away from the dock, and Smaug had disintegrated it with a stray jet of flame. Bard couldn’t honestly say he was upset to hear that their leader was gone. He was a fool – an eloquent fool, but a fool all the same – and the less of his dirty secretaries and treasurers and tax collectors, the better. It was the servants he felt sorriest for, hunched over in the dirt. People whispered about how he must have died, that someone must have been brave enough to remain behind and fight back, while the town burned. Near dawn, Bard heard his own name in faint whispers and he looked away from the flames, keeping himself in shadow, thankful that he was around strangers who didn’t know his face.

Of course, it couldn’t last. He was revealed with the light. The dawn stained his face red and it was a passing neighbour who recognised him. “Bard!” Her gasp cut through the air and he winced, trying to cover his child’s ears. “You’re alive!”

Those awake began to mutter. Bard only nodded uncomfortably. “Yes.” He looked pointedly down at his sleeping son. “I’m alive.”

“How?” She approached him, eyes wide. “Nobody saw you leave – Alice said Bain was on a boat with her but he jumped off and went back to the town and...” She crouched and looked at him curiously. “How are you here?”

“We went down with Smaug.” Bard murmured stiffly. “Mabel, not now. Let my son rest.”  The woman settled on her knees, hands balled into fists on her lap. She still wore an apron, smudged and dirty and covered with soot.

“No one knows what to do.” Her skin was grey-stained at the hands. He wondered what she was doing when Smaug first approached the town. “The Master’s gone... Most of his people are missing and those that are here have been reduced to shivering cowards.” She lifted her eyes. “Bard – people are saying things about you.” Of course they would. “It was Ethel at first... She said that you’re Girion’s descendant.”

“That means nothing.” Bard’s lips barely moved. Mabel held her breath at the soft confession. “The kingdom of Dale was burned to ashes over a century ago.” He finally looked away from Bain and into her eyes. “What do you want Mabel?”

“We’re scared, Bard.” She wrung her grey hands. “No one knows where to turn. We have no guard, they’re all out in the wildlands, no one to defend us, no help, no aid, no leader...” She leaned in. “You were the only one brave enough to stay behind and fight.” She whispered. “Girion’s descendant or not, that counts for _something._ ” That was a lie. He wasn’t the only one. Bard’s eyes flickered down at the sleeping boy in his lap, bony fist curled around his father’s hand like a sleeping babe.

He just felt tired. All of this felt beyond anything he could possibly do. It was ridiculous – to suggest that he could step in to shoes that were dusty and rotting with age, to retread an overgrown path and expect a crowd of lost folk to follow him. He couldn’t comprehend it. Bard had never entertained those illusions of greatness the way his father and grandfather had. Generation after generation, the memories of Dale grew fainter and fainter until Bard had refused to recognise them at all. They were shadows – less than shadows. No louder than a breathy whisper, only heard in the still darkness of total night.

Bain’s eyelids twitched in his sleep, hand tensing around his father for a brief moment. Bard squeezed back carefully. As he watched his son sleep, he filed through the memories of that burning night. And one – or a small collection – stuck out and made it hard for him to even breathe.

The thrush flitting around his head, the desperate birdsong that he could not understand. And Bain – Bain coming back and telling him of the dragon’s only weakness. He had sworn that it was the thrush that told him, that same bird that wouldn’t leave him alone. He thought it was a child’s game, imagination that had gone too far, whenever he saw the boy murmuring to the little birds, feeding them on the windowsill with crumbs of bread or listening intently as they twittered, perched on his finger. He told Bain to stop playing, to grow up. Bard stared down at the boy now, guilt rushing through him.

Had he ever heard? Bard tried to remember being a little boy, if there was anything his father had told him about the birds. But Bard was so young when he died; it was all a hazy memory of blurry faces and garbled words. Maybe he had. Maybe his mother, not knowing, thought it was some sort of child’s game and snapped at him to stop. Maybe Bard though, growing a little older, that there was something _wrong_ with him and he forced himself to stop listening. He’d never know now.

_If he’d listened, Bain would never have been hurt._

Carefully, Bard shifted the mop of brown curls out of his lap and rose to his feet. Mabel stood up slowly, eyes fixed in the bloodied light. They all looked at him now – faces upturned, desperate, wondering, _hoping_ for something.

“The way I see it, we have two paths to tread.” He spoke slowly, picking his way closer to the fire. The murmur of conversation died down. “Smaug is dead, slain by my hand – and if he has left the mountain it can be assumed that Thorin Oakenshield and his companions are dead as well.” He’d heard enough cursing of the dwarves in the night. They all wished it was so. “There is a gold-hoard far greater than we could ever imagine, buried beneath that stone.” As he spoke, Bard felt disconnected from his words. It was as though a war had been waging inside of him, one that reached a final battle last night. Pride and humility, destiny and free will. Bard felt oddly defeated, and he wasn’t quite sure why. “Enough to restore Lake-Town to her former greatness, and beyond.” He licked his lips. “The Master is dead – him and his ilk will no longer rule the town with greedy hands and wicked eyes. This is a chance – we can make something _new_ , something our children could be proud of.” He sounded hot and impassioned. Bard tried to combat the burning guilt in his stomach. He’d been running from his destiny his entire life – and now it seemed, there was a cliff, he turned and stared it in the face. “We need to go and make our claim before anyone else does.” The eyes on him gleamed in the dawn. “We need to contact Thranduil, for aid and soldiers. We can’t sit in the dirt and wait to die.”

There was a breakout of voices, the odd cheer of assent. More than one person called out _King Bard_ and it made the colour rise on his cheeks. He tried to open his heart to that glory and joy he knew he should feel, that pleasure in giving orders and hearing people call out his name.

But Bard just felt cold.

* * *

Fili leaned against the stone with his face turned towards the South. He rested his chin on folded arms, watching the sun break over the horizon through a thick red haze. He felt weighed down, heavy in his watchman’s position. The mithril coat of mail was finely-woven, reaching his wrists and knees. Thorin said it was belonged to his brother, a dim look in his eyes as he held it out to the blonde. He couldn’t wish for a better make, and it was as good as new. Thorin couldn’t remember Frerin ever wearing it, so there was little sentimental value there. Still, when Fili stripped away his outer layers and pulled it on, Thorin turned away for a long moment, hiding his face in the shadows.

It was still a mystery, how cloth could be so well-kept after a hundred years. Thorin found a stone chest filled with his old things, spared from moths and rot. There was a lingering smell and the fabric felt as though it could tear with a slight pull, but Thorin insisted that Fili wear them, rather than the coarse, ill-fittings things given to them by the men of Lake-town. Fili felt like some sort of dressed-up doll, forced into mail and new gloves and boots, draped in new dual swords and knives. Thorin even hung a gold chain around Fili’s neck, the heavy pendant stamped with Durin’s device and studded with rubies. He was a warrior-prince, armed for battle and dripping with the wealth of Erebor, all at once.

They readied themselves for the unknown. Pockets were stuffed with gems and jewels, packs filled with as much wealth as they dared. Fili crouched over the treasure and took nothing at first. He was weighed down enough. He sifted through the coins idly when a piece caught his eye. It was gold, the same size and thickness as the rest – but his was stamped with a different device. A heavy-browed, angular face with dark-looking features and a longish nose. Fili read the edges of the coin, holding it up to the torchlight. GIRION LORD OF DALE. He bit his lip and turned it over. The back was stamped only with a bird, wings stretched out and a spotted breast. A thrush. He put the single coin in his pocket and turned away.

“Good morning, my nephew.” Fili looked to the side, jerked out of the memory as Thorin stepped into the light. He was smiling. It was rare to see a smile on Thorin’s face now, and it left a strange feeling in the pit of Fili’s stomach. He felt mistrusting. “I trust you saw nothing on your watch?”

“I would have woken you if I had.” Ravenhill was the perfect place for them all, with a near-complete view of the entire landscape. The only thing they couldn’t see was the northern horizon, but that didn’t seem to matter to Thorin. There was nothing up there, he had said. Only wastelands. “The sky looks strange. What if it’s smoke-cloud?” Thorin leaned against the stone beside him, hands clasped in his gloves. Fili watched him, the blue in his eyes very sharp against the dawn light. Everything else on the both of them was red and purple and mithril and gold. Neither of them could wear blue again. They wore warm colours, like the blood and organs of bodies. Fili shuffled a little and felt the press of paper against his skin beneath the layers of mail and fabric.

“It’s possible.” Thorin continued to stare outwards. “However, the skies would often run blood-red in the dawn in these parts. Perhaps we should have taken it as an omen.” Fili leaned on one elbow, watching him. The single gold coin felt like it was burning through his pocket, burning a hole into his skull. He had to know.

“Uncle,” He reached forward, taking Thorin’s gloved wrist. “The gold in there – the treasure, is it all ours?”

“Of course it’s all ours.” A frown marked his brow. “What do you mean? Who else could it belong to?”

“Well – what about Dale?” He put his other hand in his pocket, thinking to show Thorin. “We passed through the city and it’s a barren ruin. The way you and Balin spoke of it, I thought it would be teeming with wealth. Is it possible that Smaug somehow stole it away and hoarded it in the mountain, with the rest? He cleared out Erebor – why not Dale too?”

Thorin turned back to the horizon, his nose twitching in a snarl. Fili dropped the coin in his pocket, and withdrew. “Even if that is true – and we have no proof,” He spoke with a cool, detached deliberateness. “Girion and his people are long dead. Even their ancestors would have little memory. The lives of men are short, Fili.” He clapped Fili’s shoulder, that snarl smoothing into another smile. “Don’t be glum. This is a time for joy, Fili. Everything – _everything_ we have worked for, nearly a century of sweat and toil, it has come to pass.” He took both of Fili’s shoulders now, leaning in close. “Look at you.” His eyes gleamed, scanning Fili’s robes and mail. “You’re the prince you were always destined to be.” Fili’s smile was weak and shaky in return. “Fili – do not worry.” Their foreheads were close. Thorin cupped the back of his head with gloved hands, gold spilling over his fingers. “Erebor is ours. We’ve _won._ We’ve beaten Dain and the Ironfists.”

“Do you think this is winning?” Fili’s voice was a trembling whisper. Thorin paused. “What will we do if Smaug returns? What if Thranduil decides to take a share of the treasure and there are a thousand soldiers on our doorstep? What if my grandfather shows up with an army to finally take me away? What then, Thorin?”

“It’s not going to happen.” Thorin had the most uncanny ability to ignore the truth when he wanted to. Fili didn’t know if was some sort of defense mechanism, a downside to his stubborn pride, or a genuine belief in himself. He believed for sixty years that he was beyond law and contract, and looking at him now, Fili could see that he still held that unwavering faith, stronger than ever. “I have promised you, every day since I first held you in my arms, that I would protect you. Haven’t I done that, Fili?”

“You can’t be serious.” Fili’s eyes widened. “Do you think you’ve succeeded? How can you say that – wh-when _Kili-”_

“I told you not to speak of him.” Thorin’s voice darkened. The gleam in his eyes was gone, plunged into heavy shadow. “I will admit my failure. What happened to him – it is all of us, who are responsible, yes, but Kili most of all. He sealed his own fate, with the crimes he committed.”

Fili licked his lips. “Crimes – the crime of wanting to be alive?” Thorin fixed a deep stare on him. “Look – I know what he’s done... The killing, it’s awful.” It left a sick feeling in his stomach, to think on it. _Forty people._ “I’m not saying it’s right – I know it’s wrong. But if you tried to put yourself in his position, being lost and alone and thinking you were about to die... wouldn’t you do the same?”

“I’m not indulging your rationale.” Thorin turned away from him, nose pointed towards the sunrise. “I tried to show mercy, I tried to help and he threw everything back in my face.” He rested his hands on the stone. “There is nothing left of your brother Fili. How many times do I need to say this to you?”

“You’re wrong.” Fili reached inside his shirt. He had to do it – he had to make Thorin understand that he was wrong. He had to show him that Kili was still _alive_ , that he was still Kili and that they could still save him, even if he didn’t want to be saved. “He is – he _is.”_ He held out the letter, breathing heavily. “Read this.”

Thorin stared at the paper, frowning. “Fili, what is this?”

“Read it.” He waved the paper. Thorin took it carefully. “This is the life you condemned.” Their eyes met, two shades of blue, bright and dark. Thorin swallowed, a muscle tensing in his throat as he slowly unfolded the paper and began to read. Fili watched him with hands at his sides, studying those bright blue eyes as they slid across the page, widened in shock or narrowed in anger, soften for a brief moment and then harden into ice. There was a line in his forehead, between his brows, deepening with every passing second. Fili realised what was happening with a heartsick lurch, biting hard on his lower lip. Thorin was growing enraged.

“Uncle—” Thorin silenced him with a simple, upwards flick of his eyes. Fili stepped back, pressed against the stone with his hands starting to sweat inside the leather. He didn’t understand. _Why did Thorin look so angry?_ Thorin didn’t read the last page. He folded it all up and slapped it lightly against his palm, turning the yellowed paper over and over in his hands.

“When did you get this.” Thorin’s voice was very low. A jolt of fear struck Fili, and as he opened his mouth he found his voice stuck in his throat. He coughed, pausing for a moment before trying once more to speak.

“The morning we lost him.” Thorin lifted his chin, the lines somehow deepening on his face as the red light started to turn slowly into gold.

“Who gave this to you?” He held it between forefinger and thumb. Fili reached out to take the letter but Thorin drew his hand back, eyes never leaving his nephew for a moment. “Fili, who gave this to you?”

“No one.” Fili lied, remembering the tame thrush on his windowsill. He felt the press of the coin in his pocket, and somewhere in the back of his mind a connection was made, one made him pause for a brief heartbeat, eyes widened and nostrils flare in a nearly imperceptible moment of shock. He found his voice. “I found it on my windowsill, underneath a heavy rock. Someone had left it there for me.”

“Someone.” Thorin repeated. “Was this before or after you told the captain of the guard that you hadn’t heard a thing about Kili?”

“After – after I swear.” Fili stepped towards his uncle, hand outstretched once more. Thorin stepped back, keeping the letter out of the blonde’s reach. “Thorin – can I have it back?”

“Do you think that this absolves him?” He held the letter up. Fili’s hand dropped, confusion marking his face. “Do you think this _confession_ somehow excuses what he has done?”

“Did you miss part of it?” Fili’s voice was on the verge of trembling. “He explains everything – he’s sorry about what he’s done and he knows it’s awful but he explains everything—”

“Oh, he’s _sorry_ is he?” The letter creased as Thorin clenched his hand into a fist. “Do you think this appeal for forgiveness with sway me Fili? Do you think it can even _begin_ to undo the damage he has caused to us? To you?”

“What damage?” Fili’s heart started to beat, very fast. “Thorin he is _sorry_ and I know if we gave him another chance—”

“He has _humiliated_ us.” Fili took a step back from his uncle. “What will the other kings say, Fili, when they learn of your brother the orc-friend? Don’t you understand the only way to save yourself is to remain distant? You cannot be his ally! Condemnation will keep your name untarnished but kinship will spell ruin for you.”

“Oh _hang_ the other kings!” Fili’s voice rose in retaliation. He couldn’t do it anymore – he was _furious_ at Thorin. How could he still do this – how could he have that same cold look in his eyes after reading that letter, Kili’s soul bleeding so plainly on the page? How could he be so heartless? “Why are you doing this? What has he done to hurt so badly you can never forgive him Thorin? Why are you acting as though he’s an enemy?”

“What has he done to hurt me?” Fili gasped as Thorin grabbed the front of his velvet shirt, pulling him in close. “He _betrayed_ me. After everything I’ve done for him, he betrayed me and put his trust, his faith, in that monster who destroyed _everything_ I loved!” He pushed Fili away, the younger reeling back against the stone, mouth half-open. “This?” He held up the letter. “This doesn’t begin to explain what he has done.” He unfolded the letter, shuffling through the pages with shaking hands. “‘I know it must hurt to wonder how I could put my faith and trust in somebody who broke me down so completely and caused our family such awful hurt’.” He read aloud. “‘It’s disgusting. It’s abhorrent. That’s what you must be thinking’.”

“He _killed_ Azog, Thorin!” Fili broke in as his uncle paused to take a breath. “Of course he’s on our side – Kili _hated_ him, he killed him!”

“‘It’s so hard to explain how I feel about Azog now’.” Thorin’s voice was toneless.  He skipped a few lines. “‘Every dog learns to love his master, even if they are so cruel to him’.” He looked over the page. “There is nothing in here about hatred, Fili.”

“Yes – he said at the beginning, let me show you—” Thorin turned back to the first page, stone faced as he snatched the paper away from Fili’s reach.

“This part? ‘Even though we were close, Azog was nothing to me in comparison to you’.” His point made, Thorin refolded the letter. “He never hated Azog. He would have remained his ally if he could. That is how he hurt me Fili.” His voice wasn’t flat and lifeless now. It was almost trembling. “I will never forgive him for this, until my dying breath.”

“It wasn’t his fault.” Incensed, Fili rushed at Thorin, trying to wrench the letter free. “Give it – let me show you, he explains it all!”

“Get off me!” Thorin’s voice carried into the alcove where the rest gathered. “Fili _control yourself_!”

“It’s right here!” Fili managed to grab a corner of the letter, panic growing. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go, not at all. “Why aren’t you listening!”

“You are not listening!” They paused, gripping the letter, folded in half. “We are so close – we cannot lose everything!” Fili’s lungs heaved in a short gasp as the words broke from Thorin’s mouth. Realisation throbbed, hot and painful in his gut.

“You don’t care about Kili.” He whispered. “Even the mess with Azog – that’s not what really hurts you. It’s the fear that he’ll bring shame on us. You don’t care about him – you care about what he can do to us!”

“Let go of the letter Fili.” Thorin’s eyes were burning in the dawn. Fili shook his head, mouth slack in horror. “How dare you speak to me like that.” That brief flash of defiance cracked, the stone facade crumbling away. “Let it go.” He pulled. “Let it go or I will rip it in half.”

“No – don’t ruin it.”  Fili begged, releasing his hold. “Please it’s all I have of him.” Thorin turned the letter over in both hands. “I won’t talk about him again Thorin, I promise.” He looked into Thorin’s eyes, found them empty. “ _Please_.”

Thorin gripped the letter in his hand, Kili’s last desperate cry for help. His confession that once sealed everything that Thorin knew and brought a whole slew of different fears into his head. He had always known from the way that Kili spoke about him, that the relationship he had with Azog ran deeper than he would ever freely admit. He knew that there was still something there, that his heart had been won over by his sharpest enemy. He had made enemies of Thranduil and Lake-Town and there was no going back, not for any of them now. He thought it had been dealt with – he thought the matter had been put to rest weeks ago when he and Fili sat together under the shadow of Erebor. But no, all this time, Fili had kept this letter a secret. Proof that they were in some sort of secret alliance, that Fili not only forgave his brother for what he had done but actively wanted to save him. He still had that stupid, ridiculous hope that there was some way for Kili to come back.

He turned away from Fili, crossing the little hilltop lookout and stepping inside. His nephew followed, apologies stumbling out of his mouth and hands still stretched out, wordlessly begging. The others were gathered in a side-room to the guards’ hall, stretched out in a circle, or leaning against the wall, or gathered around a rusty little stove that Gloin had managed to get working. They’d splintered the uncharred benches with their axes and made a generous helping of firewood. The room was warm against the cold, and Thorin stared at the furnace now, holding that letter tight in his hand. Kili was not coming back.

“No!” As Thorin marched towards the stove, Fili realised what he was going to do. “No – _please!_ ” The others all stopped, looked up and drew back at the awful scene. Gloin had the sense to grab Fili by the wrist, to try and hold him back as Thorin wrenched open the little iron door. “Thorin don’t!” Fili burst free and staggered across the room as Thorin threw the letter on the fire, slamming the rusted iron close, hinges squeaking. “ _NO!_ ” He sobbed, eyes wild as Kili’s words burned down to ashes. He lunged at Thorin, falling into an iron grip. Thorin held him tight, grabbing the neck of his clothes. Fili tried to push him away, nails grating uselessly against mail and fabric.

“Listen to me – _Listen_ to me, Fili!” Thorin’s voice was a low growl, but everyone in the room heard it, breath held and hearts pounding. “He is not coming back. Not ever, do you understand? No false hope. No _fantasies_ of saving him. Your brother is dead to every single one of us.” Fili was breathing heavily, hands now limp at his sides. “His name is poison.” He looked over his shoulder at the rest of the company. “That goes for everyone.” His voice rose. “Kili’s name is never to be uttered in these walls, am I clear?” Fili screwed up his eyes, shaking his head. “I will not allow his corruption to befoul my people. He is an enemy to us!” It was a shout, reverberating against the carved stone box they had sealed themselves in for warmth and comfort. Thorin looked back at his nephew, eyes cold and unforgiving. “You have no brother Fili. I will not repeat this again.” He stepped back and let him go. He left them all, marching back outside, into the dawn. Fili staggered backwards until he hit the wall, pressing his palms to the granite and gasping for air, head bent. He couldn’t believe it he couldn’t. How could Thorin do this to him?

He felt numb. It was as though Thorin had reached inside, pulled out his own heart and thrown it on the fire. He wasn’t asking for Kili’s return or redemption. He just wanted understanding, he wanted Thorin to see that he wasn’t the monster those awful men made him out to be. He just wanted that recognition that Kili hadn’t quite lost himself completely and that there was still those fading embers of his brother out there, wandering alone in the wilderness. He thought that now they had taken Erebor, now that Thorin had all he ever wanted, he would finally be free of that gripping fear.

But he never would. Fili finally realised that now, curling his fingers against the rock. Having everything made Thorin more anxious, more paranoid and insecure than ever. When he had nothing, he had nothing to lose. But how he had it all, the wealth and land of his people, returned after a century of exile, and it could all be lost so quickly. Their grip was as weak as a child’s and there was no guarantee that they could hold on to it. He could lose his gold, his crown, Fili, in the blink of an eye. Thorin had turned so quickly, from that joy and pride to deep-seated anger. He was unstable, he was losing control. Disgust danced like fire along his spine and Fili forced back a shudder. Thorin was concerned that the black sickness which had taken Kili away from him would spread out and rot Fili too, would corrupt all of them through association.

He didn’t even have the picture. Ori had it, hidden somewhere swearing to try and fix Kili’s smudged face. Fili had nothing to hold, nothing to remind himself that he’d ever had a brother at all. He slid slowly along the wall until he sat on the ground with his head between his knees. Shaking fingers clutched at his ankles and Fili stared lifelessly at the stone. There was no coming back for Kili, not like this. He couldn’t mention him, couldn’t breathe his name or even think on him without awful retribution from his uncle. Fili pressed his wrist against his sweaty forehead as Dwalin sank down beside him, gently taking his shoulders and coaxing him to sit up. Someone was pushing a mug of tea into his hands, vile stuff made from wild nettle. Fili looked up and saw Bofur, forcing a grin beneath his ridiculous hat.

Bilbo crept quietly out of the stone alcove, onto the sunny lookout. Thorin stood with his head bowed, hands on the stone and shoulders hunched over. He looked in pain. The hobbit held his breath and fumbled for the ring in his pocket when he heard a long sigh, and Thorin turned.

“Come to spy, have you master burglar?” There wasn’t a trace of a smile. Bilbo must have been losing his touch. Thorin looked tired. Bilbo shrugged meekly, kicking at a stray pebble with his leathery feet.

“No.” He sidled up beside Thorin, leaning over the stone ledge. He knew that everyone else would be too shocked and confused to even think about approaching Thorin. He heard Ori’s gasp beside him, watched as Dwalin tensed his jaw and Oin looked away, shaking his head. None of them wanted this. And looking at him now, Bilbo had a strong suspicion that Thorin didn’t either. “I thought you might want an ear.”

“And what would a homespun hobbit know of dwarvish politics.” Bilbo didn’t like to look at the heavy scowl on Thorin’s face. He stared down at the silver ribbon of water cutting through the desolate wasteland, drumming his fingers against the stone.

“Nothing.” He made the soft admission. “Maybe that’s a good thing.” Bilbo watched as Thorin raked his fingers through his hair. There had to be some way to regain control, to turn his friend away from this abyss that threatened to claim him. “I know you’re all upset—”

“Upset.” Thorin scoffed. “Upset cannot begin to describe this, Bilbo.” He turned and looked at him sternly. Bilbo swallowed and drew back, unable to tear his gaze away from the lingering darkness behind that sparkling blue. “You think I’m being irrational and cruel. I can see it in your eyes.” Bilbo tried to keep his face steady. “Just like Fili, you don’t understand what he can do to us.”

“He’s just one person—”

“One person can break down empires.” Thorin snarled. “One person can change the fate of an entire kingdom. I will not allow anything to risk what I have fought so hard to win back. I will not lose my home, my crown, my gold, not an ounce of it, Bilbo.” He turned away from him, the sun on his face. “You do not understand the burdens that I bear for my people. I am not heartless. It beats and bleeds, the same as yours.”

Bilbo merely stared back, feeling afraid of that shadow lurking beneath the blue. “I don’t think you’re heartless.” He eventually managed to murmur, hands still thrust in his pockets. He clenched his right fist around the Arkenstone, buried beneath a handful of other gems and bundled up in a spare sock. If there was any doubt in his mind that he had done the right thing in taking it, it had vanished now.


	70. Prey

The seam was coming loose in his right boot. His feet hurt. His stomach groaned in hunger and his tongue rasped like coarse paper against his lips. Kili paused for a moment, hands on his knees as he looked at the edge of the heavy forest, perhaps three-quarters of a mile away. The promise of shelter and food and _water_ enveloped him. Leaving tracks in the dirt and brush, the dwarf ploughed on with his head bent. The sun made his hair hot and sweat trickled down the back of his neck. He hummed to himself briefly, the sound grating painfully in his throat, and he fell silent.

And then he heard it. A _horn._ Kili’s head shot up and every muscle in his body seized with panic. He held his breath and listened for a whisper of life on the distant horizon, voices or the thudding of hooves. There were a few low, twisted trees dotted on the plain; Kili ran to the nearest, jumping to reach the lowest branch and scraping his hands against the grey, weathered bark. He climbed until the tree-limbs were little more than twigs, swaying dangerously under his weight, and craned his neck. He could see them – more than just black dots on the horizon. He could make out shapes, of horses and long limbs, looking distorted against the glare of the sun. Kili bit his lip. If his weak dwarvish eyes could make out the pursuers, then they were close. Too close.

Kili broke into a run along the grass, panting under the heavy clothes, the blanket thrown over one shoulder. A breeze whipped in his hair, cold against his cheek, his damp neck shivering. _Keep going._ He shouted the words over and over in his mind, saving his ragged breath. _Don’t stop. Not now._ He wondered if they had found his pony, if she wandered south, back towards her home, or if she was plucky enough to venture into that beckoning forest. Kili bowed his head, eyes closing for a moment as a knife pierced his side. He gripped the aching muscle beneath his ribs and gritted his teeth. _Don’t stop._

And then he was under the shade, with the smell of leaves and wood surrounding him. Kili staggered and fell against a fallen log, pressing his forehead to the wood as he tried to regain his breath. His legs were as weak and light as straw, his head swam and the seam on his boot threatened to fall apart entirely. He wiped his forehead with a corner of the blanket, waiting for the stitch in his side to fade before rising to his feet.

There was no path. Kili cut away a strip of the blanket and wound it around and around his foot, binding the sole of his worn boot together. He walked slowly, keeping alert, eyes open and ears sharp for water and footsteps. It was an old forest, very close to the foothills of the Grey Mountains, and Kili knew what could be lingering behind these old, twisted trees.

He stopped at the base of a knotted trunk, kneeling in the dirt. A cluster of thick white mushrooms gleamed in the pale light. He tried to remember the odd scraps of advice Nazarg had tried to give him about mushrooms. White and grey were the best, with dark, pinkish gills. Grinning with relief, Kili broke the smallest in half and bit the edge of it. He chewed slowly, rolling it around and around in his mouth, ready to spit it out at the first sign of burning. It wasn’t bitter or sharp. It didn’t taste of _anything._

He crammed as much as he could in his mouth, chewing wolfishly without bothering to brush away the dirt. Kili grabbed the last few in handfuls, thrusting the fungi in his pockets and hoping they would hold up until the evening. It alleviated the burning pangs of hunger, but Kili was still thirsty, and he knew he had a long way to go before he could even hope to be free. Wiping the grey juice from his chin, Kili lifted his head, footfalls a heavy thud in the knotted maze of ancient trees.

* * *

He didn’t stop to sleep. It was too dangerous – wolves or bears could be roaming in these dense forests, coming down from their caves for a choice meal, and he knew that every moment he stood still the party that hunted him would be edging closer and closer, waiting to snare him like a trapped rabbit or a cornered deer. He wasn’t going to be hunted. He wasn’t a doe-eyed prey. The moonlight leaked through the tangled web of branches, enough for him to make out the shapes of bushes and trees, to keep his feet clear from roots. A twisted ankle would finish him.

Memories stuck into him, sharp twigs that hurt his head. How could they not? How could Kili not draw comparisons between this and the very last night of his freedom, creeping away from Beorn’s house while his friends and family slept, wandering through the forest on a night so like this, with the moonlight shining through the trees? Kili tried to remember just what was running through his head that night. What innocent, carefree thoughts had he been thinking? What was the last pure idea he’d ever had? He couldn’t recall. He felt so _young_ , so stupid, just remembering how rash and thoughtless he had been.

It hurt, and Kili tried to turn his head away from it. But he couldn’t, it kept pounding away inside of his skull, even as he closed his eyes. A night like this had changed him and his brother, forever. One single action had shaped their destinies, getting between them like a wedge and forcing the two locked pieces apart. He was beyond the point where he despaired over his lost fortunes. He didn’t think miserably on what could have been or why he had been so cursed. There had been enough of that in the last four-and-a-half months. Instead, Kili thought about it with a cold mourning, like a close friend or a relative that had died a long time ago, long enough for the tears to stop flowing and for that sharp pain to settle into a dull hammer-blow.

The blanket-edge was disintegrating. Kili stopped, sitting on a fallen log and tearing off a fresh strip. He bent his head and listened to the sounds of night, the whispering leaves, the occasional insect and falling twig. He felt like the only person still alive, lingering alone in an abandoned night while the rest of the world had faded away. Kili thrust the broken piece of blanket in his pocket and kept on, trying not to leave any obvious tracks.

* * *

Kili climbed a tall pine in the dawn, needles getting into the holes in his clothes and sharp pieces of wood scratching his skin. Head and shoulders above the forest, he gripped the branches and looked. Mist swirled around him, the air cold and heavy and grey. He was surprised to see the mountains this close. He was perhaps a third of the way through the forest, with the plains a thin ribbon over the haze of green. Kili climbed down, shook the needles from his clothes and kept going, deeper and deeper, towards the mountains.

After noon he finally found running water. Kili gasped in relief at the sound, splashing at the shallows and getting his feet wet. He cupped his dirty hands and drank like an animal, wiping the dirt from his face and combing through his hair. He drank until his belly groaned, and Kili sat for a short while, holding his stomach and listening to the sounds water rushing over rocks. When he started on, Kili felt more alive. The sun seemed even brighter, golden fingers reaching through the trees and stroking his face. He walked along the water’s edge, keeping an eye out for anything that looked safe to eat. He kept drinking water to make himself feel full, and soon Kili was wet and bloated, sweat gathering on his temples.

An hour before sunset, Kili’s dark eyes caught a glimpse of something that made his heart freeze in his chest. It was a dark shape on the corner of the rocks. He climbed slowly down the bank, reaching out. It was so out of place amongst the moss and weeds and stones, a twisted, misshapen lump made out of black leather. Kili’s turned it over in his hands, raising it to his nose for a sniff. It was a boot at some point in time, made of a very coarse hide. Bear perhaps, or wolf. He fingered an iron buckle, black as obsidian, and something tight began to knot in his stomach. Orcish. He dropped the boot into the river and drew his sword, walking along the bank with the fading sunlight catching the edge of the blade.

He wasn’t alone in this forest. The back of his neck began to prickle uncomfortably, as though there were dozens of pale, gleaming eyes fixed on him, staring through the web of trees, licking their lips.

* * *

After the second night, Kili knew he had to stop. He hadn’t eaten in a day, hadn’t slept in two, and never stopped for more than a few moments in all that time. Even dwarves needed a little rest. He wished he’d kept the boot now; as warped and rotten as it was, it would have been better than this broken shoe. He was hypersensitive; every snap of a twig, every bird-tweet and rustling leaf made him start, whirl around with the sword in his trembling hands, lashing out at air. Kili’s head swam. He could feel himself unravelling and coming apart like the seam in his boot, bound together with strips that were themselves frayed and town.

Mid-morning, he found a hollowed out tree, partially blocked by a low bush. Kili crawled inside, curling into a tight ball with the ragged remains of his blanket thrown over his shoulders. He pressed his forehead against his knees and breathed slowly. He felt like he was floating when he closed his eyes, a gentle, bobbing boat on a still lake. His head lolled and he felt the ebb and flow, the gentle pulling away from the shore, rocking gently to sleep...

“I’m tellin’ ya – it’s not a deer!” Kili’s eyes snapped open, holding his breath. “Tracks are too big and there’s only two feet.” He kept every fibre of his body still. _They spoke Black Speech._ “They’re following the river which means they’re lost. Not an elf, the prints are too big.” Slowly, very slowly, Kili crawled on his hands and knees, ears tuned to every possible sound. He didn’t feel sleepy now. He was pulled tight, stretched like a lump of iron into a wire.

“Why would one man – or dwarf, or orc – be lost out here alone Tarbaam?” Kili licked his lips. They were getting closer. He tried to guess how many there were by the sound of their footsteps. Four or five, maybe even six.

“Stop. Smell that.” The sound of shuffling fell still. “ _Smell it.”_ Kili closed his eyes. _Stupid_. “Dwarf. He is _close_. Smell it yet?” He couldn’t hide here. They would sniff him out, like a pack of wargs tracking a wounded deer.

“Yeah – all right.” One of the other orcs grumbled. Kili stuck his head out of the hollow, careful to keep free of the bush and close to the ground. They stood in a circle about fifty feet from him, milling about and bickering. Five. No wargs. The blanket abandoned, Kili crept on his belly until he was totally free, every throbbing heartbeat a violent drumbeat against his skull. There was no sneaking away, not if he was lost and the others knew exactly where they were. Not if they could smell him. Kili did the only thing he could. His wire-body coiled tight, Kili crouched on his hands and knees, picking out a clear path through the trees.

Then he ran. There was a shout of surprise, a scrabble in his direction. If he could run fast enough, he could eek them out, have them rush at him in ones and twos and he could cut them down. Kili jumped over a fallen log, his legs already feeling limp. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t shake them off, he was too slow, too tired and hungry and weak. He couldn’t do it.

An arrow whizzed past his head. “No – don’t shoot!” Kili heard the snarl behind him. “Take him alive!” With a tear, the sole on his boot came away. Kili staggered a little, groaning in exasperation as he tried to regain his pace. Adrenalin kicked in, and he found hiself running faster than ever, refusing to yield an inch of the chase. “Fast little beast. Flank him – keep him going straight!” Kili tried to listen to the shouting over his ragged gasps for air. The orc roared in his own tongue. “We’ll drive him right into the camp!”

 _No you won’t._ Kili swing a rapid left, almost wrenching his ankle. There was the sound of a horn, not sweet and melodic like the one he heard on the plains – this was sharp and cruel, the cry of the wounded. The orcs were calling for backup. Kili’s lungs heaved, he could barely see through a blur of green and he stepped on something sharp, his exposed sole cut open. He cried out and almost fell, buckling for a moment as pain rocked along his ankle.

There was the sound of water again. Kili dashed towards it, thinking he could dive in and perhaps swim to safety. The orcs hated water; he remembered plainly the boats tied from reeds to glide effortlessly across the swamplands at the eastern edge of Mirkwood. The sound grew louder and Kili burst through the trees, sliding on loose rocks. He lost his footing and fell with a cry, landing heavily with the air knocked from his lungs. The orcs were very close. Kili tried to rise to his feet, torn sole bleeding and throbbing. He still had a long way to go to the water. With a growl, a young orc leaped onto the bank. Kili whirled around at the sound. He gasped, tried to reach for his sword. But his movements were clumsy and slow, limbs desperate for air and blood. Kili was tackled to the ground, hands pinned over his head.

“Got ‘im!” There was a jubilant cry in the air. Kili twisted about, trying and failing to buck the creature off. The orc straddled his hips and held him down, smirking as Kili writhed and struggled and cried out. He breathed in deeply, smelling blood.

“You – I’ll kill you!” The snarl came out in Black Speech. It was a reflex, a defence mechanism. Kili didn’t mean to say it – it just tumbled out. “You’re _dead!”_ The orc drew back with a gasp and Kili used the chance to wrench himself free. With one hand he drew the sword from his side and with the other he wrestled the creature onto the rocks, the blade at his throat—

“Stop!” Leaning over the orc, Kili’s head snapped up. The tooth at his throat slipped out of his shirt, dangling plainly on the string. There were three orcs approaching him slowly, two with drawn arrows. Tarbaam sneered. “Put the sword down or you’re finished, dwarf.” Kili swallowed, eyes trained on the middle orc. “Put it _down!”_

Beneath him, the trapped orc stared up, eyes trained not on Kili’s face but on his neck, the pulse hammering beneath the skin, the swaying tooth on the leather cord, long and razor-sharp. And he knew.

“Kili.” He whispered. Kili didn’t hear him over the sound of his own breathing, attention turned towards the cluster of orcs at the edge of the trees. The sharp rocks digging into his back, the young orc raised his voice. There was a smile on his face. “It’s Kili!”

* * *

Everything ran together in a blurry haze, bright and green with misshapen blots of black, inkspots in his vision. He struggled at first, when the orcs kneeled around him and tried to pull the sword from his hand, help him sit up and look at his injured foot. But they weren’t being cruel – they were _smiling_ at him, they were soft-voiced and asked questions and pressed a hand against his forehead. _Safe_ , they kept saying. He was _safe._ Kili mumbled incoherently, their voices a low buzz in his ear, indistinct as a foreign language.

They led him back to their camp, Kili leaning heavily on the arm of the orc he had pinned to the rocks. There was nothing left of him – even if he wanted to fight, Kili was like a stumbling child. He felt drunk. He smelled the camp before he saw it, smoke and roasted venison. There were two dozen orcs but Kili didn’t see them. He didn’t see anything. Clinging to the young orc, he limped into a tent, collapsing onto the furs, managing to eat a handful of coarse oatcake pressed against him and pulling off his weapons and oilskin before falling asleep.

He slept for the rest of the day, and all night, too. And while he slept he felt things, going on in the world around him, they crawled into his head and took the shape of dreams. He dreamed he ran, tripped and fell and a shapeless beast held him by the foot, biting with sharp teeth and then licking with a hot tongue. He dreamed he was on a ship in a storm, pushed around from side to side. Kili awoke briefly some time in the dead of night with a horrible rush of fear. He stared up at the canvas, the shifting puzzle of shadows and firelight, remembering in the melting pot of his brain the running, the orcs, his bleeding foot. He heard breathing all around him, and half-lifted his head to find three other orcs crammed into the little tent, sleeping with their bodies pressed close together. There was something draped across his chest. It took a moment for him to realise it was an arm, flung out thoughtlessly in a dream. With his head hurting and exhaustion chewing on the edges of his consciousness, Kili closed his eyes and sank back into sleep. A deeper, heavier sleep, without dreams.

When Kili awoke, the sunlight was streaking across the top of the tent and the air hummed with a low murmur. He lay for a while with his eyes closed, sluggish and heavy. His head ached, and despite his long sleep he still felt exhausted. He wanted to lay there forever, to sleep, wrapped in furs and his head pillowed with leaves. But his belly screamed in protest, his hands were weak and shaky and Kili knew he had to eat. He sat up slowly, breathing and out, listening to the sounds of the camp. He wondered if anyone was talking about _him._ Kili bit his lip, resting his forehead against his wrist and closing his eyes as talk flowed over him. It was mindless chatter, stupid and inconsequential, gossip and bragging.

Kili crawled out and blinked at the sunlight, rubbing his eyes. Putting all the weight on his good foot, the dwarf stared around the clearing, squinting as his eyes slowly adjusted. It was a hunting-camp. Steaks of venison were strung up to smoke before sheltered fires, skins draped on racks to cure, great cauldrons boiling with broth from bones and organs. Nothing was going to waste. With his hands at his sides, Kili stared around, mouth watering at the smell of roasted, smoking meat.

“Ah, you’re up!” Beside a smaller fire, one for cheer and warmth rather than cooking, an orc waved his hand. Kili recognised him, through the foggy haze of his memory, from the day before. “Kili, come, sit and eat.” Kili remained on his guard, limping across the dirt with a sidelong glance at the tent. He’d left his weapons in there. “Sorry about yesterday,” He patted Kili on the shoulder as he slowly sat down, stretching out his bad leg. Someone had wrapped up his foot tight in a bandage. “Got a bit heavy-handed. Didn’t know it was _you.”_

“It’s all right.” Kili’s voice was very small. Inside, his mind was racing. _They thought he was a friend._ Someone else pushed a plate of food into his hand, piled high with sliced liver and heart. Kili bent his head and ate greedily, without pretence. The blood coated his fingers and ran down his chin in his haste. He didn’t know when he would eat again. Already he was planning his next move. His foot was injured but not ruined – he could walk, albeit slowly, and perhaps if they had a spare warg... yes, if they thought him a friend they might hand over one of their beasts, give him food and supplies enough for him to make it through this forest. Kili was assuming a camouflage, mouth closed and eyes and ears open. He watched and listened.

“Didn’t give my name. Tarbaam.” Kili nodded, mouth filled with food. “That’s Khala, Shatog, Zigul, and Drûth.” He nodded a greeting at all of them. They were big orcs, tall and well-built. Hunters, alpha males. They weren’t a mindless rabble of creatures he could step all over. Kili felt tiny. “Most of the others’ll be out catching their kill. Ilzkhaal will be happy to see you up. The first orc that found you.” He clarified, seeing Kili’s confusion. “He saved your hide, that one. Frimgul was just about to shoot you in the throat.”

“I need to thank him.” Kili wiped at his mouth and dragged his fingers over his tattered trousers. “I’m grateful for this. I don’t think I could have gone on any further.”

“You were a mess.” Tarbaam’s lip curled. He passed Kili a waterskin, watching as the dwarf drank greedily. “How long since you’d slept?”

Kili rubbed at his eyes. “Two or three days. I don’t remember.” He stared at the ground, stomach groaning under the weight of the hot food. “Not since I entered the forest.”

The orc whistled. “I’d be dead on my feet too.” He was shaping a piece of deer antler in his hand, idly smoothing the bone to the graceful curve of a knife-handle. “Shatog there said his gang chased a pack of elves and men away from the forest two days ago. Looking for you, I presume.”

“Thranduil’s soldiers and the Lake-Town guards.” Kili drew up his good leg, resting his chin on his knee. At least that threat was gone. But he refused to feel relieved, not yet. “They’ve been hunting me for weeks.”

“I figured.” Tarbaam remarked. “No worries. Drûth is taking a load up to Hanrunfil tonight. You can go with him, if you like.” Kili’s head snapped up. “Well – it’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” _Hanrunfil._ Kili bit his lip. _Spy-cave_. It must be an outpost town. The thought of returning to a cave beneath the stone, of that fire and darkness, it was like a fresh knife-wound of terror in his heart. He couldn’t face ever going back to their awful holes beneath the mountains. “Ours is the only settlement around for hundreds of miles.” He smirked. “Can’t get through here without us knowing about it.”

“What’s-his-face, the traitor, he found that out when we caught him.” Drûth spoke up around a mouthful of heavy broth. “Nazarg is it?”

Kili’s blood ran cold. The breath died in his lungs for a smothering moment and his hand flashed white-knuckled, clenched in brief fists before he masked his shock, responding with as much calm as he could muster. “You found him?”

“Oh, he found us.” Tarbaam set down his knife. “Don’t worry Kili, we figured out his story was fishy and got the truth out of him... Eventually.” He shook his head. Kili tried with every fibre of himself to keep calm, keep that mask fitted carefully over his face and his breathing slow and even. “Scum.” He spat on the ground. “Poisoning Azog like a coward.”

“They never liked each other.” Kili’s voice was dull and removed. Anyone who knew him would see right away that he was lying, but these strangers simply thought he was still tired. Kili ran through the half-story he’d been given, the pieces fitting together in his mind. They’d caught him somehow, had realised who he was and under torture Nazarg had given them the only story he could – he’d _taken the blame for Kili’s crime._ Why? Why would he do something to condemn himself, to cause such horrific punishment? Why did he take the fall? Kili eyed the orc beside him, the twisted snarl, the gleaming hatred in his eyes.

“They think they can run, but we always get traitors.” Kili’s mouth was dry. Was Nazarg _sparing him?_ “Bolg can’t wait to finish him.”

“He’s not dead yet?” Kili lifted his head, trying to calm the violent roaring between his ears. The orc shook his head with an unpleasant smile, pausing to poke at the fire before looking back at him.

“Not yet. Save the honours for Azog’s son, don’t ya think?” Kili bit down hard on his tongue. A scream threatened to come out. “They’ll _love_ to see you, the folks up at Hanrunfil. We thought maybe he’d been lying, when he said Azog took a dwarf under his wing and made an orc out of him.” Tarbaam reached out and took the tooth at Kili’s neck between thumb and forefinger, looking at it. “But you’re real.”

“I’m real.” The words came out weakly. Kili swallowed heavily, a sour taste sticking in the back of his throat. “I’ve been on the run ever since – well, since the elves and men found out who I really was.” He forced a snarl on his face.

“Don’t worry – they’ll take care of you up there.” Tarbaam jerked his head in the direction of the mountain. “You’ve still got Azog’s protection, even in death.”

“You believe his story?” Kili had to ask. His dark eyes locked on the orc, and he pushed back all the shock and horror and anger over what he had heard in the last few minutes, staring at Tarbaam with an emotionless mask.

“’Course I do. I believe that.” He pointed at the necklace. “I believe the elves that pursued you for over a hundred miles for _something._ Look – we heard rumours from Mirkwood even before that traitor showed up. They won’t clap you in irons, if that’s your fear Kili.” It was true. They may have their reservations, but no one - not even Bolg himself - would dare to speak out against Azog's will, alive or dead.

His gaze was still and unmoving. Kili studied the orc’s pale eyes, searching him for both honesty and deceit. It was impossible to imagine, all of this had given him a headache and left him reeling. But Kili didn’t make it as far as he had without being quick on his feet. He was sharp, a knife against a grindstone of panic, of long nights and watching with downcast eyes. He knew how to think. And while he screamed and beat the walls in his head, pacing and crying and refusing to believe that it was _real_ , Kili lifted his head a little and let a tiny smile stretch across his cracked lips.

“I think I will go to Hanrunfil tonight.” There was a thud in his ears, like a stone shuddering into place, at the words. Kili forced back the terror at heading underground, surrounding himself with thousands of these creatures, balancing on a precarious lie that could crumble at any moment with a single flicker of the eye or twitch of the lip. What else could he do?

If there was a chance – just a _chance_ that he could rescue his friend, the only one who had faith in him while the rest of the world seemed so bleak and hopeless, Kili would risk his life to take it, without a second thought. _He had to._


	71. Stormclouds

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He couldn’t look into his son’s eyes, wide and brown and _accusing._ Bard stared down at his hands, bearing Bain’s confusion and anger silently. “This whole time – I’m the descendant of a _king_ and you never told me!”

“It’s never mattered before, son.” They sat facing each other, cross-legged before the fire. Bain leaned heavily on his elbows, still very pale. “Dale is a ruin, her kings little more than legend.” He swallowed. “I never had delusions of grandeur. I thought it was lost, that it was best for those hopes and memories to end with us.” He could feel the boy glaring at him. Betrayal was thick in the morning air. “It didn’t make sense, to hold on to it.”

“And what now?” Bain sat up straight, reaching out to take his father’s wrist. “Now – you’re going to the Mountain, to try and take some of that gold, aren’t you?” Bard finally looked up. “A-and with the Master gone and all his men too... What will you do?”

“It’s no secret, who I am.” Bard spoke quietly, eyes fixed on the child’s bone-white face. “They know I killed Smaug and that I’m Girion’s heir. That’s enough for them to call out _King Bard_ and beg for me to lead them.” He closed his hands around Bain’s thin fingers trying to soothe him. "You must understand - I never had any thoughts about being a king.” He admitted, after a long silence. “I never wanted this.”

“But...” Bain’s eyes darted from side to side, in rapid thought. “You have to – there’s no one else, Papa it was _meant_ to be you, all along.” He was frowning. Bard brushed his lips briefly against the child’s hand, squeezing tight. He was right - his slaying of Smaug seemed ridiculously perfect. They could't write stories better than what he had done, who he was. He felt like he'd already thrown away part of his destiny, being deaf to the thrush's desperate call. It haunted him.

“We’ve already sent messages to the elves.” He tried not to think about it. “The women and children, the sick and injured will all remain here, under the shelter of the trees with the livestock and few cottages. The men who can bear arms will take to the mountain. We must be first to stake a claim. News of Thorin Oakenshield’s death will spread quickly amongst the ravens and the other tribes will try to take a claim.” There was a knot in his throat, a tense muscle that quivered as he talked. Bain looked away at the mention of the dwarves, feeling sick. “You’ll be looked after Bain, I’ve already spoken to Mabel—”

“No.” Bain wrenched his hands away, eyes looking very dark despite the morning light. “Papa, I’m going.”

“Bain, you are a _child._ ” Bard gripped the boy’s shoulders. “This isn’t a game – it’s no place for boys to run about.”

“You can’t leave me here.” Bain’s lip wobbled. “ _Please_ , I’ll be good and quiet, you won’t even know I’m around. I don’t want to stay with Mabel. There’s no dragon or dwarves, how can it even be dangerous? And if all the elves will be there, then you’ll be safe anyway.” He burst forward, wrapping his father in a tight hug. _“_ Please?”

 _Oh help me._ Bard raised his eyes to the sky and returned the embrace, resting his chin on the thatch of ragged hair. He avoided pressing his hands across Bain’s back, feeling the thin body tremble in his arms. This wasn’t his normal wheedling and greasing. Bain was _scared_ of being alone, after the terror with Smaug and the burning town. And even though he’d never admit it to his son, Bard was scared without Bain, too.

“All right.” He murmured into his own coat, holding on tight. He didn’t need much convincing. “We’ll stay together. Always, Bain, I promise.”

* * *

The ravens came in the afternoon sun. Most were outside, feeling the wind and the grass on their little clearing. Ori lingered inside, murmuring that he was tired and needed sleep, begging the rest to let him rest alone in their side-room beside the fire.

Ori opened the stove-door for light, keeping an eye on the door and his ears carefully trained as he extracted the tattered drawing from his pocket. He unfolded the paper slowly and pressed it down on the stone floor, bending over on his knees and examining the battered page. Kili’s face was invisible beneath a smudged fingerprint of grey, the lines blurry and warped. Ori ran his fingers over the lines of Kili’s body, biting hard on his lip and breathing deeply through his broken nose.

He closed his eyes, bowed his head and waited for the bubbling ache in his chest to pass. It _hurt_ to look at this thing, at the faceless, stained image of what Kili used to be. Someone who knew he loved him and Ori never got to even look him in the eye after all that. Ori was angry at Kili – of _course_ he was. Kili had no right to disappear in the night, to slip away and _leave_ him, surrounded by people who thought he was a twisted monster, who tolerated him with muted disgust. This wasn’t home – it would never be home to him. Even though Fili tried so desperately to keep Ori with him, there was a limit to what even a prince could do. He couldn’t overrule their hearts.

He rifled around for his stick of wax, rubbing carefully at the paper with his tongue between his teeth. Ori never got what he wanted. He’d learned a long, long time ago to settle with his lot and grow used to the dull throb of disappointment in his heart. He was used to being let down. Ori knew it was selfish – to think that Kili would want _him,_ something as freakish and unnatural as Ori corrupting him, infecting him as though his sick thoughts were some sort of spreading illness, was only ever a arrogant fantasy. It was ridiculous. But for that glorious hour in the dead of night, Ori had thought that it _just could happen_. And once he’d held on to that hope, even as briefly and loosely as he had, it was very, very hard to let go.

Already, the beginnings of a plan were forming, taking shape and solidifying from the mist. Erebor wasn’t theirs, not yet. Uncertainty and doubt plagued them all, particularly Thorin, and the lingering threat of the dragon brought nightmares that made it hard for anybody to sleep. It was dangerous now – even whispering Kili’s name had become a crime. He couldn’t live in this world. Ori couldn’t care less about Smaug, or the treasure, or even his own ruined reputation. He couldn’t stop thinking about Fili, who had argued so strongly for him and risked upsetting the already tenuous relationship with his uncle for Ori’s sake. He thought too about Nori, who had sneered that Ori had never been _anything_ , that there was no pure name to sully, that Ori had to do what he _needed_ to, and hang everybody else. Nothing else mattered. He needed to be selfish, just once in his damn life.

He carefully blew at the drawing. He’d wiped away as much of the grey as he could without damaging the paper. He took his pencil and sharpened the nub carefully with a knife. Ori knew, crouched over the fire with the drawing on the stone, that he couldn’t stay here long. He couldn’t make a life here, the way Dori and Nori could. He couldn’t own property, couldn’t run a business or a trade, couldn’t vote on any official matters – he wasn’t even a real _person_ , in Thorin’s eyes. He had laid out the conditions very clearly before they had left Lake-Town, glaring down at him in his dark little bedroom, alone except for Fili, standing with his arms crossed beside the door.

He drew the lines of Kili’s face, half from the lingering shadows on the page, half from memory. The smile, the bright eyes and thin nose – _he would see it all again._ Ori promised himself this, sitting with his back curled and shoulders hunched. He hadn’t said goodbye to Kili. He hadn’t even spoken to him, not since that soft embrace that had been so cruelly torn apart. That wasn’t their goodbye.

Ori held the drawing up to the firelight. It was the best he could do with the damaged paper – it was pretty good, if he thought so himself. You wouldn’t know the drawing was redone, unless you really looked. Fili would be happy with it. He wasn’t interested in Ori drawing a new picture – he wanted _this_ one, the one Kili clung to for so many weeks while his mind unravelled and broke down. Ori folded the drawing and replaced it beneath his shirt, replacing his pencil and wax and little sharpening knife.

There was a knock on the door. Ori gasped, and managed to scrabble under his blanket, feigning sleep as Dori quietly pushed the door open and peered inside. “Ori,” He was smiling. “Ori, come lad, you have to get up.”

“What’s going on?” The smile was forced. Dori’s eyes were dark, his cheeks seemed stiff. There wasn’t that normal warmth that Ori was used to. “What’s happened?”

“The ravens have come.” He was grim. “We’re packing up and moving, all of us. Up now, the rest will be along in a moment to gather their things.”

“The ravens?” Ori folded his blanket, watching as Dori sank to his knees on the stone. “Did they bring news.”

“Aye, they brought news all right.” Dori’s hands were still, clasped in his lap. “Smaug is dead—”

“Fantastic!” Ori’s eyes lit up. “So – this is ours, Erebor I mean.” His heart started beating faster. “It belongs to Durin’s Folk once more.”

“For now, yes.” The shadows deepened on Dori’s face. “Smaug’s last act was to destroy the city of Lake-Town. It’s razed to ashes.” Ori’s mouth fell open. “Many were killed, including the Master and most of his officials. The surviving men are heading towards Erebor with the aim of compensating their loss.” Dori’s tone was soft. He obviously didn’t think them particularly wrong.

“Many dead.” A knot tightened in Ori’s stomach. _Oh no_. He couldn’t help but think about the boy who had brightened his long chilly days with Kili at the archery range. He wanted to ask Dori, but he knew his brother would have no way of knowing who lived and who died. “Oh _Mahal.”_

“The elves are also on their way.” Dori’s voice broke through the young dwarf’s thoughts. He could hear shuffling outside, low murmurs. “Come now, we must get back into the mountain and set up a guard.” Dori rose and wandered over to his own pile of belongings. The others came in small groups, looking quiet and tense. No one talked to each other, and no one looked at him. Only Fili gave a brief glance. He looked incredibly pale, and Ori noticed his hands visibly quivered as he rolled up his blanket, stuffing it into his pack. With his things collected, Ori sank in front of him.

“Fili – are you all right?” There was no sign of Thorin. Fili lifted his head, looking almost as though he had aged decades in the space of a single day. “You’re shaking.”

“I’ll be fine.” The words came out with considerable effort. “Are you finished? C-can you help me, I have to get Thorin’s stuff together and mine...”

“Of course.” Ori folded up a spare shirt and threw it in. “Dori told me about the ravens – and the men coming.” Fili’s hands fell still. “It will be all right, won’t it?”

“Did he tell you that Thorin said he won’t give up an ounce of gold to thieves and criminals?” Ori held his breath and slowly shook his head. “He’s not going to budge, Ori. Especially with Thranduil making himself heard.” His pack secured, Fili rose to his feet. “I’m scared.” He said simply, before turning away from Ori, leaving him kneeling on the stone, unable to say anything more.

* * *

Fili lay awake, listening to the thunderstorm growing louder and closer until it seemed as though the mountain itself would split in two. He sat up slowly and saw that Thorin lay on his back, staring at the ceiling without flinching as the latest peal of thunder cracked above them. A single little fire burned from an unbroken lantern.

This was it. The songs of legend had turned into reality and Fili lay sleeping inside the wealth of Erebor. A broken, hollow shell of wealth. He remembered Thorin’s flashing blue eyes the raven announced the marching party towards Erebor, his promised snarl that they wouldn’t see a brass farthing. The coin was still in his pocket, sticking into him and weighing him down. They were coming for their gold – they only wanted their due. They weren’t wrong, for wanting it. Fili thought about those cold blue eyes and he knew that Thorin was not going to make a single concession. Not to Lake-Town, not to Thranduil. He wasn’t going to let his hard-fought gold slip through his fingers.

It had been a long day. After the long march back to the halls of Erebor, Thorin allowed only a brief rest before turning his attention to the exposed Front Gate. He set the company to work, and disappeared inside the dark mouth of the cave. Peeling off his shirt as the sweat stuck to his back, Fili didn’t see him for a long time, until the sky darkened and the light began to fade. An ominous storm was already brewing, and they withdrew deep into their home, finding a once-cheery little space that once served as apartments for personal guests of Thrain. Fragments of furniture survived, and the dwarves poked around, searching for chairs and cushions good enough to sit on. They annexed bedroom, study and parlour, sleeping in separate rooms but still not far from each other. Thorin and Fili had what was once the best bedroom, but was now all burned hangings and scattered fragments of broken luxuries. He didn’t like to look at any of it.

“Go to sleep Fili.” Thorin saw the flash of gold out of the corner of his eye. Fili drew his legs up resting his forehead on them. “You will need you strength for tomorrow, finishing the fortifications.”

“I can’t sleep through this storm.” He whispered into his knees. “It’s _terrifying.”_ There was another boom of thunder, making Fili shudder.

“No worse than the Misty Mountains.” Thorin pointed out practically, sitting up. Fili closed his eyes to the memory, the stone cracking under his feet, reaching out, Kili’s soft brown eyes wide with fear...

“No I suppose not.” It wasn’t really the storm that stopped him from sleeping, and Thorin knew it. With a long sigh, he scooted across the stone and rested his hand on Fili’s shoulder.

“It’s all right, my nephew.” He looped his arm across the dwarf’s back, holding on tight. Fili slowly lifted his head, biting hard on his lower lip. “It’s all right.” There was another terrific clap and Fili instinctively reached out and grabbed Thorin’s elbow, like he was a child again, desperate and afraid. “It _is_ loud.”

“I don’t like this.” Fili whispered. “The big empty rooms filled with burned furniture – I _hate_ it Thorin.” He held on to his uncle as the confession wobbled out of him. He felt so _small_ and he didn’t know why. “Is there a smaller room we could find, something that doesn’t have any of these leftovers lying about?”

Thorin stared down at the stone, thinking heavily. He understood this would have been a disappointment for Fili. He wouldn’t lie – he was disappointed too, when he realised just how deep the devastation ran, just how badly Smaug had destroyed their home, torn everything to pieces and charred the remains. Nothing was protected against him – nothing was safe.

Except...

His eyes snapped open. “I know a place.” He pulled at Fili’s arm, coaxing him up. “There might be a place – a single room that Smaug didn’t touch.” Fili watched as Thorin bent down and picked up the lantern. That wasn’t what he had asked for, but Fili knew better than to speak out. He had to take Thorin’s painful effort to please him at face value, and accept that his uncle was really trying, in a now-rare moment of warmth and comfort.

“Where are we going?” Thorin led the way, their footsteps masked by the sound of thunder. He stopped to take a chisel from the pile of discarded tools by the doorway. The dwarf smiled, a sad, downturned smile, his eyes dull.

“A room,” He led Fili down a wide hallway, up a set of stairs. “My mother’s room.” Fili paused and frowned.

“How do you know it won’t be broken and burned, like everything else?”

“Because,” Thorin held the light out for both of them “After she died, Thrain sealed up the room. He wanted it to be kept as a reminder of her. None of us were allowed to touch or move a thing.” Fili watched his downturned eyes. “Even the bed was still unmade, after she died in it.” But that had been sullied. All three of them had climbed into her bed before the funeral, lying hand-in-hand and staring up at the canopy in a silent farewell. “It will be a perfect remnant of our old life.”

They stood outside her closed door, at the top of a winding staircase. The door was still here, fixed firmly to the door with a heavy seal of pure gold fixed on the handle. Thorin’s shoulders sagged in relief as he saw it. Fili stepped forward and fingered the metal, reading it carefully. It was a curse against those who dared to disturb the sanctity of this room.

“Thorin, are you sure?” Wordlessly, Thorin gripped the seal, pulling the chisel out of his pocket.

“It’s not meant for us. We’re her kin. It’s meant to ward off would-be thieves.” He spoke shortly, in little grunts as he worked at the gold seal. Finally, it fell away, exposing a huge iron bolt. Thrain had replaced her wooden door with this metal monstrosity, sealing even the air inside where it could not be touched. “Help me.” The two of them leaned heavily on the door, pushing it open with a grinding shudder.

Fili’s eyes widened as he followed Thorin into the chamber, the lantern dangling from his hands and throwing shadows around the room. Everything was covered in dust and cobwebs, but the fabrics, the furniture, the hangings and rugs and tapestries, they were otherwise untouched. Thorin kept his face away from the light as he circled the room, resting the lantern on the dresser and running his fingers over the dusty wood.

“It’s beautiful.” Fili murmured simply. It was the height of luxury, stuffed with every sort of treasure imaginable. The gleam was dull against the weak light, buried underneath a layer of dust. Fili sat tentatively on the edge of the bed. The mattress was still soft. He arched his back and looked up at the dark blue canopy, a twinkle catching his eye. Diamonds – hundreds of them had been sewn into the cloth.

“She liked looking at the stars.” Thorin sat down beside him. Slowly, he laid down on the blankets, wrinkling his nose as a cloud of dust billowed around him. Fili followed suit, black and gold hair mingling on the embroidered quilt. “She used to stay out late and look at them. Frerin and I would beg to go too. It was such a treat, staying out late in the night with her.” His hand skimmed across the blanket and found Fili’s. He squeezed tightly, throat feeling raw. “Thrain said it was dangerous, after a time. So he had the stars brought in here.” Before Dís was born, he remembered lying in this bed with his mother, listening sleepily while she murmured some night time story, Frerin already asleep on her other side.

“She sounds wonderful.” Fili didn’t know what else to say. He kept his eyes on the diamond-stars, his nose filled with dust and fingertips cold. He missed his mother. He missed Kili. He was angry at Thorin - _he would always be angry_ \- but it wasn't that same hot feeling he had been nursing in his chest all day. It was blunt and heavy. He realised, looking over at his uncle, what it was that dulled that sharp blade.

It was pity. 

Thorin smiled. “She was.”

They ended up sleeping back to back, pulling off their heavy clothes and beating the worst of the dust and cobwebs out. Fili didn’t do it for himself. He would have preferred to sleep in that charred apartment than this ghostly, untouched room. He did it for Thorin, holding on to those last threads of a fading childhood, trying to relive those dying memories just one last time, with the only family he had left. And Fili was _touched_ that Thorin, usually so cold and aloof with Fili, slow to talk about his past, his memories, his dead family, after decades of that distance had finally begun to let Fili in.

Fili tried to close his eyes and imagine sleeping here like this, night after night in a room stuffed with gold and jewels, beneath a glittering canopy on a thick mattress. He tried to imagine a wife beside him, a nightshirt of silk, a crackling fire. He just wanted his bunk. He was scared – of Thorin, of the company of men marching on their home, of Thranduil. And what lay at the end of it? Just a cold, lonely bed like this, draped in gold and gems that he didn’t want.

Was it childish, to be homesick? Fili turned to look at Thorin, who lay with his eyes closed, nose pointed up to the ceiling. He had fallen soundly asleep, seemingly unperturbed by the dust. He looked more relaxed than Fili had seen in months, even as the thunder raged on, louder than ever in their stony loft. This was a sanctuary, for Thorin. He could lie here, and almost – _almost_ – pretend that the last century was a bad nightmare, and here he was, safe and warm in his mother’s bed. The death and despair that clung to him had been driven back, if only for a few hours.

Of course it was all right to be homesick. Fili’s stomach went soft in pity with the realisation. Thorin had been homesick for over a hundred years.


	72. Right to Rule

Kili ran the edge of the knife between bone and flesh, gently teasing out the strands of sinew from the skinned carcass. He worked carefully and quietly, with his head bent over and hair pushed back. A strand fell free from where it had been tucked behind his ear. Kili’s eyes flicked upwards, but his hands were wet and sticky with congealing blood.

He was glad for the peace and solitude, working undisturbed on the dead beast with a low chatter around him. No one could see his face bent over the bloodied mess of bone and muscle, and he didn’t need to wear that tight mask for a little while. He could feel his face relaxing. His hair had fallen forward and hung over his shoulders, a tangled veil across his face. Kili breathed in deeply, as though the long, slow intakes of air could soothe his viciously beating heart.

Perhaps he had gone mad. Kili would almost believe it here. Only a madman would have the stupid, insane idea to somehow creep into an orcish lair and think that he could rescue someone locked up in their tightest dungeons, awaiting one of those awful deaths that made spines prickle and stomachs churn. Kili was planning the impossible. He was risking his own life. But he didn’t care in that moment, surrounded by trees and orcs and deer-carcasses. What else was he to do - let one of his best friends _die_ like that for a crime that he had never committed? Kili’s heart rushed again, a sick wave crumpling in his chest and he held his breath for a moment, waiting for that violent flash of nerves and anger to fade.

“You are up.” Kili jumped, looking up to see that young orc who first found him. He sat cross-legged, the skinned deer stretched out on the bloodied grass between them. “Feeling better this afternoon?”

“I don’t think I’ve slept so long before in my life.” Kili murmured truthfully. “Um… Ilzkhaal, is it?” The orc nodded. “I need to thank you.” He kept his voice low. “For seeing who I was - telling them not to shoot me.” Ilzkhaal broke into a smile. “I shouldn’t have been so aggressive. I was… on edge I guess.” That wasn’t a lie. Kili tried to shake the hair plastered on his cheek, spitting out threads of brown. 

“Here.” Resting one one hand, the orc leaned across the carcass, pushing Kili’s dark locks back from his face, behind his ears. “We shouldn’t have chased you. Tarbaam’s kicking himself, thinking how close it got. Bolg would have had his skin.”

“Bolg.” Kili repeated, running through the name in his mind. He watched Ilzkhaal settle back down in the grass. “So he is coming then.” He tried to sift through Azog’s words on his son. He didn’t say much about him, the pale orc, but when he did, his words were heavy with pride, almost reverence. There was real love there. He had to be out - he had to be gone from the outpost town before he arrived, or else Kili would never be able to leave. He didn’t know what Bolg would even think of him. Would he respect his father’s work? Would he carry on Azog’s protection, or would he see Kili as some sort of threat to get rid of? Kili kept the careful mask fixed on his still face. He wished he could know.

“Should be here within the week.” Kili had long abandoned his efforts to tear the sinews free. He kept the knife gripped in his hand, almost as though he was afraid to let it go. “The town’s never had anyone like him before - they’re going all out I hear. Nothing ever happens to us. We get a lot of travellers but nothing like him.”

“Nothing happening is good.” Kili’s voice sounded dull. A week. He had one week - if that - to plan this, to try and get Nazarg out without arousing suspicion. Could he even do it? “Don’t be a young idiot that craves adventure. It never goes well.” The orc sat up a little more, holding his ankles in thin bony hands.

“Tarbaam told me you’d be coming back with us.” He jerked his head in the direction of the hidden mountain range. “I’m going up too. Mautor - he’s the one that runs the place - will be all over you I’m sure but if you can spare some time, come and see me.” There was another flicker of a smile, small and anxious. “It’s quiet and boring on the surface, but there’s a lot of fun, if you know where to look.” Kili bit back a snort. It seemed ridiculous. Fun. When was the last time he had any fun?

But Kili didn’t throw it all back in the orc’s face. He returned the smile instead, warm and genuine. “I’ll take you up on that.” He wasn’t a fool. If he wanted to survive this, get through unscathed, he was going to need every friend he could get.  
  


* * *

  
It was a sad little cluster of tents and ponies gathered at the edge of the riverside. A cold wind whipped up through the Desolation (and Thranduil wondered if they would give this land a new name, as the green grew through the ash and dirt and life dared to fill the valley as the dragon lay rotting in the water, of if they would leave it as a reminder of what they had lost) and the little camp, pitched against rocks in a bit for shelter, trembled in the breeze.

At his side, with his two still-broken fingers tightly bound and a green sash around his head. Legolas audibly gasped. Thranduil gave his son a sidelong look, his own jaw tense. He could sense the shock in those deep blue eyes. Was this it? Guiding his beast onwards as a small party galloped ahead, Thranduil scanned the camp with sharp blue eyes. What this really all the fighting men who survived the destruction of Lake-Town? Had Gunnar, so foolishly and thoughtlessly, pulled so many of his own men out of the city on their desperate search of the wildlands? He masked his surprise, keeping everything back as he always did beneath that cool exterior of flawless marble. The men ran up to meet the scouts, waved their arms and shouted, with their joy and relief obvious.

There was no pretence. The elves saw their wide eyes and knew immediately what it was they wanted. Whatever food that survived had been left for the women and children beneath the lake-side eaves. The _lembas_ disappeared in handfuls, with crumbs wiped from mouths and leaves tossed carelessly to the dusty ground. Legolas leaned against the flank of his horse, gently stroking the fine hair. He felt awkward. Removed and apart from the rest, Thranduil waited until strained pale faces warmed with colour and grim lines softened into smiles before alighting from his mount. 

“Where is your leader?” The small crowd parted effortlessly for Thranduil, shining like a gem against the dull grey of ash and stone. His eyes narrowed. “Where’s Maxwell and his men?”

“Gone.” It was a middle-aged man who spoke up, his voice low. “Burned with the city… your Majesty.” Thranduil raised an eyebrow, but was otherwise silent. With Gunnar up north and the Master dead, he wondered who was leading this broken little band of men. Who would have had the fortitude to declare a march on the Lonely Mountain? “Bard’s taking charge for now.”

“Where is this Bard?” Thranduil pressed. “I must speak with him.” But the man looked down at the ground, shoulders slumped.

“In… In there, your Majesty.” He gestured loosely towards a ragged tent. “With his son.” Thranduil tilted his head half a degree to the left, eyes narrowing imperceptibly.

“What’s wrong.” After a short sigh, the man finally lifted his gaze.

“He’s dying.” His voice was blunt. “His son Bain, he was wounded in Smaug’s attack.” Thranduil paused. “He started getting sick, the day before last, and we did our best but he collapsed after noon and hasn’t…” The elf-king wasn’t around to hear the rest. He marched straight through the loose crowd, bending almost double to step inside the tent.

Bard sat hunched over, head bent deeply over a dark mess of curls resting in his lap. The air was heavy and muffled. A laboured, pained breathing wracked the tent, and Bard himself was utterly silent.

“What happened.” Thranduil’s voice was toneless, and he didn’t mean it to be. The man didn’t look up, speaking down to the lifeless face resting between his shaking hands.

“I-I don’t know.” He was on the verge of tears. Thranduil felt his throat tightening as he crept towards the pair. “I thought I was keeping the infection out - I made sure the water was clean and I gave him the right herbs - It was just a…” Bard’s voice faded away as he lifted his head, noting in an instant Thranduil’s silvered robe, the crown of gilded branches on his head.

“Just a what?” Thranduil kneeled beside the boy, peering through the gloom at the grey smudge of a face.

“Just a scratch.” Crystal-blue eyes widened. There was no mask of propriety on Thranduil’s face as he pressed his palm against the child’s sweaty forehead, feeling the cold skin. He leaned in closer, checking for a tint of greenish-yellow on Bain’s cheeks. Dragon-poison. Thranduil had seen it before; that clammy lifelessness sank beyond a regular infection. He bit his lip. Just a scratch indeed.

“You’re cooking him in these blankets.” That toneless boredom was clipped from Thranduil’s voice. He tore the furs and woven shawls from the boy, resting his fingertips on the damp bandages that crossed his chest. A weak pulse beat against his skin. “It’s too muffled in here. The child needs to breathe.” Bard could only stare openmouthed as the elf-king slid his arms beneath shoulder and elbow, cradling Bain against his chest. “Take his things and lay them out by the campfire.”

As he emerged, Thranduil bowed his head against a cold breeze, knife-sharp against his cheeks. Bain’s clammy skin was the colour of an old bruise, the skin around his eyes black and sagging. His lips were grey. Bard cried out when he saw his son in the daylight. His knees weakened and he almost fell, clinging to the worn remnants of his bed. Thranduil carried the boy through the milling crowd, waiting by the fire for Bard to throw down the blankets and furs. The breath rattled in Bains lungs, a loose stone in a cooking-pot, rusted and empty.

“Dillan, bring me your things.” Thranduil’s voice rose into the clouds, sweeping across the dirt. Reaching for the knife at his waist, he lay Bain on his side and easily sliced through the repurposed bandages. There was a sharp intake of breath as they fell away. The scratch, running from shoulder-blade to hip, had gone black. The veins spread like ink-lines across yellowing skin. Bard closed his eyes for a moment, swallowing heavily before fixing a desperate gaze on the elf-king.

“Will he...”

“Dragon-poison is nasty.” Thranduil accepted the pack set down beside him. He couldn’t trust Dillan to do this. No one else had ever seen a wound like this before and it was never the sort of thing that could quite be captured in books and careful instructions. Thranduil lifted out a carved wooden box. “It attacks the body and the mind for days before death finally arrives.” Bard stared at him as slim hands rifled through salves and bottles and dried leaves. “But your son will not die, Bard.” He was no stranger to dragon’s flame, and in the ruins of ash and fire the fire-drakes left behind, Thranduil learned the art of survival, of helping others survive.

While he worked, Thranduil ushered Dillan in, and on second thought, Legolas too. Bard remained frozen on the ground, a stunned fish watching the elf-king cast off the glittering robe and roll up his sleeves, crushing seeds into oils with complete composure. Thranduil asked the man questions, about who he was, why he had been assigned the leader, if it was snatched up or forced upon him. Bard’s responded in dull monosyllables, staring at his child. Thranduil could feel the surprise in the eyes on him, his hands. He felt a little smug as he packed the wound with the sharp poultice, instructing the healer to take the hot stones from the fire and lay them on the child’s back to draw the poison out. No one here had seen him get his hands dirty like this before.

Bard approached Thranduil as he crouched at the river, washing the clotted blood and fragments of leaf-paste from his hands. “I cannot thank you enough, your Majesty.” Thranduil hid a smile as he withdrew his hands from the ice-cold water and wiped them on his trousers. “Bain - will he live?”

“The dragon-poison will not kill him.” Thranduil responded carefully. “The poultice will draw the poison out and by morning he should wake.” The man’s face visibly sagged. He sat down on a large rock, destroyed with exhausting relief. Thranduil stood before him, the wind chilly against his silk clothes. “Your line will not end, King Bard.”

“Please don’t call me that.” Bard’s face looked grey in the late afternoon light. “I’m not a king.” Thranduil raised a dark eyebrow. Truly the reluctant hero.

“I’ve seen ages of men rise and fall, Bard.” But he didn’t call him a king again. There was a sharp glint in Bard’s eye, mistrusting. Thranduil read the man so effortlessly. Someone who had the whispered promise of greatness, who shoved it aside and clung to humility, thinking that the echoes of his ancestors would fade away into the wind. He saw Bard’s raw, open face and in an instant he trusted him. The slayer of Smaug and great-great-great grandson of Girion Lord of Dale. It was the sort of perfect coincidence written in songs and legends. “If more people like you had been king, then perhaps the world would be less dark.”

* * *

 But not all kings had a story-book coronation.

Thorin stood alone before the empty throne of Erebor, the sound picks and shovels against stone like a distant, pattering rain. There were threads of light, pale and faint but enough for him to not need a torch. His hands balled into fists as he stood before the stone chair. The throne.

His throne.

He was yet to sit upon it. He felt as though it would break beneath his weight, as though the long years of disuse had rendered the stone brittle. Thorin took a short, shuffling step towards the imposing seat but he came no closer, leaving a six-foot gap. His eyes locked onto that empty hole in the stone, a heart torn from it’s ribcage, leaving the body to rot. A shiver ran down his spine and Thorin could feel the air against his neck. It felt like a whisper.

An empty throne. It just wasn’t a body that it lacked. It was the glittering, throbbing heart, buried beneath a wave of gold and seemingly lost forever. Thorin wouldn’t - he couldn’t - sit on that chair of stone until the Arkenstone had been replaced. He wasn’t a king without it. That stone was everything to him. It was his right to call himself king, to stand in these halls and proclaim his divine will. The Arkenstone was the crown, far more than any wrought trinket of gold and gems.

He walked down to the treasure chamber, leaving the raindrops of metal behind. It was a short distance between treasure chamber and throne room, Thror had made sure of that. The torches had been left burning in brackets against the wall and the gold gleamed like copper. Thorin scaled the nearest monumental pile of gold, and with two hands began to do what he had done all day yesterday, and the day before that. He shovelled, tunneling fruitlessly through the gold, watching as the coins slid into the shallow pits he made with his grubby hands. Frustration mounted as time wore on, sweat gathered on his scalp and Thorin paused to throw off his heavy clothes and mail, stripped down to his trousers and a very dirty undersirt.

“No - damn damn _damn_!” Thorin boomed, kicking out at a large golden cup. With clink, it rolled away, down the mountainside of gold, down, down until it fell against stone and lay lifeless before a pair of large hairy feet.

“Everything all right, Thorin?” Bilbo thrust his hand in his pocket, squeezing the lump of fabric. Thorin turned with a snarl and for a brief moment Bilbo was reminded of something else, something dark and angry and violent. He drew back, wincing as he stepped on a sapphire.

“... I’m fine.” The darkness was smoothed over. Thorin swallowed and turned away from the hobbit, eyes locked on his filling pit of gold. “I’m having a hard time trying to find the Arkenstone. You must have remembered my speaking of it.”

“O-Of course I do.” Bilbo’s voice cracked and he screwed up his face, inwardly cursing himself. “It sounds spectacular.” He took a slow step towards Thorin, and another and another until he was climbing, clumsy and faltering, slipping occasionally.

“It is.” Thorin glared down at the gold, willing the stone to appear. “I’ve searched for days, Bilbo. I’ve told you all about it, to keep your eyes open, yet I see nothing.” Bilbo bit down very hard on his tongue. “Smaug would have seen it. He had a century to pile that gold. He must have seen it!” His voice rose and Bilbo jerked, tasting blood. “Where is it!”

“Thorin,” With the guilt burning unchecked inside of him, Bilbo tried desperately to placate him. “Don’t worry, it’s just a stone-”

“ _Just a stone?”_ Bilbo gasped as Thorin towered over him in his dirty clothes. “How dare you - just a stone?” He thundered, blue eyes flashing. “That gem is everything to me Bilbo. I would rather have the Arkenstone than this entire gold-hoard! It is _everything!”_  
  
“Everything.” Bilbo’s voice trembled and he took a step back, his clenched fist growing wet. “Thorin please, you need to let this go.”  
  
“I will _not,_ ” Thorin strode forward and grabbed Bilbo by the elbow. He released his hold on the Arkenstone, eyes growing wide as Thorin pulled him close. “Let it go.” The voice was locked in Bilbo’s throat. “You cannot imagine how long I have dreamed of the day where I will sit in that throne with the Arkenstone above me. That seat is nothing without it - _I_ am nothing without it.”  
  
“You can’t believe that.” Bilbo finally roused a whisper. “Thorin you are a _good_ king. You’re brave and strong and clever - you don’t need a stone to convince you of that.” Thorin’s grip slipped from his arm, and he stared at the hobbit for a long time, deep and thoughtful. He sat down slowly, looking burned out.

“I haven’t been a king.” He spoke quietly, sharing a secret. Bilbo sat down carefully, crossing his legs and watching. “What we had - Ered Luin - is no kingdom.” He examined a ridge of dirt beneath his nail. “What right do I have to rule? Blood? That isn’t enough. You need strength, and might and honour.” Bilbo could feel the stone in his pocket, a lead weight dragging him down. “Bilbo - I have _no one_ to tell me that I can do this. Thror and Thrain, they’re gone and I never knew if I was good enough for them.” Blue eyes lifted. “Not finding the stone, it feels like an omen. It fills me with doubt, Bilbo. It makes me wonder if I am destined to sit on that throne, after all.”  
  
Bilbo gasped through the sour taste in his mouth. “Well - I don’t know about those sorts of things,” he tried to keep that rational, practical tone in his voice “but I know that you led us through an _awful_ lot, Thorin. With Azog - and Mirkwood, and Lake-Town and Smaug, you didn’t let us down. Not once.” He saw the Arkenstone for what it was now. A crutch. An anchor. Something that held Thorin up but at the same time dragged him down. He wanted to grab Thorin by the front of the shirt and shake sense into him. He didn’t have to tie his self-worth to a stupid stone. The safest place for it was in Bilbo’s pocket, hidden from sight but never from mind.  
  
“I’ve failed.” Thorin said simply. “I’ve failed more times than I can count. My brother, my sister, my nephews-” his voice cracked. “My people deserve better than what I’ve given them.”  
  
“And you thought if you had the stone, it was a sign.” Bilbo whispered. “That you were supposed to be here, that this really was yours and no one else’s.” He ached for Thorin, mired in this agonising self-doubt. He reached into his pocket, heart thudding in his throat. “We’ll find it Thorin. It will be here.”  
  
“There is nowhere else it could be.” Something broke in Thorin’s face. His face snapped, like a thin blank breaking under a heavy weight and his lip curled. He spoke to himself, rather than Bilbo. “All this searching - I cannot help but wonder…” 

Bilbo quickly pulled his hand out of his pocket.

“Wonder what?” He forced a shaky smile, sweat trickling down his temple as he read that ugly expression on Thorin’s face in an instant. He felt Thorin peel back his skin, digging into his heart and brain with sharp blue eyes.  
  
Thorin searched the half-shadow of Bilbo’s face, half horrified that he would even consider something to cruel and heartless, half sickeningly suspicious that he had stumbled into a painful truth. _Bilbo was the first one here_. He was alone, without dragon or dwarf in that chamber, under the cover of darkness. How easy would it be to simply wrap the Arkenstone in his handkerchief before the others met him, and slip it inside his pocket…

No. It was _impossible_. Not Bilbo. Bilbo was pure, incorruptible, the only one who didn’t give a fig for gold and came here with a pure, unbridled lust for the unknown. Bilbo was the last person Thorin could ever expect of such treachery, besides his family. It was unfathomable. Wasn’t it?  
  
“Nothing, Bilbo.” He tried to hold on to those warm feelings he knew were buried deep, Bibo’s word’s of comfort, his assertion that Thorin was _deserving_ of this, that he had already proven himself in the eyes of his people and he didn’t need any stone to justify himself.

But that conviction was crushed beneath a solid, heavy rock in his chest, one that made it hard for Thorin to breathe, and refused to move. He tried to feel his heart beating, tried to feel the pulse of blood through his veins but Thorin was cold. He felt in that reddish light that he’d been without a beating heart for a while. It had been ripped out of his chest months before and he tried to thrust a stone in place of it. The heart of the Mountain. Thorin’s heart was the Mountain. It was Erebor, in every sense of the world. He had never taken wife or lover, never made room in his heart for another. He closed his eyes and felt the cave-air fill his lungs.

And he surrendered himself to her, completely. There was never a fight. Thorin had sworn his faith and love to the Arkenstone, to Erebor and to the throne, before he knew what the oath had even meant. Thorin felt fractured. The Mountain was simply taking her fair dues.

He would find that stone or else he would die.


	73. Stone-sick

Fili sat with his legs draped over the nearly-built wall, staring out at the silvered ground with his mouth twisted in a small, wrinkled knot. His sword was draped across his lap, polished and sharpened and ready for battle. He hoped he’d never have to use it. Fili tried to put the raven’s words out of his mind. He tried to forget about the army marching on their home, fronted by a man with as much of a blood-right to some of that gold as Thorin himself.

He set the sword aside and pulled out the gold coin. Girion’s face was almost indistinguishable in the darkness. Fili turned it over in his hands, running his fingertips over the carved image of the thrush in flight. He could only hope, in that cold nighttime air, that Thorin would somehow regain his senses and understand the folly of his stubborn arrogance. Whether he wanted to accept it or not, that gold wasn’t his, not completely. There was a second claim and he had to respect that. He had to show compassion and companionship for his newfound allies. He couldn’t afford to make and enemy of Thranduil and Lake-Town. Gold couldn’t buy everything.

“Fili?” The blonde jumped at the thin little voice at the bottom of the wall. “Is that you? You’re still on watch?”

“Until the moon dips below the ridge.” He still had another hour to go. He watched as Bilbo climbed the steep rough-cut steps in the stone to the top of the fortifications. He stood on a pile of bricks and took a seat beside Fili, curling his bare toes in the moonlight. “Can’t sleep?”

“Not particularly.” Bilbo glanced backwards over his shoulder, into the mouth of the Front Gate. It was dark as pitch and no moonlight could pierce that thick muffled blackness. He turned his face back to the moonlight with a little shiver, biting his lip. “I… I wanted to talk to you.” He slowly admitted. “Alone.”

“Oh?” Fili put the coin back in his pocket and sat up. “What about?” But he needn’t ask. They both exactly who it was that plagued Bilbo’s mind like this. The hobbit buried his hand in his pocket, eyes glinting like smooth obsidian.

“I’m worried about Thorin.” He murmured. “He’s becoming… unstable.” Fili’s face was still. This wasn’t news to him. “He’s losing control of himself, Fili.” The hobbit scooted a little closer, balling his hands into a fist around the bound Arkenstone. “It's not this dragon-sickness business that everyone keeps talking about. I thought it was, but when I spoke to him,” he licked his lips “I realised that he’s not tied to just the gold. That’s only a small part of… of all of this.” Fili slowly shifted so he could look Bilbo in the eye. “He doesn’t think he’s good enough.”

Fili shook his head. “That’s ridiculous.” He said flatly. “Bilbo - I know Thorin. He’s bitter and self-loathing but he’s never had a doubt about this. This is all he’s ever wanted, for over a hundred years.” His mind drifted back to the long, dusty night in his dead grandmother’s room. The back of his neck prickled at the memory.

“Trust me.” Bilbo begged. “I saw him - I spoke to him and he had the bearing of someone afraid.” He paused to breathe. “It’s not the gold that’s consumed him. It’s the Arkenstone, and the power that’s died to it. He sees it as a symbol of his right to rule. And now that it seems lost, Thorin is convinced it is an omen that he is unfit to be king.”

“... Oh.” Fili didn’t know what else to say. He truly had no idea that Thorin was so self-conscious and unsure of himself. He had always been a rock, that perfect embodiment of strength and honour that Fili had aspired to for so many years, even as the lies started coming out, even as Fili started to realise just how wrong it was to believe all of that, Thorin still seemed as single-minded and focused on that throne as ever. Nothing seemed more important to him - not even _Kili_ … “He never told me.”

“Thorin is good at keeping a secret.” Bilbo hurried his voice, a low, urgent whisper. He didn’t know how long he had. “But he’s not the only one.” Bilbo steeled himself as he pulled his fist out of his pocket, holding the wrapped bundle in both hands. Fili froze. Bilbo pushed it into his shaking palms. “He’s starting to suspect, Fili.” He unwrapped the stone slowly.  “He doesn’t trust me anymore. I can see it in his eyes. He won’t trust anyone, only you.” Fili gasped as a glint of dizzying light touched his cheek, bright as sunlight and a thousand colours, all at once. He closed his hand around the stone, shaking his head.

“Bilbo-” Horror was written painfully on his face. “What have you _done?_ ”

“I was selfish, at first.” Bilbo wrung his hands. “I just - I saw it and I wanted it, so I put it in my pocket. I was going to tell him and then the ravens came and he blew up. I got scared, seeing that anger, and I started to realise, the more I saw him, that giving it to him - it would hurt him, in the end. It’s dangerous, Fili. Very dangerous.”

“Oh Mahal.” Fili hurriedly re-wrapped the bundle, feeling faint. “How are you going to keep this from him?” He clutched it close to his chest. “He’ll _find_ it and he’ll know-”

“Help me.” Bilbo was desperate. “Fili - you’re the _only_ one he wouldn’t ever suspect - except perhaps Balin and Dwalin but they would take his straight to him, I know.” Fili’s mouth was dry. “Keep it. Hide it.” Fili stared into his black-stone eyes. “ _Please_.”

“You are the worst sort of fool, Bilbo Baggins.” His hands shaking, Fili thrust the stone deep into his pocket. He felt sick. This wasn’t was he wanted, not for a moment. This was a betrayal of his uncle - keeping this secret from him, it was treason. If Fili was caught, his life wouldn’t be worth living. He couldn’t do this. He would never betray Thorin, not ever.

_Help me._ Fili looked at the sinking moon. His watch was almost over. He felt the lump of fabric against his thigh, heart throbbing heavier at the sensation. What could he do? Throw Bilbo to the wolves, after he’d come seeking Fili’s help? Promise to keep his secret and then expose his treachery? Fili was many things, but he was not a liar. His head ached. _Mahal, save me from this._  


* * *

“The _dwarf?”_

Mautor rose straight from his carved seat at the words. He was a tall creature, past his prime. Several decades ago, he bristled with raw force and power, but his muscles were now shrivelled and deflated, hidden under spiked armour of iron and rough-hide. He still had the air of a war-like captain, commander of armies and bringer of blood and suffering. Drûth’s face flickered in his low bow, and he nodded.

“Azog’s?” He studied the orc’s face, lip curling over yellowed teeth. He felt stunned. He had wondered, longer than most, what a dwarf-orc would be like, how he would speak and act and eat. How completely orcish would someone like him truly become? “What is he doing out here?”

“Pursued by elves, your Greatness.” Drûth replied. “Has been for some weeks, it would seem.”

“Bring him in.” Mautor returned to his skull-encrusted throne as two guards scurried out of the wide room where the orc-captain held his own pretences at court. He tapped his sharp nails against the leather, pretending to look bored, perhaps a little curious, as the doors swung open and a small figure stepped into the room.

Slowly, Mautor lifted his head from his hand, staring. The dwarf walked with his head held high, straight-backed and unafraid but nursing a limp. He didn’t look at the murmuring clusters of orcs, the line of guards along the walls, the turning spit-fire with an undeniably _human_ shape crackling in the flames. His brown eyes found the orc-captain and fixed on him, his mouth and jaw set in hard stone.

“So you claim to be Kili.” Mautor leaned forward a little to get a better look at the creature. he was smaller than expected, looking as though he needed a good meal and some better clothes. He looked more like a trapped urchin, making up a lie to keep himself from joining that spitted carcass turning in the fire, putting on airs of bravery. His eyes narrowed. “Prove it to me.” The dwarf made a small noise of disgust in his throat and after a pause, slowly stepped forward. He pushed up the sleeve of his right arm. The brand-mark shone plainly in the lantern-light, raised scar tissue in the shape of Azog’s mark. Mautor’s hand curled into the arm of his throne and he found his back tensing.

“Is that proof enough?” Kili spoke in flawless Black Speech and it took Mautor aback, hearing their language on the lips of a dwarf. His hands fell back to his sides. He hadn’t moved his head an inch, and it remained level and steady. “Or would you like me to show you the other scars.”

“No - I believe you.” There was something _chilling_ in those dark eyes. It wasn’t just an act, this stiff-backed steadiness. Mautor snarled. The dwarf really didn’t fear him at all. Why would he? Even his worst actions were a pale shadow of the brutality that made Azog so famous. He was _nothing_ to Kili. Just another orc. He found his hand clenching into a fist. So it was true - the screaming confessions they had dragged out of bloodied lips weren’t the mad gabbling of the insane. He read Kili’s soul, cracked and blackened, through those fixed eyes. “What brought you here?” The orc-captain challenged, leaning forward a little to hear the dwarf’s reply.

“Where would I go?” Kili had been thinking this through, every inflection, every glance of his eyes and rocking syllable. He had a plan in his head. He had to convince this orc that he had truly turned, that there was _nothing_ but vile darkness in his heart and he was totally beyond any redemption. “Back to the elves who want my head, or my _piece of shit_ uncle who left me to die?” He let his voice quaver with the last word, thrusting his jaw out. “If you want to kill me, do it. I’m dead wherever I go.”

“I’m not going to kill you.” He traced an index finger over a crack in the throne, mulling it over. Kili’s hands twitched at his side. Mautor smirked. “I’m going to help you.” It would be a shame to undo such fine work. Him and his people, they had been told countless times that they were born in darkness, bred in evil and corrupted in the womb. They were cursed from birth with an unmatched brutality that existed nowhere else. Bullshit lies that Mautor had always been keen to question and here was the evidence. Even though he had no trace of orc-blood, Kili, if the stories were true, was just as dark and violent as any of his lieutenants. “What is it you want, Kili?” Dark eyes lowered for a moment to the ground, deep in thought as he considered the orc’s answer.

“Nothing much.” It was no difficulty to act beaten-down and broken. “A bed. Food. Somewhere to stay.” Kili knew there was no way of getting the better of this orc or any others through sheer force of strength and shows of violence. Mautor was a seasoned veteran and he could flick Kili away like a bug. This was a battle of the mind and Kili knew he could win. He could outsmart these orcs. He could outsmart _anybody_.

“I’ll give you everything you want.” Kili’s throat bobbed in a near-imperceptible gulp at Mautor’s words. He didn’t like those eyes on him, pale and runny as egg-whites. He didn’t like the way the orc’s lip curled, the way he licked his teeth and stared at him as though he was a carcass, to be butchered and sectioned. It went beyond simple curiosity. He wanted something from Kili.

He only hoped he wouldn’t hang around long enough to see it taken.

A guard led Kili first to an icy cave-stream and gave him a lump of soap made from pig-fat and ash and a coarse towel. The orc waited expectantly for Kili to undress tapping his foot with low sighs and looking up at the stone ceiling. It was a strip search, in all but name. No hands ran over Kili and poked and probed, but his eyes didn’t leave Kili’s skinny frame for a moment, except to pick through the clothes, searching for any concealed weapons. They weren't entirely sure of him yet. Kili clenched his teeth and shivered in the freezing water, self-consciously angling himself away from the orc and raking his nails over the weeks of grime that clung to his skin.

He scrubbed until he couldn’t stand the water any more, his fingers stiff and lips purpling. The guard held his clothes under one arm, and as Kili reached out, the towel around his waist, he only shook his head. “Not these rags, we’ll get you a proper kit.” It was the first words he’d spoken in Kili’s presence, and his voice had a sharp, grating quality that ran like a shudder across Kili’s damp skin.

“This is yours.” It was a small alcove of a room, built from granite bricks into the stone. A bed, a three-legged table with a lantern, a chair. Clothes were laid out for him on the bed, a pair of stout boots waiting by the door. “If it doesn’t fit, let me know when I come back.” And then he was gone, the door pushed closed and Kili was alone in the little room.

He pulled on a pair of grey underthings and held up the trousers. A little wide in the waist and long in the leg, but these orcs were tall and lanky, and he knew not to be picky. He pulled on a sleeveless shirt of soft leather, and sat on the edge of the bed with the last garment in his hands. It was a thigh-length jacket of grey fur, studded at the edges with the teeth of what looked like wargs and decorated with rib-bones. It looked like something a high-ranking officer would wear, the bones and teeth displayed like medals. Kili’s stomach turned as he examined it, feeling the bones and knowing they were too dense for deer, too small for wolf or bear. He draped it over the chair and lay down on the lumpy mattress, rubbing at his arms.

This was it then. Kili turned on his side, facing outwards with a pillow of rough linen against his cheek. The orcs accepted him - they took him in like one of their own, fed and clothed him and gave him a bed. He was more welcome here than he was in Lake-Town. Kili reached up into his hair, which had escaped the chilly bath. His clasp was still fastened in his dark locks, even after all this time. He slowly took it out now, wincing as it snagged on a loose hair, and held it before his eyes, watching the silver gleam in the wavering lanternlight.

Half of a whole. Part of a matched set. He wound his fingers around it and raised the clenched fist to his lips. Kili held his breath but found there weren’t any tears to cry out. He simply lay there on the bed, dry-eyed with the hair-clasp trapped in his grip. He was beyond the point of pain or shock or confusion. In fact he felt truly _alive_ for the first time in weeks. He wasn’t a vague wanderer, drifting aimlessly across the wildlands. He was real, solid again. He had a purpose. Kili would throw everything he had into finding his poor friend and saving his life. He owed _everything_ to Nazarg and in return he doomed him, murdering Azog and his retinue and abandoning the innocent healer to face punishment for his crimes. Kili’s stomach twisted in a knot of guilt and shame. Nazarg would probably hate him now. He would never trust him again

Kili sat up with a frown. _No_. There was one part of the story that still didn’t make sense to him - they thought Kili was _innocent_. Some sort of unwilling participant, at the centre of Nazarg’s motivation but removed from any guilt. He managed to convince his tormentors that he was the one who committed murder. He took every ounce of blame from Kili’s shoulders and managed to hold on to the story, throughout everything. He still cared for Kili. He still wanted him to be safe.

No one had ever been so devoted. _No one_. No one had suffered for him, had taken blame and stepped in Kili’s place to receive a punishment. Not even his brother, who stayed back and remained quiet while Kili was reproved for countless infractions. Not his uncle, who left him in Azog’s hands, seduced by the allure of his long-lost gold, and then watched silently as he was dragged away in Lake-Town. No one had stuck up for Kili the way the orc-healer had.

The clasped slipped through his fingers and Kili pressed his hands over his face. He felt his chest trembling now, at the sickening realisation that despite all of Kili’s rudeness, his pushing aside of Nazarg and lashing out at him in anger, he did more for Kili than his own family ever had. Kili drew his knees in close and pressed forehead against thick-stitched leather.

_I’m going to save you._ Kili vowed, in his head in case there were spies listening. It was what Nazarg deserved - and more. Kili would save him - he would - and if it was at the cost of his own life, then it was a price Kili would pay a dozen times over.

* * *

Fili couldn’t sleep. He lay awake until the dawn, the Arkenstone like a burning coal in his pocket, a constant reminder of what Bilbo had forced upon him the treason he committed which grew with every passing moment. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. This was supposed to be a joyous culmination of _everything_ Fili had fought for. This was his life’s work.

But instead, he felt scared. The thought of all that gold, it left him cold, his stomach churning and Fili hated himself for it. The others, they all seemed so overjoyed to be home, to have the gold running through their fingers, rediscovering old treasures and retracing the steps of a life they had thought was lost forever. Only Ori and Bilbo had that same uneasy quietness. It was impossible for Fili to enjoy this gold with the thought of an army marching on their doorstep. It still didn’t feel like his, and it wouldn’t until he knew he could rest easy without their right to the throne and the gold that surrounded it safe and unchallenged.

But it had been challenged, for as long as Fili could remember. Dain challenged it, naming his own son Thorin in a bald-faced effort to change the direction of Durin’s line. Vili, his grandfather, he challenged it when he claimed Fili for himself, a blood-right that still stood and would only be severed when Thorin had the might to wield a sword heavy enough to break that bond. Thranduil challenged it, keeping them captive unless they swore never to return to Erebor. Thorin had faced those attacks on his right, hammer-blows at his armour, denting the steel and breaking it apart. And now, there was one last strike against his uncle, the army that came to bully the gold out of Thorin as compensation for the destruction they had indirectly wrought. It was no wonder that Thorin felt so tired and fragmented. Fili didn’t know how he managed to hold himself together at all.

He finally sat up as the light turned grey, watched as the slumped figures began to yawn and stretch and murmur to each other. It was only then that Fili realised Thorin’s bed was empy. On his elbow, Bilbo looked from the vacant spot to Fili, biting his lip. They both got up, heading autonomously down the wide hallway that let them down into the treasure room.

“Did you hear anything?” Bilbo breathed in Fili’s hear, holding his elbow. “Did you notice he had left when you got back?”

“It was dark, I couldn’t see anything.” Fili’s stomach was still churning and now he felt a twisted cramp spreading from his abdomen. Guilt. Unease. “I couldn’t sleep - so he didn’t slip out after my watch was over, I would have heard him.”

“Oh no.” Bilbo groaned. “So - he was there all night?”

He was.

They both stared at the entranceway of the vast treasure room, aching. Thorin had thrown off his coat and furs; he stood in a shirt rolled up to the elbows. He dug into the side of the vast mountain of treasure bare-handed, a thick scar running through the gold and spilling across the floor. Despite the chill of the room, his hair was matted with sweat, dark patches beneath his arms and at the small of his back. Fili made a small, strangled noise in the base of his throat and on instinct Bilbo grabbed his hand, squeezing it tight for a brief moment. They looked at each other, Bilbo trying to put a brave face on and failing, Fili simply looking as though he were about to be sick.

“Thorin?” It was the hobbit who stepped forward, wringing his hands. The dwarf stopped and turned back to look at him. His face gleamed with sweat, eyes ringed with grey. The blue seemed to be leaking out of them Fili bit down on his lip, feeling it quake as he watched his uncle straighten, taking slow, ragged strides toward the pair.

“Bilbo-” Fili reached out to grab his friend and pull him back, but Thorin was quicker. He seized the front of Bilbo’s shirt, lifting him two feet off the ground and slamming him against the stone wall of the cave. “Thorin _no!”_

“Where is it!” Wild-eyed, Thorin shook him, as though the Arkenstone would fall out of his pocket and roll along the ground. “I have been looking _all night_ and it is not here! You took it, I _know_ you did!” Holding Bilbo by the neck with one hand, he thrust his hand into his coat pockets.

“Stop this!” Fili grabbed his uncle’s arm, wrenching him away. Thorin strained against him, snarling as his grip was severed. Fili took hold of both wrists as Bilbo sank to the ground, clutching his throat and coughing. Fili threw all of his weight against Thorin, pushing him to the ground. “Mahal Bilbo get _out_ of here!” On his knees, Thorin tried to lunge for the retreating figure, but Fili held fast, anchoring himself to the rock.

“Let me go - that _traitor_ I’ll have his skin!” Fili gritted his teeth and waited for his exhausted uncle’s madness to fade. Terror welled up and he felt the stone pressing against Thorin’s leg as he struggled against him. “There’s nowhere else it could be - he must have it!” His hands shaking, Fili tried to hold on and stop the violent rushing in his ears. He couldn’t do this - he _couldn’t_. This was what the poor hobbit was afraid of, when he pushed the stone into Fili’s hands and begged him to take it. He saw this anger coming, saw flashes in Thorin’s blue eyes. Holding back a moan, Fili tried to take the dwarf’s face in his heavy, trembling hands.

“Uncle, _stop._ ” His broken voice cut through the fog over Thorin’s ears and eyes. He gripped Fili’s shoulders in an attempt to push him off, but as their eyes locked, his fingers seized up and the choked cries died in his throat. All that came out were short, heaving gasps. “Stop this. Please.” He pressed his forehead against Thorin’s, feeling hot damp skin.

“Where is it.” It wasn’t a scream that issued from those lips. It was a low, broken moan on the edge of his voice. Fili wound his arms around Thorin’s neck, not trusting himself to speak. “Why can I find it.”

“I-I don’t know.” He finally gasped, the stone throbbing in his pocket like a heart. Fili raked his fingers through tangled black curls as Thorin held his pain inside, chest convulsing with the effort. He wanted, more than _anything_ , to press that wrapped gem in Thorin’s hands and watch that grief-stricken madness shudder and break. He wanted to stop this insanity from spreading further and poisoning his uncle’s mind. This wasn’t dragon-sickness. This wasn’t an inherent disease, passed from father to son in a hazy lust for gold. This ran deeper, a faltering doubt that had been nursed for years, eating away at Thorin and turning his red-blooded flesh to black rot. Fili held on, his heart splitting in two. He needed to give it up. He couldn’t face his uncle like this, he couldn’t bear to see this breakdown. Thorin had always been steady and strong and perfect. This was too painful for him to stand.

“Thorin?” The calling voice broke the pair apart, trailed by approaching footsteps. Balin. Thorin held his breath and Fili hurriedly wiped at Thorin’s face with his sleeves, wiping the moisture away. “Where are you?”

“In here!” Fili didn’t know how he was managing this. He carefully rearranged Thorin’s hair, pushing the dark tangles back from his face and smoothing them down. Fili tried to ignore the hypocrisy of what he as doing, trying to pull him back together when he was the one who broke Thorin apart, keeping that stone secret. He straightened the dwarf’s shirt and stood up, offering him a hand. Normally, Thorin was able to swallow it all back and assume that familiar steadiness in his face, with only a fading dullness in his eyes to suggest he had lost control. But not today. His face remained collapsed, mouth slack and drooping downwards.

“Come quickly.” There was a sharp urgency in Balin’s voice, one that struck Fili like a hammer. “There’s a party approaching the gate. At least forty, all armed.” The blonde shook his head, the rest of the world feeling oddly distant at that moment.

“Let them come.” Thorin’s jagged voice made the both of them start. He lifted his head with a heavy growl, a new glimmer in his foggy blue eyes, cold and unmerciful. The same look he had when he held Bilbo by the throat. Thorin wrenched his hand free from his nephew’s shaking grip, and without another word, strode past them both in the direction of the Front Gate.


	74. An Old Friend

“How fares your son?” Bard looked up as the lithe figure took a careful seat at his right. Thranduil’s silk shirt was torn in the sleeve and smeared with mud, his fine boots scuffed at the toes. Already his fine clothes were wearing down, unused to the strain of the wild.

“Much better.” He found he couldn’t quite catch the elf-king’s eye, at that point. He looked instead at the fire, feeling the heat of it on his cheeks as his hands twisted together. “Bain was awake for a few minutes this evening and ate a little. I can’t thank you enough.”

“I simply did what anybody would.” His blue eyes looked to the side, and slowly he turned to look at Bard directly. “But I must know, and you are hesitant to tell me - what on earth was that boy doing to get so close to the dragon?”

Bard kept staring into the fire. “It was my fault.” He said simply. “There was a thrush, at the burning town, who wouldn’t leave me alone.” Thranduil’s high-boned face was perfectly still. “I realised later that it was trying to talk to me, but I couldn’t understand a single word.” He shook his head. “I can’t ever remember hearing a thrush speak. But Bain - he can.” He looked at the tent now, the hard lines softening around his mouth. “Somehow, the thrush knew there was a hole in Smaug’s armour. A weak spot. He came back to tell me, so I could slay the dragon.” His voice wobbled at the last word, and Bard winced, hunching his shoulders uncomfortably. “We survived because of him. Not me.”

That explained his reluctance. Thranduil watched him carefully for a moment, before opening his mouth to speak. “You feel responsible for your son’s injury.”

“Of _course_ I’m responsible.” The man snarled, finally lifting his gaze and looking Thranduil in the eye. He froze, realising just who he was talking to, and after a faltering moment, turned back to the fire. “If I could hear the thrush’s song, then I could have kept my son out of danger.” He tried to keep his voice strong and steady.

“But instead, you shirked your birthright. You ignored your ancestry and your son suffered for it.” How painfully ironic for him. Bard looked limp and broken-down at the elf-king’s words. Clearly, they had already plagued him enough over these long last few days. “Mistakes can be undone, Bard. There is still time to set things right.” There was a tense silence, Thranduil debating the best way to phrase the next question, and Bard, knowing exactly what was coming, wondered how he was going to answer it.

“Have you thought any more of my offer?” There it was. Bard swallowed the hard lump in his throat, knowing the heat in his face wasn’t just from the fire. He licked his dry lips, and after a pause, nodded.

“I have.” His voice quavered. “And while I understand your rationale, I--”

“Did you know, Bard,” Thranduil cut over him, voice as smooth as his silk shirt. “The most admirable trait of Girion’s wasn’t his intelligence, or his prowess in battle. It was his humility. Not once did he allow pride to overwhelm his vision. He was a very singular king, in that regard.” Bard closed his eyes, holding in a long sigh of exasperation.

“I don’t know anything about kingship, your Majesty.” The bowman’s voice was very small. “I don’t understand the first thing about politics, or economics or law...”

“Of course you don’t.” Thranduil examined a nail. “That’s what you pay advisors for. And it goes without saying, I will always offer you guidance.” His lip twitched. Perhaps it was selfish of him. He could wrap his own motives in excuses, claim that it was far better for someone like Bard, as common and ill-educated as he was, to take charge, rather than allowing someone bitter and greyed like Gunnar and his troupe of heavy-handed guards the power. But there was no small part of him that wanted someone young and naive and untested as an ally. Someone he could take under his wing, and to a certain extent, control. He was shrewd after his long centuries of rule, tired of dealing with captains and guardsmen walking into the roles of political leaders and tempting violence.

“But I know that’s not what the Master-”

“Oh, _him_.” Thranduil snorted in disgust. “Of course it is not what he would want. You will not have the support of his allies, what’s left of them. But you will have mine. I would rather see you lead these people than one of those odious cronies.” Bard’s hands were clasped together very tightly, resting against his lips. “You will be safe, you and your son. You will never want for a thing again.”

Bard stared up at the sky for a long time, slowly shaking his head. Finally, he dipped his head and sighed, raking his fingers through his hair and turning towards the elf-king with his mouth set in a grim line. “I don’t have much of a choice, do I?”

Thranduil bit back a wry smirk. “That, King Bard, is the beauty of inheritance.”

* * *

Mautor sat at the head of a stout square table, carved from stone and burdened with more food than Kili had seen in weeks. It wasn’t a grand hall, this room. It was small and private. There were only four guards, flanking the orc-captain with swords at their sides and hands behind their backs, staring out. Kili looked them all in silence, keeping his face still as he was ushered across the room and into a waiting chair.

“Pleasure you could join me.” He bared his teeth in a grin. Kili merely dipped his head silently, reaching for a goblet of wine at his hand. He took a tentative sniff at the blood-red liquid, rolling a small mouthful around in his mouth before swallowing. “I trust everything is to your comfort.”

“It is, thank you very much.” Kili kept his voice monotonous, reaching out for the leg of meat. He heard only a snort at the table, the clunk of metal against stone.

“Look at me, Kili.” The dwarf lifted his head, speared knife halfway to his plate. His brow wrinkled in the tiniest of frowns as his eyes locked with that pale white stare. The orc-captain’s face was just as still, aside from the occasional twitching of his mouth. “Are you afraid?”

Kili didn’t react. “What do I have to be afraid of?” His toes curled inside his new warg-skin boots and he felt hot and uncomfortable inside this coat. It seemed to change the shape of him, make him look bigger in its stiffness, rather than a child playing dress-up. Kili squared his shoulders inside the leather. “You promised to help me.”

“I did.” He didn’t look away, taking a sip of the wine. A dribble slipped down his cheek, the colour of rubies. “You have not asked yet, if I require anything in return.” Kili didn’t say anything. His hand clenched a little tighter around the knife, and he rested it carefully on his plate. “If I asked for your service, what you would say?”

“I would consider it a fair offer.” Kili chose his words carefully, unsure if he should outright reject the orc’s offer or give him the impression that he would contemplate it. “I’m eating your food, sleeping in your bed. It’s reasonable to expect something in return.”

“You are aware, of course, that within a week Azog’s son will call upon my doors.” Kili nodded silently. Bolg. He seemed like a distant concept, growing an outline. Azog’s son. He wouild have to treat the orc like a brother. The thought sickened him. “Bloodlust has driven him to the brink of war and of course he will take it. He seeks vengeance, Kili. He wishes to end what his father began.”

“Killing the dwarves, you mean.” Kili’s heart flip-flopped in his chest, and his stomach burned as though he’d swallowed a hot coal. Of course. How could he not see that coming? Of course Bolg would want to finish his father’s work. Of course he would ache for revenge. He could feel that mask slipping on his face, and he struggled to hold it up with shaking hands. “Ending Durin’s line.”

“He intends to wipe out that line.” Mautor tore the shank with his teeth, juices spitting out onto the table. Kili paused with roasted maathbughnrakh half in his mouth. “ _All of it._ ”

Somehow, he managed to chew the mouthful of sweet potato. Kili took a deep, deep gulp of wine. The food was a rock in his throat as he swallowed, sliding painfully into his gut. No. Surely Bolg would honour his father’s protection over Kili and declare him safe. He wouldn’t want to undo Azog’s hard work. Surely. He couldn’t stop the widening of his eyes, his downward gaze hiding nothing. Mautor snickered in the thick silence, the dry sound sending a repressed shiver along Kili’s skin. He endured the panic attack silently, keeping his face and hands still as he waited for the ringing in his ears to fade.

“Are you afraid yet, Kili?” He lifted his head at the words, lips slack and eyes cold. Kili didn’t answer the question. Instead, he took another long drink from his goblet, not looking away.

“Just get to it.” His rough, jagged voice was a surprise. Kili felt emboldened with own daring words, and he kept his chin held high. “Tell me what it is you want from me, and I will tell you if I’ll swear allegiance.”

“No beating around the bush, is there?” That smirk turned into a scowl, deep and ugly. “Tell me - were you this rude to Azog?”

Kili’s knuckles went white around his knife. “How I spoke to Azog is _none_ of your business.” He set down the blade and stood up. “No games. No bullshit. You don’t want me to be part of your army or some sort of servant. I can see the way you look at me.” He pressed flattened palms on the table, leaning over. “Tell me what you want with me.”

“Sit down.” The orc-captain looked up at Kili with unblinking eyes. “And I’ll explain everything to you.” A muscle twitched in Kili’s throat as he swallowed. His glare smouldering on Mautor, he sat heavily in his seat, dragging himself back to the stone lip of the table. “Do you know where the first orcs came from, Kili?”

“No.” Kili’s lips barely moved. “Created like the rest, I assume.”

“Not created.” There was a deep, ancient hatred in the lines of the orc’s grey face. “Not shaped from stone or stars.” He drank. “Melkor didn’t have the ability to create being of soul and language, Kili.” The dwarf started to eat again, listening with a little frown on his face. “He took elves, instead. He tortured and mutilated them, corrupted their souls and turned them into creatures of darkness and hate.” The orc-captain spat the words out. “That was our rebirth.”

“He took something pure and good...” It dawned on Kili then and there, why they were all so interested in him. Why Azog was so proud of what he had done, why there was such a close, personal satisfaction in torture and pain and suffering. “And he made it ugly.” Mautor bowed his head in a single nod.

“And we are condemned.” He wrapped his long fingers around the half-empty goblet. “Servants of darkness, with no redemption. Elves and men, they have no mercy, no light. Nothing but bitter hatred.” Kili found his mouth was dry. “They think us all monsters, every one.” His lip twitched. “And some of us orcs believe it too. Reckon we’re fit for nothing else, but scavenging in the darkness like wolves and insects. They’re blind to the truth, or they choose to be.”

“What truth?” But Kili was starting to make the connections in his mind, hair-thin threads stretching, pulling and knotting together. That darkness worn with grim pride was a brand or tattoo, disguised as a birthmark. It had been put there.

“We’re better than this.” The orc had a softer, soothing note to his voice now, as though he spoke to a child. Kili found it chilling. “Lurking like worms underneath the stone. We’re not beasts. You made friends with us after all, didn’t you Kili? Even after everything Azog did to you, you loved him like a father.”

Kili wanted to scream at him, jump across the table and throttle the orc, silence the awful voice that said those things. They were true and it hurt, it hurt so much to think about them. Azog said himself that he thought of Kili as a son, and the idea never really left him alone. How could it? The self-loathing writhed like a sickness and he could feel the food twisting painfully in his gut. “I did.” His voice trembled. “And I made friends as well. Good friends.” Friends he would die for. Kili didn’t know how he managed to remain whole, underneath that scrutinising gaze. He could feel Mautor grabbing at the edges, trying to pull him apart. “So I’m a freak then, is that it?” He could feel the heat rising on his face. “You think I was - was some sort of experiment?”

“I don’t think you were an experiment. More of a… happy accident.” His voice made Kili’s skin crawl. “What was your tipping point, Kili? What made you turn?” Kili poked at his half-finished plate with the knife, teeth gritted. “Or was it so slow, that you didn’t even realise it was happening?”

“Both.” His heart was pounding. “I was broken and manipulated - you know all this.” Kili didn’t like the orc’s interest in him. It bordered on peverse. “Why does it matter how he did it?”

“It matters.” White eyes narrowed. “I want to know how Thorin Oakenshield’s nephew came to the point where was regarded as Azog’s own. Something changed, in here.” He pointed at his own head, scanning Kili’s face. “Was it Azog? What did he say to you?”

“...It was desperation.” Kili whispered, and the orc had to lean in close to hear him. “I didn’t want to die - not like that. I told myself to keep holding on, that there was no way my uncle would abandon me. All I had to do was survive.” His heart began to race with the memory, and this time, Kili didn’t restrain himself. What Mautor wanted was to see him vulnerable. He was teasing Kili, pushing him to breaking point. Trying to show him who was in charge.

“And then?” He wasn’t going to let up. He picked and picked at Kili, ripping at the scabs, trying to make him bleed. Kili heaved an exaggerated sigh, and sank his head in his hands. Inside, he just felt cold.

“I found it.” He mumbled. “The tomb they carved for me - thinking I was dead.” It still hurt to think on it. A dull, aching hurt, the knife blunt and worn-down and no good for cutting. It just left a mark, an indentation that flushed red for a few minutes and then faded away. “They left me to die.” He dug clenched fists into his eyes, trying to make them appear red and inflamed. “They left me.” Mautor didn’t speak. He simply rested his elbows on the table, both hands clasped. He gestured vaguely for Kili to continue, not once moving those awful, pale eyes. “How could I trust someone who left me to die at the hands of his worst enemy?” Kili dragged his fingers roughly through his hair. “I just…” He wondered how he could even phrase it. “I just wanted everything to stop hurting.” There was a twisted pleasure in the orc’s eyes, listening to Kili talk. It was disturbing. “So - I suppose I just broke down, in the end. I stopped fighting. I don’t know if this was what Azog wanted all along, or if he wondered, somewhere along the line, that it would simply be fun to see what happened.” That was genuine. Kili didn’t know to this day why Azog had ever done any of it.

“Tell me one more thing, Kili, and I will leave you to your dinner.” Mautor wiped at his mouth, baring bloodstained teeth in a yellowed flash. “Could you raise a sword against your former comrades?”

Kili could feet that cramp in his gut tightening, further and further and he thought he was going to heave at the table. He breathed in, short and sour on his tongue and after a moment thought he could answer without his voice trembling, giving him away.

“Put a sword in my hand, and I’ll stick those bastards like the pigs they are.” He dug his knife into the side of meat and twisted it, fat and grease shining on his fingers. The orc was grinning.

* * *

Another one of those noiseless guards led Kili away once he’d cleared his plate. The orc-captain didn’t say anything of substance after question Kili about his family. He simply smirked and stared and muttered idle small-talk. Told Kili to see more of the town, that he would be in for a surprise when he made his way to his room. Kili half-listened to the fractured conversation and nodded, unable to trust his voice while Mautor’s words writhed about in his mind.

In fact, he was so busy thinking that it took several minutes for Kili to realise that he was being led in an entirely different direction - and although the walls looked almost the same, carved in the rock with flickering torches in black-iron brackets, he could sense he was moving up, not down, where the air was drier and a touch warmer. He stopped short in his walk, and the guard took several paces before noticing his absence, looking over his shoulder with a grunt.

“You’re not taking me back to my room.” Kili was guarded and unsure. “Where am I going?”

“New room.” He had a snuffling voice, this one. It reminded Kili of a pig, nosing in the dirt. He looked a bit like a pig too, with swollen, shiny skin and too-small eyes. The guard jerked his head along the hallway. “Hurry up.” Is that what this dinner was, some sort of test? Kili pushed his hands into the pockets of his new trousers, feeling for his hair-clasp. He touched the warmed surface with a fingertip, brushing the silver for a moment before jogging lightly to catch up to the orc. Kili had hoped some questions would be answered with that dinner, but it seemed as though a dozen more had been asked and still nothing was resolved.

“Here.” He pushed open the door, Kili stepping in nervously, still not knowing what to expect. If it was a cell, there would be more guards, more locked doors to walk through, more protection. He wasn’t being imprisoned. He tried to calm himself with the thought, looking around the room with wide eyes. It was larger, warmer, with a bigger bed and a little more furniture and an iron fireplace. A room for a welcome guest.

And stretched out on the rug, snoring softly before the fire, was one of his last friends left.

“Nardur!” A wide grin broke across his face, and Kili flung himself down on the floor. At his voice, the warg lifted his head. Recognising the sight and smell of his old master, he leaped up on his forelegs, pouncing on Kili and winding him with an excited bark. He sputtered as Nardur thrust his nose right in Kili’s face, licking furiously. “Ugh - Nardur stop.” Kili pushed the beast’s muzzle away, wiping at his mouth. Nardur licked at his wrist, and with a sniff, Kili wrapped his arms tight around that heavy neck, burying his nose in his soft grey fur. “I missed you so _much_.” He whispered, eyes stinging. “I’m not leaving you behind again, not ever.”

After a while, when he was sure his eyes were drying, Kili drew back and held that massive head in his hands. He’d grown in the last month-and-a-half, and after good food and no hard travelling , was broader around the shoulders. There were scars on his soft muzzle, and an ear was torn. Kili clicked his tongue and scratched the warg on the top of his head, between his ears where he knew Nardur liked it.

“You look different.” He breathed. “Bigger.” Kili sat on the rug with Nardur half-over him, legs growing numb under the weight. “But I s’pose I look different too.” He got another lick on the nose, and this time Kili didn’t try to push him away. “I should have thought you’d be here.” He rested his head against the warg’s neck, absentmindedly stroking his fur. “If they have Nazarg, ‘course they have you too.” He felt briefly guilty for forgetting all about the poor animal. “I’m sorry I couldn’t take you with me.” He murmured into the warg’s ear, soft Black Speech that he hoped Nardur could vaguely recognise. “I’m going to fix this, I promise. I don’t know how I’m going to do it but I’m going to save him.” Nardur nosed the side of Kili’s face, sniffing at his hair. “And - I don’t know what to do next. Everything’s just a mess and I don’t even know what’s happening.” Freedom - he ached for it. This wasn’t freedom, beneath the stone here, looking over his shoulder, wondering if he was fooling everybody with his act, or if Mautor _knew_ he was pretending, watching and waiting for him to slip up.

It couldn’t end here, though. Kili’s heart sank as he thought about the dinner he sat through, the orc-captain’s remark that Bolg would be here soon, aching with revenge and determined to carry on his father’s work. Mautor _flat-out asked_ if Kili would raise a sword against his own family. It was obvious, painfully obvious, what the orcs were planning to do.

A war. He swallowed hard and raked his nails through Nardur’s fur. He didn’t know what he was going to do - if there was anything he could do, to stop it from happening. He thought of Fili. Surely they would have reached Erebor well before now. He could feel his dinner rumbling painfully in his gut. What if they were already dead? What if Smaug had burned them all and left nothing but charred bones and ashes? And even if they did survive, if they managed to somehow slay the dragon and reclaim that treasure, they weren’t safe. Not if Bolg’s plans came to fruition. Not if these orcs had their way. Kili remembered Mautor’s low sneer as he recalled the creation of their own people, his assertion that it was wrong and he obviously wanted to expose what he saw as a lie.

Why the interest in Kili? He couldn’t quite wrap his head around it. Those pale eyes, staring into him, that was a gaze that stretched beyond simple curiosity. And when Kili challenged him about it, he was careful and cryptic, quick to turn it around and make Kili feel vulnerable. He was trying to control Kili, through fear and manipulation, and as he looked around the room now, with the warg half in his lap, Kili realised this was another link in the chain the orc was trying to fast around his foot and keep him here. He was showing favour, trying to get Kili’s trust.

It wasn’t going to happen again. Kili scowled. He could see the signs, the awful clumsy attempts to win him over and at the same time keep him weak and afraid. He wasn’t a foolish child. He wasn’t the same frightened, lonely Kili who had been cornered on that summer night. He was sharper, and stronger, and he wasn’t going to let _anyone_ touch him.

“I know what I’m going to do.” Kili whispered the promise against Nardur’s grey fur, steeling his nerves. “First, I’m going to save Nazarg. He deserves it, after all of this. I owe him my life. I owe him _everything_.” He felt the slow breathing, the rise and fall of the warg’s ribcage against him. “And I’m going to destroy these people.” He spoke very softly, on the edge of his breath. If he said these things, they felt truer somehow. “I’m going to kill Bolg. I’m going to get close to him, I’m going to let him think that I trust him, that I care for him, and then I’m going to kill him.” Azog’s spawn was going to die at his hand, he would make sure of it. Even if it killed him, even if Kili bled out in a last desperate fight, even if he was caught and completely broken in retribution, Kili was going to end Bolg’s life.

He lay in his new bed for a long time, staring up at the firelit stone ceiling with Nardur stretched out beside him, remembering. He thought about Fili, Thorin, Bolg, and Azog. Kili had never known why Azog was so intent on wiping Durin’s line from the earth. He’d always been too afraid to question the orc-king’s motives. It didn’t matter, in the end. Azog’s damage was irreparable. Not just Kili - but his uncle Frerin, his grandfather and great-grandfather, they all fell at Azog’s hand. And now that he was gone, Kili thought that it would be over, he had repaid that darkness and pain that shadowed his line. But when he thought now about Bolg, ruling in his father’s stead, there was a tense anger in his chest that he couldn’t force back. Was this his own blood-fued, a promise to wipe out a royal line? Was this how Azog felt, when he thought about him and his brother, who played no part in that war but had a price on their heads all the same, for the blood that ran through their veins? Kili lay in the dying light with gritted teeth. He didn’t win, if he let Bolg live. Revenge gnawed at him like an aching hunger, and he knew that it could only be sated with the blood of Azog’s son. Kili could almost understand, staring up at the the reddened stone ceiling, how people had fought and died for so much less than this. He never thought he would have a chance, but now it was coming to him, a landslide on a rocky slope, gaining momentum and threatening to crash into him with a crushing force.

Bolg was going to try and hurt his brother. That familiar pull at his heart was back, that fierce desire to protect Fili at all costs. The low hum of war hung in the air. Kili shivered and drew the furs up to his chin. He couldn’t stop this all from happening - he was only one person, one very small person against an army of thousands. He tried to believe in himself, tried to think that yes, he could do this. Bolg was going to die and he would scatter these people and prove to everyone that he was _still Kili._

“Do it, Bolg.” He whispered into the darkness. “Come for me and my brother.” He twisted his fingers into the edge of the blankets. “I’m waiting.”


	75. Scars

“My King.” Thranduil’s eyes snapped open immediately, and he sat up before his servant had time to take in a breath. It was the cold, still hour before dawn, brimming with tense promise. Were his soldiers back already? No, not possible - it was far too early for that. He smoothed the cornsilk curtain of hair, feeling the strands shift and fall back into place beneath his palm. “Tauriel has returned with her company of scouts.” Well that was unexpected. Thranduil stood up and reached for his soft coat, throwing it on under his soft-woven underthings and hurriedly stepping into his shoes. “Your Majesty, it seems she has brought a visitor on her travels - not the dwarf.” He added quickly as Thranduil froze, a muscle tensing in his throat. “A wizard. Didn’t catch his name but he is dressed all in grey...” He trailed off as Thranduil burst out of his tent and across the frozen ground.

Gandalf sat before the small fire, puffing deep on his pipe and staring into the sunken red embers. Despite his agelessness, he looked older than Thranduil had ever seen him. He was huddled up in his coarse grey clothing, pulled up to the chin and shoulders hunched.

“Mithrandir.” It was a soft gasp of reverence. Gandalf inclined his head in the barest nod, eyes gleaming through the wrinkled pouches of ancient skin. “What brings you to this part of the world?” After a long, slow pause, Gandalf finally looked away from the fire. The pipe disappeared from his lips and Gandalf looked shockingly afraid.

“I must speak with you.” He whispered. “In _private._ ”

Gandalf paced slowly inside Thranduil’s tent, his hat cast aside and thumbs buried in the belt at his waist. Thranduil waited with crossed arms for the wizard to stop and finally look him in the eye.

“Speak.” After a few minutes of the silence, he was unable to bear the strain. Gandalf stopped with his back to the elven-king, head bowed. He turned slowly, the lines of his face exacerbated in the dim shadows. “Why are you here, now of all times?”

“I rushed East as soon as I could.” Gandalf breathed. He looked in a daze. “I should have expected this would happen, of course.” Thranduil’s arms slowly fell to his sides. “The dwarves.”

“You know Thorin Oakenshield attempted to retake Erebor?” Thranduil’s dark brows knitted together. Gandalf’s eyes finally lifted.

“Thranduil,” He sighed. “I _sent_ them.”

“ _You-”_ Thranduil almost choked, trying to contain himself. “You sent them here? You put the idea in Thorin’s head?”

“The seed had been planted a century before.” Gandalf’s voice sharpened. “Thorin never gave up hope that he would retake his homeland. I merely gave him the guidance he needed.” He kept quiet about the map and key.

“The people of Esgaroth are homeless.” Thranduil’s blood was boiling. He was being rude, but he didn’t care. “Their leader is dead - and all his men, his armies are scattered along with mine looking for Kili, which, by the way, is your fault too-”

“Kili?” Gandalf’s head snapped up, eyes widening impossibly. “The dwarf who died?”

Thranduil let out a low, ironic laugh. “Oh, he’s not dead.” At least, not in name. How was it that Tauriel hadn’t told him? She would have been closed and guarded, unsure of this strange creature wrapped in grey. Gandalf hadn’t entered his realm before, not in her time.

_“How?”_

“I did not ask for details,” Thranduil could feel his control slipping at the memory. “But it seems that while Thorin thought him dead, Kili had been handed to Azog the Defiler.” His barbed words were tearing at Gandalf, getting him right in the heart. “Three months was a long time to be among those foul beasts. Azog took full control. By the time my people caught him, there was nothing left.” Gandalf turned his face to the side, head bent in deep thought. “He tortured my son.” Thranduil said flatly.

“No.” Gandalf frowned heavily. “Thranduil, are you sure-”

“He clipped Legolas’ _ears.” Thranduil hissed, marching straight up to the wizard. “Look, this is not about him.” He tried to contain himself. “He is long gone, and I can only hope he has the sense never to show his face in my domain again.” He wouldn’t have his revenge. It boiled in his stomach like a sickness and Thranduil struggled to live with the fact that he would never make anyone suffer for what happened to his son. “The dwarves have brought nothing but ruin on these people.”_

“I had the best intentions-” Gandalf began, but Thranduil, being one of the very few people in the world with the thinly stretched right, cut over him.

“Your intentions have desolated these lands.” Thranduil’s hard jaw nearly trembled. Gandalf found it hard to look him in the eye, but he couldn’t pull his gaze away. He stared into those twin crystals of stunning blue, wondering where the elven-king of old had gone. Darkness had taken Thranduil too, in its own subtle way. “Smaug is dead but the destruction he left behind will be felt for centuries.”

"I fear we have more to be afraid of than dragon's flame." The heaviness of Gandalf’s voice sent a thrum of tense uncertainty through Thranduil’s chest. "I didn't want a private audience just to speak of dwarves." He looked down at his hands, twisted around his weathered staff. "Surely Thranduil,  you of all people have noticed the souring of this wood."

"I have." He still sounded guarded. "But I keep the darkness away. I have protected my borders for centuries, and only now have they come under threat." His stare was measured and cold.

"Sit down,  and I shall tell you the full tale." Gandalf gestured to the little folding chair in the corner of Thranduil’s tent. "And you will understand how Erebor is the least of your concerns."

* * *

_Oh this was not good._

Fili was almost for air by the time he made his way to the top of the gate. Thorin already stood and waited, still only in his damp shirt and trousers, palms flat on the stone and face turned outward and cold. With his heart in his mouth and the stone burning in his pocket, Fili took his rightful place at his uncle's right hand.

The company of soldiers, dressed in armour and on magnificent horses, paused a hundred feet from the rebuilt gate. They were close enough for Bilbo to make out the grim lines of their faces,  beneath ornate carved helms. Scouts. He didn't realise he was holding his breath, cautiously standing at Balin’s side, until his lungs burned and head swam. He sucked in a deep gasp of air, just as Thorin began to speak.

“Come for my gold, have you?" His voice was strong and clear,  with no hint of his mental disquiet. Fili couldn’t look at them. He looked on the ground just before the cluster of soldiers, giving the appearance of staring intently at them. "Tell your king that he shall never see a single coin." Thorin lifted his voice. “Leave this valley, you have no right to be here!" He leaned forward a little, eyes bright and wild. Thorin panted a little, waiting for a response from the elves. But he received none. After several moments of staring upwards, the leader tugged on his reins and left, the rest of the battalion following suit. Thorin watched them all go with his head held high, burning in heart and soul and mind.

“They’ll be back.” Balin’s voice broke the awful, tense quiet. Thorin’s throat quivered. “They’ll tell Thranduil that we’re alive, and they’ll be back. More of them.”

“Let them come.” Thorin spat. “Bofur, go up to Ravenhill and find me a bird. It is of the utmost importance.”

“Yes, Thorin.” And with a scampering murmur, Bofur was gone, shooting Bilbo a dark look as he climbed down the rough-hewn stairs. Thorin still stared outwards with his teeth gritted, ticking over everything in his mind. There as a risk, a near-certain risk that this was going to happen, and he tried not to be too surprised that it had. Of course Thranduil was going to put his sneering nose in Thorin’s business. Of course he would reach for that supposedly unclaimed gold with greedy, snatching fingers. No doubt he had let the thought simmer in his mind for centuries, always remembering that there was a wealth beyond anything he could imagine. Of course he would rush to claim it, the moment he thought it unguarded, before Thorin’s distant kin could claim the right. Disgust boiled in his stomach.

“I want two sets of eyes on this gate at all times.” He snarled. “Sharp, young eyes. They will not make any movement in my valley without us seeing them, understand?” He didn’t expect an answer. “Bombur and Nori, you take the first watch, the rest of you, come with me.” He pushed up his sleeves, the damp cloth falling over his elbows. “I will find that blasted stone, so help me.”

His eyes met Fili’s for a brief moment, before he dipped his head and marched down the stairs. Fili couldn’t breathe, looking into that bright, burning blue. It wasn’t his uncle staring out at him then. It was some sort of monster, flashing outwards. That split-second glance cleaved Fili’s chest like an axe, and as he turned away himself and made to follow Thorin, he could feel his own eyes stinging. His entire life, Fili had prepared. He had prepared to better Dain and his awful son, proving that he was worthy of the crown no matter his shortcomings. He had prepared to sever himself from his father, from that awful tribe that lay in his blood. But that was all internal, a battle of heart and mind and wits. He had never prepared for an outright bloody war.

And now it was at their doorstep, whether Fili was ready or not.

* * *

“You’re looking better.” After their reunion, Tauriel and Legolas sat together before the fire, spreading out their hands to catch the warmth. They both looked at the iron filigree that bound two of Legolas’ fingers from fingertip to knuckle, fastened at his palm and keeping the broken fingers almost perfectly straight. “These must come off soon.”

“A couple of weeks.” Their finest smith had set aside his hammer and worked for days on the ornate splints. They were in the shape of spreading leaves and vines, made from polished silver.It looked almost like jewellery. Legolas ran a thumb over the shining metal, thinking about that awful black splint that had been bolted on Kili’s arm, heavy and crude and cumbersome. “I can’t wait to shoot a bow again.”

“Well, here’s hoping there’s no need.” She rested a hand on his shoulder and squeezed tightly. “And the nightmares?” Tauriel lowered her voice but Legolas still shot her a glare, looking cautiously around before responding.

“Going away.” His stiff whisper made Tauriel’s hand tighten for a moment, before rubbing gently across the elf’s back. “I’ll be fine.” He wished she wouldn’t look at his ears. He felt ridiculous with this stupid green sash, covering the mutilated skin. It hid nothing; everybody knew was underneath. Everyone knew what happened to him. “Don’t worry about me.”

“Of course I’m going to worry.” Her mouth was turn downwards, eyes heavy and dark. “I wish we’d caught him.” Legolas couldn’t trust himself to answer without anger, so instead he merely gave a little shrug, as if to say can’t win them all I suppose.

“It’s a _girl!”_ They both looked up at the voice, breaking from an obvious whisper into a very blunt shout. Bain’s face was still chalk-white and he leaned heavily on his father’s side, but his eyes were bright and clear. He frowned at her trousers and weatherstained travelling cloak. “It _is_ \- isn’t it?”

“ _Bain!_ ” Looking like he wanted to kill his son, Bard sat him firmly before the fire. “I’m so sorry, he never thinks before speaking.”

“I haven’t been called a girl for a long time.” There was a wry smile twisting Tauriel’s mouth and Legolas was biting back a grin himself. “Tauriel. Captain of Thranduil’s guards.” Bain’s eyes widened and the look of pained embarrassment fell into horrified shock on Bard’s face.  

“Bard.” His introduction was apologetic. “I er…” Bard trailed off, feeling awkward and untrained. He wasn’t a king or a hero or a dragon-slayer. He was just Bard the bowman, with his ragged brown coat and big-mouthed son and inside, he knew nothing had changed. Not yet.

“Bard is the one who killed Smaug.” Legolas explained for him, Bard’s tension obvious. “Maxwell and his men didn’t survive the fire and he’s taken charge.”

“So I’ll be seeing a lot of you then.” Tauriel narrowed her eyes slightly, on reflex. She didn’t mean to look to cold and aloof. She was merely taking him apart and examining the pieces. Bard only nodded under the scrutinous gaze.

In the tent behind them, Thranduil stared in numb shock at the wizard. “No.” It was all he could bring himself to say for the longest time. “It’s not possible.”

“It is _very_ possible.” Gandalf ached with regret. There were very few people left in this world who shared Thranduil’s personal connection to that distant past. “Saruman thinks me a fool but the others, they believe me. I know they do, even if they will not say it in his presence.” Thranduil’s face was bone-white. “Sauron has returned to our world.”

“You drove him out of Dol Guldur.” The elf-king paced with clenched hands, spitting out the words with a razor’s edge. “How are you sure you have not ended him?”

“I am sure, Thranduil.” Gandalf refused to entertain any other notion. “For a long time, I have felt this horror returning. I wouldn’t have brought Thorin here if I did not think it worthy.” Thranduil stopped in his pacing, and turned to look at Gandalf. “There will be a war. Whether in ten years or a hundred, that same evil that threatened to tear our world apart will return.”

“Do you think I have forgotten?” The air heaved in Thranduil’s lungs. “That I do not remember where my father’s body lies?” Sharp blue eyes were fogged with painful memory. “Your efforts were wasted. The danger will be sharpest in the south, where the men live.”

“Nowhere will be safe, Thranduil.” Gandalf shook his head. “Already, there’s a tremor in the air. Armies of orcs are on the move. Your home is not safe. The Misty and the Grey Mountains both are filled with those foul creatures, and what is there to break free from their stone prison? Fear of Smaug has kept them away from the gold-hoard of Erebor, as it has you and the men of Esgaroth.”

“I have recalled my soldiers from the search for Kili.” Thranduil dug the edge of his thumbnail very hard under his index finger, feeling it throb. “What matters first is rebuilding Esgaroth. I am not disbelieving you, Mithrandir. But I will not plant that seed of fear into the hearts of my people without due cause.”

“I’m not saying for a moment that you announce the return of Sauron to your people.” Gandalf said sharply. “We both have more sense than that.” He passed his staff from one hand to the other, pausing to think. “Consider it a caution.”

“I will not repeat my father’s mistakes.” Thranduil said simply. It wasn’t fair of him to say that - it wasn’t a mistake of his, not really. And the moment he said it, Thranduil felt regret stinging in his chest. But he ploughed on. “I am not going to die and leave my son to rule a kingdom he is not ready for.” Gandalf chose to say nothing. Thranduil resumed his pacing, considering his next retort, when a voice at the mouth of the tent made them both look up.

“Your Majesety?” One of his servants.

“Yes, come in.” Thranduild rested an elbow against his palm, the free hand balled in a fist over his mouth. “You have news.”

“Yes.” The elf bowed. “Your soldiers returned from Erebor. The dwarves - they’re not dead.” Gandalf’s eyes grew wide. “They have built a massive wall over the Front Gate and told them to leave. Thorin himself declared he would not hand over a single coin.”

“Oh, for _goodness’_ sake!” Thranduil stamped his foot. “That stubborn, insolent, stupid dwarf-”

“Thranduil.” Gandalf cut him off with a single soft-spoken word. Thranduil fell silent, still obviously fuming with anger.

“You have your great fortification of the east.” How dare he - how _dare_ he disrupt that peace and harmony Thranduil and fought so hard to establish and maintain. He had spent centuries fighting at the borders of his realm, pushing back that encroaching darkness, and with one fell swoop Gandalf and Thorin were poised to destroy everything. “I will not let Thorin hold these people hostage.” He strode briskly across the tent and stepped out into the sunlight. “We are packing up!” His voice rose in the cold air. “This whole camp moves towards Erebor.” Thranduil’s sharp eyes scanned the groups of people, settled on Bard. He sat before the fire with Bain leaning on his arm, the boy being slowly coaxed to eat a bowl of venison stew. “Legolas, Tauriel, Bard, I need to speak to all three of you.” He turned away silently at that, returning to his tent and waiting for the three to approach him.

Gandalf sighed, taking a heavy seat on the fire and once more fumbling around for his pipe. He never expected Thranduil to accept his news graciously, but his venomous insults had rattled Gandalf. This wasn’t the same cheerful king he had last spoken to a hundred or so years ago, before Mirkwood had turned dark and cold. Thranduil was mistrusting and guarded. He caught a glimpse of Legolas as he walked past, eyeing the filigree splints on his fingers, the green sash around his head. Tauriel walked with her hand on his arm, murmuring in his ear with the fussy concern of a mother with an injured child.

How was everything able to fall apart so quickly?

* * *

Ori worked in an uneasy silence, with his hair plastered to his damp forehead and arms strained and exhausted. The dwarves took shovels and barrows and combed through the gold-hoard, loading and offloading coins and jewels as though it was mere dirt. At his side, Fili heaped piles of gold, a grim line set on his face. He was reluctant to speak much.

It drove Ori crazy, and when he saw Thorin had his back to them, pawing through a different heap of treasure, he set down his shovel and touched the dwarf’s shoulder. “Fili,” He breathed, watching the blonde jump and turn to look at him with wide blue eyes. “Are you alright?”

“What do you think?” Fili hissed in response, his pale face strained. “Of _course_ I’m not alright. Ori - Thorin is going to go to war." He lowered his eyes to the groaning barrow of gold. “Why do you think he wants a raven? He’s going to call for Dain’s help, I know it.” The shovel fell from Fili’s hands and he dragged his fingers through his golden tangles, his head hurting.

“What are you going to do?” Ori’s voice was very low, and he checked to make sure the other dwarves, particularly Balin and Dwalin, weren’t listening in.

“What can I do?” Fili felt so powerless over it all, and that was what truly frightened him. “He won’t listen to me, I’ve tried. He’s so wrapped up inside his head, he’s going blind. All he cares about is finding that stone and being the rightful king. Nothing else is important to him.”

“Not nothing-”

“Nothing.” Fili repeated. “If he cared about people more than that _damn_ throne, then Kili would be here with us.” And there it was, that resentment and bitter anger, the thing that held Fili back from empathising with Thorin and kept him on edge and confused. Fili kicked out at the shovel, gold coins rustling. “Do you know what he said to me? He said that the throne is more important than family - he said that, to _me_ , while telling me to leave my brother to rot in jail.” Fili’s breath hitched and his words quickened in pace. “I know he’s hurting and afraid but Ori _I’m hurting too._ ”

Ori stood with his feet slightly apart, hands useless and stupid at his sides. He didn’t know what he could say. How could he defend Thorin’s actions when Fili was completely right? Thorin was being wrong, and they knew it, everyone knew it and they could do nothing. The mention of Kili’s name set the blonde on edge even further, he bit down hard on his lip and couldn’t look at anybody else at all. He felt at a loss, a total loss, as clumsy and stumbling as a weak-limbed child. The paper still crackled under Ori’s shirt, a hidden secret.

“I’m sorry.” It was all he could offer. Fili didn’t say anything in response. He clasped both hands together, fingers locked at his navel. Fili’s hair fell over his face as he bent his head. And Ori waited a little longer, looking over his shoulders at the curve of Thorin’s back, but Fili didn’t say anything, and eventually Ori had to lift his shovel and drive the iron into the soft pile of gold and jewels, priceless rubies falling over his feel and gleaming in the lanternlight.

* * *

“Sir - Kili wants to see you.”

On his throne of iron and bone, Mautor lifted an eyebrow. He beckoned the creature with a single curved finger, and as the door swung open, his lip rose in a smirk.

“Kili.” He looked oddly pale, with dark shadows under his eyes. Kili locked the orc-captain with his gaze. “What can I do for you this morning?” Kili licked his lips, and after a moment of silence, parted his cracked lips with a short breath.

“I want to see him.” The jagged edge of his voice sent a shiver along the back of Mautor’s neck. “That - that _scum_ that killed Azog.” The tendons on his neck stuck out, tense ropes beneath his skin. “I want to see what you’ve done to him.”

And Mautor smiled.

Kili’s heart was beating in his throat as the orc-captain led him through the maze of dark tunnels carved into the stone, descending into the low heart of the jagged mountain range. He memorised every twist and turn, taking note of an odd mark in the stone. He looked out the side of his eyes, kept his chin up and face turned forward. He kept that expression fixed, cold and heartless while he throbbed.

Mautor opened a low, unobtrustive door. They both walked along a steep staircase. It was just the two of them, no guards or officers or hangers-on. There was a guard outside this next door though, in full armour of black iron and two swords hanging from his waist. A twisted hand clenched around a spear. Kili didn’t look at him either. The guard reached for the keys at his waist, unlocked the door and pushed it open. With a jerk of the head, Mautor pushed Kili inside.

The room was totally black. Kili heard nothing at first, only the pulse of blood in his ears. He swallowed and his hands curled into fists in that moment of darkness as the sound of low, ragged breathing hit him. The seal of his lips broke as he breathed through his mouth, the air thick and stale, wrought with filth and blood.

And then, there was a little light. Kili kept his face impassive as Mautor stepped in beside him, holding a low torch. There was a groan of pain, and Kili’s blood ran cold. The ceiling was low, Mautor stooped in it and the ragged walls were painfully close. It felt like a tomb. Kili stared into the corner of the room, holding his breath on instinct because he was so sure a cry would break out. The figure was huddled over, head on his knees and arms shielding his face from the blinding light, but there was no denying who it was.

“Nazarg,” Kili’s throat clenched at the sound of the orc’s name. “Look at me.” He briefly glanced at Mautor, the sneer on his face and unmistakable gleam in his eye. Kili looked back, but Nazarg hadn’t moved. “Come on now.” Another low groan. Kili breathed through his nose, enduring the stench as he bit down hard on his tongue. “ _Look at me._ ” The mocking sneer deepened into a growl as the torch was raised. After an agonising pause, the air utterly silent apart from those broken gasps of air, Nazarg’s arms fell away and he lifted his head with the ragged acceptance of someone who had given up all hope, the fear that he was going to be hurt again but completely powerless to stop it.

Kili tasted blood as he bit down hard on his tongue, horror flooding his gut and turning sick and cold and sour. Immediately, his vision began to waver and Kili blinked away the forming tears.

Nazarg had been _mutilated_.

They had taken a knife to his face, tearing through flesh and muscle and deforming the skin. His left eye was an empty socket, sealed over with the familiar scarring of a burn and the other was hazy and unfocused, unused to the light. They had cut off his ears almost entirely, leaving half an inch of ragged skin and cartilage scabbed over with black blood. Kili saw all of this in a heartbreaking moment and he could feel the scream welling up inside him, the horror and outrage beating at his ribs and begging to be let out. He could only stare in helpless shock, mouth filling up with blood as the stench flooded his nose. Kili almost forgot himself there, standing in silent terror at the mutilated mess his friend had become. The only one who truly cared, twisted and brutalised almost beyond recognition. Six pounding throbs of his heart passed, before Kili realising with widening eyes that he was a hairs-breadth from blowing his cover and ruining everything before he had barely started.

“You!” He took half a step towards Nazarg, hands balling into fists. The orc was completely cowed, limp and lifeless.“You _bastard!_ ” He raised one arm as though he were about to hit the orc. Mautor grabbed his elbow tightly as Nazarg’s foggy remaining eye settled on Kili, blearily making him out in the light, his distorted face curling even further in sick horror.

Kili could feel his heart breaking. Nazarg’s only comfort would have been that at least Kili was safe, that he would never be touched by those orcs and his suffering wasn’t in vain - and here Kili stood, back in that coarse black leather held by the orc-captain that ordered all of this. He didn’t want to look at Nazarg’s collapsing face as the last of his will crumbled. It _hurt,_ worse that Azog’s sneer that Kili was always a monster, worse than Fili’s whispered gasp of horror that he didn’t know his brother at all. _Nothing_ hurt as much as this. And with a gasp of air, Kili breathed in and twisted the knife that stuck so painfully in his chest.

“How could you do this!” Kili tried to speak with his eyes as much as his lips, silently pleading for Nazarg to understand that this was all an act and he didn’t mean it. “How could you _do_ this to me!” His voice filled the room, a rusty scrape against the stone.

“Easy, Kili.” Mautor started to pull him back, Kili dragging his heels on the stone. He looked down at Nazarg, at his hands splayed on the ground and his stomach clenched even tighter in horror. They had cut off two fingers on his left hand, right down at the knuckle and sealed the wound with red-hot iron.

“I cannot wait for Bolg.” Kili snarled, voice hot with venom. “He’s going to kill you and I will watch every moment of it.” He begged desperately for Nazarg to see through this, but the orc just stared up at him with a completely broken horror in his mutilated face. “You thought you could save me?” He forced a snarl. “This is what I am - _this!_ ” Kili grabbed handfuls of his coat as his voiced started to shake. He couldn’t take any more of this agonising act. He felt himself cracking all over, and any moment he knew he was going to shatter. He couldn’t do this - he couldn’t pretend.

He lunged, hoping that if he was violent enough, Mautor would tear him away. With black curses spilling from his shaking, blood-tinted lips, Kili ripped his arm free of the orc-captain and threw himself at Nazarg, grabbing his worn rags. He heard a broken sob, a gasp of _Kili_ and with his heart in pieces, he tried to tear at Nazarg’s quivering throat.

“Kili - no!” Mautor grabbed him by the hair, dragging him back across the stone. Kili growled and as soon as he was let go, tried to scrabble back to Nazarg, but he was grabbed by the arm and hauled roughly to his feet. “Control yourself!” He wrestled Kili out the door, the dwarf snatching one last glance at Nazarg, on his hands and knees with his mouth half-open in shapeless words. The torch fell to the ground and was snatched up by the guard. Kili found his back pressed to the wall, Mautor’s hands on the collar of his coat, holding him still. Kili could feel his face was wet.

“How could he.” He veiled his overwhelming guilt and anguish with misplaced grief for Azog. “How could he do this to him? Th-that filth, h-he had no right.” Kili screwed up his eyes but all he could see was that half-open, twisted mouth, that single eye wide with horror. “H-how could he?”

“I said control yourself.” Kili parted his eyelids as the hands slid across to his shoulders, holding him close. Mautor stared at him, but even though he tried to look sympathetic, Kili could plainly see the pleasure hidden in his white eyes. More evidence that Kili was irredeemable. More fuel for his twisted philosophies. Kili felt sick with himself.

He led Kili back upstairs once he had calmed down, patted him oddly on the arm and said he looked tired. Kili merely nodded in silence, feeling stiff and mechanical, a collection of moving parts with no soul.

He sat in his room until the violent beating in his chest had faded and he could no longer taste the blood on his lips. Kili stared down at his hands, whole and unbroken. He remembered Nazarg and Legolas, their broken, missing fingers and their ruined ears. He tried to ride out the crippling guilt, knowing in his gut that even though he never lifted knife or brand against either of them, there was no denying that at the core of this, it was all his fault.


	76. Starlight

“Ilzkhaal would you stop watching the door? You’re jumpier than a doormouse.” There was a light chuckle across the table and someone cheerfully pushed him in the shoulder. The orc’s face clouded and he hid his face in his drink.

“He’s late.” Ilzkhaal mumbled, knowing the others would mock him for it. They did. Kasaak pounded his fist on the table and cackled, Galin shook his head with a grin and Akash simply rolled his pale eyes at the ceiling. “He swore he was coming, he did.”

“Did you even see him?” The orc shuffled a little on the low stool, uncomfortable.

“They didn’t let me step inside the tower – but the guard _promised_ he’d pass it on.”

“Oh you idiot.” Shrewd and cynical, Akash made his exasperation obvious. “Did you even try to bribe him?”

He frowned. “Why would I bribe him?” There was a howl of laughter around the table, and Ilzkhaal could feel his cheeks darkening at that.

“I’ve told you countless times, trusting people on their word would bite you in the arse.” Akash sighed at his cousin. “Stop being so _naive_. He was probably never going to come – he’s with the top dogs up in the tower, why would he ever waste his time with...” But Ilzkhaal wasn’t listening. He stood up with a smile that stretched from ear to ear and showed every single one of his pointed teeth.

Kili stood in the doorway of the dim little pub, dressed in his new orc-clothes with his hands thrust deeply in the pockets of his coat. Dark eyes scanned the smattering of bodies and settled on the only one he knew. And he smiled back, a small, cautious smile. The muscles tightened in his throat as a hush fell across the dingy pub, elbows digging into ribs and curved fingers pointing at the door as sharp tongues muttered behind cupped hands.

“You made it.” Ilzkhaal rested his hand on Kili’s shoulder in a brief greeting. “Come sit. This is my cousin Akash, and Galin and Kasaak."

“Sorry I’m late.” They all nodded as Kili sat down on the bench-space that was offered to him, looking apologetic. “I didn’t even know about this at first – Mautor apparently overheard two of his guards talking about an orc knocking on his door to take me out.”

“And he let you?” Ilzkhaal was grinning.

“He seemed _excited_ about it.” Kili pushed his hair back over his shoulder, staring down at the table with a little frown. “He uh, gave me this.” He dug around in his pocket and pulled out a handful of silver, gleaming in the light of the table candle. “Told me to enjoy myself.”

“ _Sweet!_ ” Kasaak pounded his fist on the table and crowed. “I always thought he’d be stiff, yanno? Those eyes give me chills.”

“He’s not strict, not the way some chieftains are.” Akash pointed out. “He hasn’t publicly executed anyone in months. He thinks it uncivilised.”

“He’s brutal when he needs to be.” Kili murmured, remembering plainly his visit the night before, that single eye staring at him pain and horror in a twisted, mutilated face.

“Well – of course he is, he had to get to the top somehow.” Ilzkhaal started, when he was cut off by a long groan from Akash.

“Don’t start on that stupid morality bullshit, Ilz. It’s just a downer. Wait ‘til he gets drunk,” The orc turned to Kili with a smirk. “He babbles for _hours_ about rights and laws and how he wants to change the world–ow!” Ilzkhaal thumped him hard on the arm with a bony fist, scowling.

“Shut _up._ ” Self-consciously, the orc hunched his shoulders and glared at the little candle on the table. “I don’t babble.” He looked so earnest and genuinely upset that his cousin was embarrassing him, and even though he was still wracked with guilt and plagued with that terrible mental image of Nazarg’s distorted face, he found himself smiling, just a little bit.

“Here.” Kili pushed a silver coin across the table towards Akash. “Get something for all of us.”

It was a sharp, bitter liquor, one that reminded Kili of the flasks passed around under the eaves of Mirkwood. Akash bought a squarish bottle, half the size of a pint and made from polished stoneware, and a squat cup for Kili with a chipped rim. They drank in slow inches for a time, laughing over the lips of their cups at awful jokes and stories. When everyone was warm and glowing, Kasaak brought out a set of bone dice and suggested a round of _bûth._

Kili lost the first three rounds badly, with bad luck and clunky reflexes, struggling to recall the tricks and rules that Dhaka had taught him. But on the fourth, he finally remembered how to count the faces of the dice and the well-tested odds of betting and won six out of the next eight, much to the despair of Kasaak and Galin.

“He’s cheating!” Kasaak cried as he watched the last of his wages slide across the table. “He _must_ be – no one is that lucky!”

“I swear, I’m not.” Kili stacked the coins in front of him, the beaten silver and copper teetering dangerously. “I’m just good. I got twelfth by winning a lot.” He remembered his most pleasing victory, beating the cook and having that lovely little bone knife. The one he slit Azog’s throat with. The one that the elf snatched up and took away from Kili forever.

“Out of how many?” Galin bit on his tongue, carefully trying to drain the last of the stoneware bottle into his cup.

“Forty at the start.” Kili took one of the coins, rubbing his index finger along the edge. It was smooth but uneven. “I got it by beating the cook, really.”

“Ha. You’ll either be praised or poisoned for that.” Akash leaned in. “Speaking of – Galin I don’t think you heard about Sorr yet, have you?”

“Why, what did the idiot do this time? Locked up I imagine.”

Akash shook his head. “Worse.” His hands abandoned the cup, pressing against the table. “Carked it.”

“ _No!_ How?” Kasaak broke in, wide-eyed. “When did this happen?”

“Night before last.” There was a sick glee in the orc’s face as he retold the story. “You know how was chasing Tarshan for weeks, don’t you? Well – she kept turning her nose up, thinking she was better and he got desperate. So he heads to the spider-caves and—”

“Oh _ugh,_ don’t finish it.” Galin had his hands over his ears shaking his head. Kili lowered his drink with a slight frown. “I get it. We all know what happens next.”

“Well he’s not back yet.” Akash shrugged. “So it’s safe to say...” He dragged a finger across his throat.

“You have spiders too?” Kili finally spoke up, the orc turning to look at him. “Mirkwood has a colony.” He explained. “We ran into them near the eastern edge.” He rubbed his shoulder at the memory, eyes fixed on the amber-gold pool of his drink. “They’re _awful.”_

“I don’t know anyone who doesn’t hate them.” Kasaak arched his neck, draining his cup and slamming it down with a face. “There’s dozens of them down there, lurking in the dark. At least once a season, someone’s stupid enough to go down and try their luck.”

“Then get rid of them.” Kili frowned. “Why don’t you just send a team of guards in to take care of it?”

“Can't get rid of them, they’re too big.” Akash explained. “We leave ‘em alone and they don’t bother us. But plucky young orcs try to prove themselves and come back with a trophy. A pincer or a leg – stingers are the best. They’re the most dangerous part.” He leered along the table at Kili. “People used to come back sometimes, but not for years. Give a girl a stinger though, and she’ll never leave you.”

“Not worth the risk.” Galin said flatly. “They’re _stupid_ for even trying.”

“If you’re not stung, you might get out.” Ilzkhaal explained. Kasaak had rested a hand on his friend's shoulder, Galin tense and quiet at the news. “It’s their stinger-venom that gets you. Turns you cold as a rock for days, and they can’t tell you apart from the dead.” Kili’s throat closed and his shoulder felt oddly numb and tingling. “The bites are painful, so I've heard, but it's the sting you really gotta watch out for. Can’t fight back from that.”

“The spiders like you cold and still, but not rotting.” Akash widened his grin, jagged teeth gleaming in the candlelight. “Sick bastards, aren’t they.”

“ _Akash.”_

“All right Kasaak, I’ll stop.”Akash gathered up the dice and shook them in his wooden cup. “Who’s in for the next round?”

“I’m flat broke.” Kasaak fiddled with his bracelet, woven from leather and bone. “No money ‘til the next week. Unless you take a promise-note?”

“Here.” Breaking out of his reverie, Kili pushed half-a-dozen silver pieces across to him. “Take it back, I honestly don’t need it. I already have everything I could want.”

“Spoiled rotten, huh?” Ilzkhaal elbowed the dwarf in the ribs. “Is it as nice as they say up there? I’ve never been in. None of us are allowed.”

“I don’t know what to compare it to.” Kili spun the coin, watching it twirl for a few seconds on the tabletop and clatter facedown. “Food’s good and the beds are warm. I haven’t been here long enough to see much else.” He eyed the empty bottle and pushed a piece of silver across the table. “Someone get another.”

“You sure? You’ve bought all night.” But Kasaak was beaming as he took the coin.

Kili shrugged. “As I said, I don’t have anything else to spend it on.”

“Won’t stay that way for long,” Akash remarked, “nothing drains a purse quicker than gambling and the drink. ‘Scept maybe a girl.”

“No chance of that happening.” Ilzkhaal’s hand tightened around his near-empty cup and he lifted his head. Kili rolled his shoulders back for a moment in a brief stretch. He’d been leaning over too long, resting on his elbows on the table. He looked uncomfortable, and had trouble meeting his eyes with anybody.

“Not a ladies’ man Kili?” Under the table, Akash was poking his cousin in the side, biting back a grin. Kili only shrugged. It was something that he couldn’t fake. He could talk about the awful things he did with Azog with an almost unshakeable swagger of false pride and a gleaming smirk, but he couldn’t pretend to be or do something that never happened once, not even under deceit.

“I never had a girlfriend, no.” Kili stared down at his stacks of coins. “My brother did – he had _lots_ but I didn’t have his... his luck.” Luck had nothing to do with it and he knew that. He just wasn’t _right_ , the way Fili was. Kili had always been odd in every way and while a few girls thought it ‘cute’ no one ever thought it charming enough to take him seriously, not when he finally plucked up the courage to approach a young lass and ask if she was free for a drink or a dinner or even a short stroll. They always declined politely red-faced with the effort of holding in laughter, waiting until they thought him out of earshot before breaking into squealing titters.

“Not even an admirer?” Galin raised an eyebrow. “Even Ilz had a _—hey!_ ” He shot a glare across the table at the youngest in the group, his ankle throbbing from a swift kick. “All _right.”_

“I don’t...” Kili sighed. If he didn’t tell the truth right now, they would only hound and tease him until he came out with it. He wasn’t ashamed of himself or of Ori. Perhaps it was the drink that made him think so recklessly. It wasn’t _his_ fault for attracting unnatural attention, was it? “If you must know, I had one.” He murmured quietly, and the others leaned in to hear him. “But nothing _ever_ happened.”

“Why, was she ugly?” Galin rested one elbow on the stone table, smirking. “I don’t even _know_ what your girls look like. Lots of hair, right? Could you imagine that? A beard on a girl – _ugh._ ”

“No, she wasn’t ugly.” Kili drained the rest of his drink, tearing off the festering bandage. “She was a _he._ ” He waited for the crows of laughter, the jeers, but it never actually came. Beside him, Ilzkhaal choked. He held his hands over his mouth as heavy coughs wracked his thin frame, bent over. Galin was smirking but not in Kili’s direction. “Ilzkhaal are you...”

“He’s fine, drink went the wrong way.” Akash thumped the orc on the back. “C’mon cousin, swallow it down, get a hold of yourself.” Ilzkhaal kept his face hidden from Kili, rubbing quickly at his eyes as he righted himself and tried to regain his composure.

“I always take it as a compliment. Not my game but nice to know I’d have a shot, y’know?” Galin threw one leg up on the bench, enjoying the space. “’specially how thin on the ground it is. How many do you think Ilz? About one in ten?”

“One in t-twenty at the most.” Ilzkhaal was still struggling to regain his breath. “The ones who _really_ mean it. ‘Course there’s lots who’ll just have a go with anyone too.”

“Wait.” Kili’s eyes widened. The drink was burning in his stomach and his fingers felt blurred and clumsy. “It’s not – is it _allowed_ here?”

“’Course it’s allowed!” Akash furrowed his brow. “Why wouldn’t it be? Mautor doesn’t give a damn who you got to bed with, so long as you pull your weight and toe the line.”

“It’s an awful crime amongst the dwarves.” Kili’s voice was quite faint in the noisy pub and the others had to lean in and listen closely. “Ori – the one who... who loved me – my uncle _banished_ him.” With his mouth half open, Ilzkhaal stared at him, hands twitching at his side in close restraint. “He was lucky he wasn’t executed outright for his thoughts.”

“Twisted bastard.” Akash gripped the shoulder of his cousin protectively, and Kili found he didn’t have the words to defend his uncle. It _was_ twisted. Poor Ori had nothing to blame but his own heart, and the realisation that amongst these people Ori wouldn’t be a criminal, not even an oddity or a freak, someone to be spurned or talked about but a friend and a brother all the same, it sent a hot anger burning through Kili’s heart. How could the _orcs_ be more wise and fair than his own kind? His eyes fell on that defensive hand on Ilzkhaal’s shoulder, and with a little throb in his brain, Kili finally made the connection in his head, realising why Akash was so angry that someone could face condemnation for it, why Galin made the little jibes and asides – not cruel or hurtful, just in a different shade to those he threw at the other orcs. They _knew_ , all of them, and no one gave a damn.

For the first time since he left that body slumped against the bars of his Lake-Town cell, Kili started to wish Ori was here. He had tried to be practical, tried to tell himself that Ori couldn’t hold up in the wild. He was too young, too untested and soft and Kili couldn’t protect him. But now he wished more than anything else that Ori was sitting beside him, listening to the orcs talk about it with a light, easy casualness as though they discussed the weather. Ori would be more accepted here than amongst his own people, just like Kili. But unlike Kili, who had blood on his hands and left red marks on everything he touched, _Ori hadn’t done anything wrong,_ not once.

Before anyone else could really speak, Kasaak made a noisy return to the table, and this time he wasn’t alone. “Galin you remember Âmbal, dontcha? This is her sister, Maathum. Girls, this is Galin, Akash, Ilzkhaal, and Kili. Scoot over on the bench and give the ladies space, Galin, where’s your manners?”

“Ooh, it’s the _dwarf.”_ Even though there was a seat next to Kasaak, the first orc-girl pushed Galin back along the bench and took the end so she could lean across and get a better look at Kili. Kili could get a good look at _her_ too, although he took it only in short glances, not wanting to stare. He’d never seen a female orc before, not up close. He caught glimpses in the dull light of the pub, noticed that some figures curved in and out and wore their sparse hair long, but it was only now that Kili could study her features. Âmbal braided her hair and let the ebony rope trail down her back, a few wispy snares left to frame her face. She looked almost the same as all the others at first, but Kili noticed the softness in her jaw, her almond-shaped cat-eyes, wrought in that same stone-grey, but rounded in that jagged harshness. “I heard about you. You’re not half as ugly as I thought you’d be. Where’s your beard though?”

“I cut it.” Kili mumbled into his cup, even though it was empty. He made a pretence of taking a mouthful. “Gets caught in the bowstring.” That was a half-truth. Even if he _did_ grow a beard, it would probably be thin and straggly and pathetic, taking months and months to grow an inch if his youthful attempts were anything to go by. Kili supposed it was just never meant to be. “And believe me, I’m plenty ugly.”

She tried to cajole a few more pleasantries out of him, but Kili was quiet and obviously uncomfortable with the attention, giving low, monotonous answers with both Kasaak and Ilzkhaal staring oddly in his direction. With a shrug towards her sister Âmbal finally stood up and shuffled along to the space beside Kasaak. Immediately he looped his arm around her shoulders, muttering low in her ear and turning her away. Her low hiss of _I was just curious_ was missed by nobody and Kili hunched his shoulders over again in his stiff leather coat.

Talk bubbled over him, Kili sinking like a stone to the bottom of a deep pond. _Not half as ugly_. He turned the words over in his head and rubbed briefly at the coarse scrape of stubble on his jaw, thinking. He glanced up for a moment and saw Âmbal, leaning against Kasaak’s shoulder and winding one hand in the hem of his furs. He wasn’t staring at her really, just in her direction and thinking about her, about Kasaak and Ilzkhaal and all the rest, sitting in a tight ring around the table. He thought about how _easily_ this could just be him and his brother and their own friends, relaxing at the pub after a hard day slaving over the fires, swapping stories and exaggerating for effect, betting each other to hurt themselves or drink too quickly, cheerfully chasing skirts and bragging when they were successful, or glumly commiserating a sad defeat.

“Kili.” A voice in his ear made him jump. He looked up to see Ilzkhaal smiling at him. “You look bored – do you want to go?”

“It’s not boredom.” Kili tried to mask his embarrassment. “I think I’ve had a drink too much and...” He trailed off, realising he couldn’t vocalise just how he felt, pressed in close with all these people, with the girl who tried to talk to him, and he felt so awkward and ashamed and impotent. He felt _young_ even though he knew he outstripped these orcs by decades. He couldn’t stop thinking about Ori too, how scared and lonely and disgusted with himself he would have felt, and he was _so angry_ at Thorin for it. He never realised just how much Ori’s unnaturalness was nothing more than an artifice, how false and manufactured that disgust was. He’d always thought that maybe something was wrong with _him_ too, that he maybe didn’t understand just why Ori was so wrong. But it was Thorin who was closed-minded and cruel and refused to listen to reason. There was an _entire city_ here who just stepped back and let it all happen, who thought it was completely normal.

“Come on then, let’s go.” The orc rested his hand on Kili’s arm, and the simple gesture sent a stab of hot rage through his chest, right down into his heart. Ori was never allowed to touch him like this. Even his friendship was a crime, the only thing that kept Kili hopeful that he wasn’t going to be a monster, protecting the fears and insecurities and awful memories from piercing him like a suit of gilded armour. Even that was disallowed.

Kili kept most of the money but left a handful on the table, almost staggering out of the grimy little pub with cheers and catcalls following him. He looked drunk. He _felt_ drunk but he knew it wasn’t the liquor that made his vision blur and stomach burn quite like this. Kili felt like he was going to cry in overwhelming anger and frustration, so separated and helpless. He wished Ori was here again, his heart was _sick_ for him, he wanted to just look Ori in the eye for a few moments and whisper something he’d always suspected but never had the courage to say, something that to his shame didn’t seem like it could quite be true – that he wasn’t abnormal at all.

“Do you need a hand—” But Kili already righted himself and raked his fingers through his hair, trying to force back the quavers that made his throat hurt. “Kili?”

“I’m fine.” And he lifted his head, stoic and effortless. “I just need a little air.” He forced a smile on his face, just a faint one that twitched at the corner of his lips. “You can go back inside Ilzkhaal – it’s still early, spend it with your friends.”

“Oh, hang them.” He waved his hand in the direction of the pub. “Akash needs to go soon anyway and the rest’ll move on soon to one of those awful places with too many people where the drinks cost too much. Let them go.” The orc returned that smile, but his was wide and warm. “Do you want to head home, or do you want to see a little more of the town?”

With his hand on the back of his neck, Kili paused. He still didn’t have a plan to rescue Nazarg yet – everything was all loose ends and ideas and threads of things that could perhaps be put together. Nothing was solid and tight and time was starting to run out. How many nights did he have – four, five perhaps, until Bolg was here and there was nothing left that Kili could do to save one of his few remaining friends. He needed every scrap of information he could get about this town. Everything counted.

So even though he just wanted to be alone with his thoughts, Kili stretched that small beginning of a smile into a grin, hoping the orc didn’t know him well enough to perceive that dead, cold look in his eyes. “Let’s see more, then.”

* * *

Ilzkhaal’s enthusiasm was astounding. Being alone with Kili brought him out from the shadows, and his nervous side-long glances and hushed whispers for his friends to shut up vanished like smoke in the wind. Ilzkhaal knew every rock and stick in this place, and every single one told a story. He remembered almost drowning in the little stream that ran down the side of the main street. He saw his first (and last) public execution in that square. The herbalist on the eastern side was better for aches and pains and cheaper to boot, but if you had anything infectious you had to go to the place down by the warg-pit and shell out; it wasn’t worth the risk.

In his hurry, Izkhaal gripped Kili by the wrist and pulled him along, his fingertips pressing against Azog’s scar. Kili let the names and words and shapes ooze into his mind, trying to remember everything that the orc had said and file it all away for later, just in case he needed any of it. It was hard for Kili – not just to keep in step with the orc and keep his words straight in his head, but to endure Ilzkhaal’s exhausting passion as he let Kili in to a world that he knew intimately, more than any other. He didn’t realise that Kili was distracted sometimes and not paying attention – he was too wrapped up trying to see and talk about everything, and even when their footsteps slowed, Ilzkhaal kept his hand around Kili’s wrist, the dwarf feeling the blood pulse warm and thick in his veins.

“Ilzkhaal,” Eventually Kili had to admit defeat. There wasn’t much to help him – just shops and stores and warehouses, just like back home, only on a much wider scale. His head ached, and his bandaged foot had long ago started to throb. “I’m sorry but – I’m exhausted.” The orc’s face fell. “I need to sleep.”

“Just one more place – it’s the best.” His hand tightening around Kili’s wrist, Ilzkhaal begged. “It’s not far from here, just a few minutes’ walk and then I’ll take you home I promise. Please?” Both had been speaking in Black Speech all night – but the soft _please_ , spoken in Westron because there was no word for it in the orchish tongue, thrummed inside Kili like a plucked harpstring. Ilzkhaal’s face was so open and earnest and pleading, just an innocent attempt to foster a friendship. Kili knew there was nothing else to assume, no ulterior motive or cunning tricks. It was as far from Mautor’s calculated kindness as it could possibly be.

So Kili caved in. He smiled and agreed, and Ilzkhaal couldn’t hide his joy. He almost gabbled as he led Kili down a winding, twisting cave-path. It was one of his secret places, he’d only shown a small handful of people and he knew that no one else would dare to see it.

“Why not?” The orc looked back at him, pale eyes gleaming in the dark. “How do you know it’s a secret?”

“Because,” and he looked almost sneaky, with his voice taking on a new, hushed tone, “you get in through the spider-cave.” Kili’s eyes widened. “Not _far_ , it’s no more than twenty feet and you have to walk down that cave for at least a quarter-mile before you even see a spider. It’s safe, I promise you.”

Kili only smirked. “I’m not scared of those spiders.” And he truly wasn’t. He’d faced twelve of the beasts and walked away almost unscathed – what could a dingy dark pit of the brutes do to him? Catching the swagger in Kili’s voice, Ilzkhaal tugged Kili onwards.

“It’s in here.” The entrance looked as though it had been boarded up – warped twisted planks lay scattered around the entrance of the underground cave-mouth. Kili stared down at the wood with a little frown. Carrying a torch in his free hand, Ilzkhaal caught the dwarf’s gaze. “Yeah, they board it up every so often but reckless kids tear it straight back down.”

“Reckless kids like you?” It was a half-murmur, more of a thought to himself than something he wanted the orc to hear. But Ilzkhaal did hear it. He paused and Kili felt his stomach clench tightly in a hot flash of guilt. “No... I mean...”

“I _am_ reckless.” He accepted it with a fresh grin. “But it hasn’t hurt me yet. Come on, you’ll love it I know.” It was a low passage, but Kili was able to walk with his head six inches clear of the jagged ceiling while Ilzkhaal walked with bowed, hunched shoulders. “Here.” Carefully, he bent down and thrust the long torch between a cluster of small rocks taking up half the narrow path. “It’s better if you don’t have light.”

Kili followed silent and curious. What was it that he was so sure Kili would find fascinating, something he kept secret but obviously knew well intimately, tracing his fingers over the rough face of the stone as they walked away from their little orb of light. “Just hold tight and we’ll be fine.”

All the same, Kili’s free hand palmed the waistband of his trousers, over his right hip where he kept a knife strapped close. The air grew damp and heavy, and he was sure he heard the slow dripping of water against rock in the thick darkness. Was he scared? He _was_ – Kili’s heart was starting to race and sweat sprang from his temples. Scared like a child, walking in the dark. But he kept his fear inward, hoping that his breathing wasn’t too loud and obvious. He didn’t know why he was doing this – why didn’t he just say he wanted to go home? He was tired, and cold, and his foot hurt. He just wanted peace and quiet enough to sift through his thoughts and tie those strands together. He wanted to lie down and think about Ori, even though he knew it would hurt, with the rare luxury of peace.

But despite all of that, Kili knew in a heartbeat why he agreed to come and see this one last thing. It was the look of hopeful excitement, on the sort of face that for too long had been fixed in leers and snarls and growls. It was simply _being_ with someone who didn’t use him like a puppet or a toy, who wore their heart on their sleeve so openly and was so thoughtless and naive and unaware. It was a soft, comfortable, _familiar_ feeling after all of this harshness.

“In here.” Ilzkhaal pulled on Kili’s wrist, coaxing him to the right. “Watch your head.” He bent almost double but Kili only had to duck his head a little, squeezing himself into the narrow tunnel. “Watch your step, you have to get up about three feet.” The orc finally let go of Kili’s wrist to climb effortlessly up, but he turned and offered his hand, the ledge up to Kili’s chest. Their fingers knotted together and Kili felt the tendons strain on the orcs wrist as he hauled him up, elbow-to-shoulder in the cave, roughly the size of a large room with a pool of water at the bottom of a shallow rocky bank.

“ _Oh.”_ Kili blinked as he threw his neck up, the breath robbed from his lungs. Glow-worms. There were _thousands_ in the walls and ceiling, reflecting in the water, dazzling like stars. They both stood, orc and dwarf in their own private galaxy.

“Sit.” He tugged at Kili’s elbow, stretching out on the rock and leaning back on his hands. Kili obeyed, sitting with his own legs spread out. “ _Gâdhnar_ , isn’t it?” Kili’s tongue felt too big in his own mouth. _Not-ugly._ It was the closest thing to a compliment the orc could muster in his own language. It reminded him of the girl, leaning over the table and studying him with her almond-shaped eyes. _Not ugly_ was her assumption of him too, and Kili felt another harp-string thrum in his chest with that thought.

“It’s beautiful.” Kili murmured, the Westron creaky and disused on his too-big tongue. They both sat in silence for a while, and after a time Kili leaned back, copying the orc and resting on his hands. “Can I ask you something?” His voice broke the silence, wrought with a gentle, genuine curiosity that made orc look over at him, his outline plain against the glittering curtain of glow-worms.

“Of course.”

“Well...” Kili chewed on the inside of his lip, wondering how he could phrase his question without sounding like an ignorant fool. “What does your name mean?” He heard a short intake of breath. “I know _kaal_ means ‘light’ but I’ve never heard the first half. Is it a local dialect or something?”

The orc laughed for a brief moment. “No it’s Black Speech but I’m not surprised you haven’t heard it before.” There was a brief pause. “It means ‘star’.”

“’Star’?” Kili echoed in confusion. _Starlight._ “No – you’re pulling my leg.” His forehead creased in a frown. “Orcs don’t name their kids after things like starlight.”

“Well, one obviously did.” There was a tetchy note in Ilzkhaal’s voice, an old, weathered defence against his name. “My mother named me after starlight. Take from that what you will.” And Kili found himself tongue-tied. Naming children was like a guessing game, and almost all the orcs he met had deliberate names that meant things like murderer or monster or bloodthirsty, names of darkness and power. Names mothers hoped their children would grow into.

Really, it wasn’t unlike dwarves naming their dwarrows after their fathers, in a way. Just as an orc would have the expectation of blood and death behind his name, a dwarf would have the weight of his family. What expectation would there be for someone named after starlight? It was so singular and strange, yet as the night wore on and the orc grew warmer and more personal in his storytelling, it had made perfect sense to Kili that he would be given such a name.

“It fits.” Kili finally murmured into the blackness, feeling quarter-inch of warmth where their little fingers touched, palms side-by-side on the damp rocks. They both stared at the artificial starlight in its soft, ethereal glow, the pond a near-perfect mirror of the walls and ceiling and Kili almost couldn’t tell where rock and water began and ended. He was exhausted and his eyes stung, but Kili’s mind was still wide awake. He had seen something tonight, something he didn’t expect. Innocence. Naivety. And it wasn’t even just Ilzkhaal – _all_ of his friends were like that, laughing and free, uncaring, judgeless. There was a whole other facet that until tonight had been invisible to Kili, and the more he thought about it, the stronger he could draw the parallels between his own foolish childhood and the orcs he drank and talked with. They fought and argued and loved, and did stupid, reckless things in their love.

“Can I ask _you_ something?” Kili jerked back to reality with the voice. Ilzkhaal cleared his throat a little bit, sounding nervous. “And you don’t have to answer, but...” He sucked on a hole in his tooth, thinking. “What were you like?”

The question took Kili aback at first. What was he _like?_ He had to stop and think, with a frown on his face. Ilzkhaal kept talking, trying to explain himself. “I’m not trying to be rude, I swear – but before Azog got you, you weren’t like this were you? I mean – it must have changed you, a _lot_...” He trailed off with the assumption that Kili wasn’t going to answer. He’d sat up with the orc’s words, with his shoulders hunched slightly and is hands clasped together before his lips in thought. What was he _like?_ Kili ran his fingers through the tangled knots in his mind and tried to drag a few words out. Stupid. Reckless. Naive. Innocent. It was like a eulogy, and nothing seemed really adequate in expressing just how much Kili had really lost, how he had shifted so dramatically from one extreme to the other with no seeming traces left behind.

“I...” Kili’s eyes widened with the realisation. It stuck like a pin, small and sharp and precise. And it all made sense to him then, his strange fondness of the orc, his willingness to follow him around even though he was exhausted, his ease and comfort and that soft air of familiarity that had him feeling relaxed, _really_ relaxed, for the first time in weeks.

“You’re right. I wasn’t like this at all.” And to his embarrassment, Kili’s voice started to shake. “I used to be just like _you_.”


	77. Distant Voices

Thorin’s world fell apart with the arrival of Dain’s letter. He and Fili were sleeping in their dusty apartment, a bed of cloaks and rotting velvet that closely fit two. They lay back-to-back, sleeping fitfully and listening to each other breathe.

Near dawn, there was a knock at his door. Fili pretended to be asleep, but Thorin snapped his eyes open and sat up, voice rumbling in his throat. “Enter.”

“The raven just returned.” Bilbo was panting, his hands on his knees. He waved the paper in his hand, stamped with the familiar wax seal. Fili got up on one elbow and Thorin tossed the blankets aside, scrabbling up. “Dain must have replied the moment he got your message.” Beckoning him closer, Thorin held his hand out expectantly for the letter. Bilbo held the torch close as the dwarf popped the seal and his eyes rapidly scanned the page, lips moving slightly.

A third of the way down, Thorin froze. Every muscle visibly seized up in his body, and his face turned the awful, greyish colour of undercooked porridge. A low groan rumbled in his throat, one that made Fili sit up very suddenly and then scramble to his feet as Thorin sank to his knees.

“Thorin!” Fili hissed, throwing himself at his uncle’s feet and gripping his shoulders. “What’s wrong – speak to me.”

“No.” Thorin was gasping for air, the letter trembling in the dim light. “ _No.”_ Fili wrenched the letter free, one hand still clasped around Thorin’s collarbone. He read the letter quickly, and like Thorin, went colourless with horror, mouth open and slack.

He looked up at Bilbo. “Get Balin and Dwalin.” His voice struck Bilbo hard, and he drew back without a word, leaving the lantern on the floor to give the both of them light. Fili let the letter fall and held on to his uncle tightly, burying his chin in the crook of Thorin’s neck.

“They’re not having you.” His shaking hands came up and found Fili’s wrists, encircling the broad bones like manacles. His face was twisted and ugly in his rage. “ _They are not_.”

Balin and Dwalin came in moments, rubbing at their eyes and muttering about lost sleep. Thorin sank deep inside himself, his eyes like dull hollow pits, and he made no sign of recognition as his two oldest friends crouched down to read the letter between themselves in the light. Balin was the first to finish. He let his fingers fall from the corner of the parchment, shaking his head with a low groan and reaching out to pat Thorin on the knee. Dwalin kept up a low growl throughout, increasing in volume. “Oh, hell.” His snarl wound the air even tighter in the chamber, and Fili closed his eyes with a long, heavy sigh.

Balin reread the letter once the throbbing in his ears had faded. He skipped through the pleasantries, the short, clipped message of thinly-veiled surprise that Thorin would ask this after some months of relative silence, getting back to what made Thorin so grey-faced.

_You obviously have had no correspondence with Ered Luin. Approximately four months ago now, a retinue of a hundred Ironfist soldiers called upon your house to settle an old debt. Dís reports that they were extremely hostile and repeatedly threatened to burn down the entire settlement. You signed a contract (which I have now seen), stating that upon his eightieth birthday, you would release Fili from your guardianship, and he would return to his birthplace in the Orocani Mountains to become prince and then king of the Ironfist people._

_That you never told me of this suggests quite plainly that you have no such designs. You never intended for Fili to return to the East. I can sympathise Thorin, they are beasts and brutes and the fewer our ties, the better. But I am nevertheless astounded that you would sign a contract and then leave your sister and your people unguarded, knowing that the wrath of the Ironfists would eventually be upon them._

_Dís is certainly clever. She told them that you ventured forth to the Lonely Mountain over three years ago, and no trace of you has been seen since. She did her best but she could not shake their suspicion. A shrewd old dwarf by the name of Fíak led the Ironfists from Ered Luin towards my own domain, with Dís in tow – as a ransom or bargaining chip, I do not know. Perhaps he thought it would draw you out of hiding._

_Three weeks ago they arrived, having bypassed through the Northern Wastes on horseback and relying on their numbers for strength and speed. Dís was fine, although exhausted and saddle-sore, but the Ironfists are livid. They were convinced that I had kept Fili hidden in an attempt to delay the inevitable and do not take kindly to being thwarted. Nor do I take kindly to having a hundred hostile dwarves occupying my home. For the sake of old alliances Thror tried to forge, I am hosting them as friends, but I wish to make this very clear Thorin – I will not lie for you and jeopardise the lives of my own people. Fíak is already aware of your survival, and in a particularly violent fit of anger did his best to exact revenge on your sister. A weaker dam would have been killed._

_I will send the dwarves you require, and by the time this letter reaches you, we will be on the march. But I am warning you Thorin, I will not be arriving alone. I will fight the men and elves who threaten your sovereignty and wish to take your gold, but I will not assist you in fighting our own kinsmen. Relationships between the western and eastern tribes are strained as it is from long and uneasy silence, and I will not be the hand that pushes the dwarves to civil war._

Balin folded the letter and tapped it slowly against his knee. Hovering in the doorway, Bilbo waited for several tense moments before his curiosity got the better of him. “What does it say?” He asked in a hush whisper, and at his voice, Thorin lifted his eyes. “Will Dain come?”

“Nothing that concerns you.” Thorin’s raw, ragged voice sent Bilbo’s heart into his stomach. “Family business. Leave us.”

“Thorin!” Balin scolded the dwarf for his rudeness, but Bilbo had already left, cut off and alienated. Thorin was unrepentant, tightening his grip on Fili’s wrists.

“I don’t have time to deal with nosey halflings.” Thorin’s teeth were gritted. “Not when I have a war on three fronts.” He started to breathe quickly; the panic set in, the full realisation that he had _no_ allies. Dain was no help, not if he wasn’t going to defend Thorin against the Ironfists. Even if he defeated Thranduil and his ragtag alliance of Lake-Town men, Thorin would have to fight the Ironfists alone.

“We can get through this.” Fili tried to speak calmly. Inside, he was a molten torrent of panic. It was one of his deepest, coldest fears that the Ironfists would return to claim their prized son before they had a chance to properly defend themselves. And on top that – they had his _mother_. Fili was aching but he tried to hold the unravelling seams together, tried to be reasonable. “Thorin – if we give Thranduil what he wants, we could have another ally—”

“You must be mad, if you think I will stoop so low as to ask the elves for _help_.” Thorin’s hands fell from Fili’s wrists. There was a cruel jab in that, one that made Fili flush red with indigination and embarrassment with the memory. “He will not help us. He will smile and swear fealty while we put the gold in his hands, and then turn around and say it is not his place to meddle in the affairs of dwarves. Surely _you_ should have learned by now that Thranduil is a snake, Fili. His word is worthless.”

“Thorin, you are going to lose.” Fili’s terrified whisper was a knife in Thorin’s heart. “Please – I-I can’t go with them, I _can’t_.” Thorin lifted his head and he reached out, gripping Fili’s shoulder tightly and keeping him still, their eyes meeting.

“We will die before that happens.” That gleam was back in Thorin’s eye, the same gleam he wore when he had Bilbo pinned to the wall and searched him desperately for his grandfather’s stone. “I will not negotiate with the _scum_ who kidnapped my sister like some sort of ransom!” His voice rose to a roar, and his trembling hands balled into fists. “They are monsters and I swear to you Fili, they will _never_ take you!” He tried to calm himself but he was so close to losing control, and all of them could plainly see it.

“What will you write in response then?” Fili whispered, watching his uncle groan and rub at his temples. “Will you fight to the death with no whisper of peace?” He stared at Thorin’s caved-in face and hollow eyes, watched him crumble as his worst fears came to life in front of him. _That was exactly what Thorin was going to do._

“Fili lad, leave him alone.” Balin stepped in, hands on Fili’s arm, trying to gently pull him away. “You’re not helping, being like this.”

“No – I am trying to _understand!”_ Fili snapped, the panic doubling in his throat. “Why will you not even _try_ to ask Thranduil for help! You’re being so stubborn and _stupid_ and–and—” Fili cut himself short, chest gasping for air as the full horror of his awful words finally hit him.

“Get out.” Thorin gets up on his knees, ready to rise to his feet and tower over his nephew. “If you will not see sense, then _get out of my sigh_ t Fili.”

He left in silence, fuming.

* * *

Kili had a nightmare, curled up under his furs in his new room. He dreamed he was being strung up again, in that deep cave before the fire with the eyes of Azog’s retinue on him. That awful orc was beating him, tearing cruelly into his skin with that whip and no amount of screaming could make him stop. The sound of laughing rose in the air, Azog’s deep, growling boom sounding over them all. Kili was screaming and he could _feel_ it, the deep slashes across his back throbbing and oozing. The orc turned away with the whip in his hand and Kili was sobbing, begging, shouting for him to stop. Azog was still laughing.  There was set of hands on his head, pulling his hair back and holding him still. Exposing his ears. Then all of a sudden that whip in the orc’s hand was a knife, _his_ knife, the knife Thorin gave him all those many years ago when he was a dwarrow crying over the loss of his brother in his secret cave above Lake Malaad. Kili writhed and screamed, but nothing moved; not even his fingers could curl and flex. The orc turned back to face him, turning Kili’s scream into a choked gasp. It was _Nazarg_ , the mutilated Nazarg Kili had seen in the dungeon, with his eye torn out and mouth cut up and ears sliced down to stumps. He was snarling at Kili, staring with that single remaining eye and with Kili’s knife in his three-fingered hand, strode across the stone—

Kili awoke with a choked cry. He sat up and scrabbled at the bedclothes a little, still wrapped up in his nightmare. As his hands touched fur, real, living fur that moved in breath and heartbeat and was warm to his touch, Kili forced open his cracked eyes. Nardur nosed at his ear and licked at the side of his face, stretched alongside Kili in a bed that was too big for him alone, but too small for the both of them.

After several thudding heartbeats, and the air still tearing in his lungs, Kili lay back down, staring up at the ceiling, all shadows and a sunken, ember-red glow. He was too hot. With a kick and a wriggle, Kili pulled the blankets down to his waist, the air chilly on his sweat-sheened chest. He slept naked apart from a pair of greyish underpants; Kili didn’t like feeling so exposed and vulnerable in his sleep, but the coarse leather was simply too stiff for rest.

He trailed a hand down his chest, feeling the puckered scar tissue plainly against his thin scattered coat of dark hair. It wouldn’t grow back, not ever, and even if the scars did ever fade from pink and silver, he would still have the gaping patches of hairlessness to remind him what had happened. Kili rested his hand against the largest burn on his side, the raised scar wider than the breadth of his bony hand. With Nardur whining in his ear and trying to cuddle back down for sleep, Kili half-heartedly scratched the warg on top of his massive head and closed his eyes.

But when he closed his eyes, he saw Nazarg’s face through the gloom, snarling at him with the knife in his hand. Kili parted his lids and stared up at the ceiling, running his unscarred wrist over his sweaty hairline with a groan. The guilt doubled in his chest, like a heartburn, and he couldn’t shake it. After a few restless moment of tossing and turning, with the warg snuffling impatiently in his ear, Kili sat up.

“I can’t sleep while he’s like this.” Kili curled his spine and stared down at his hands. “Oh Nardur, he’s in pieces.” He kept his voice tuned to a very low whisper. “I don’t know what to do – I thought that there would be some way to get him out but this damn dungeon is sealed up so tight – there’s no way I can sneak him out without being caught.” The dwarf rolled his aching shoulders, and tried to massage the tight muscles. “There’s no escaping, I can’t just break the door down and walk out with him on my shoulders – I’ll be _seen_.” His fingers dug into the old spider-bite scar over the tendons on his collarbone. “There has to be another way, something... more clever...” Kili stared down at shoulder, moving his hand to study the spider-bite in the dull red light.

 _Of course._ It was like a light went off in his head. Kili threw back the furs and leaped to his feet, disrupting Nardur who got up on his hindquarters with a little jump. His feet crossing rock and fur and rock again, Kili paced. _Cold as stone._ No breathing, no heartbeat. It was _perfect_. If they thought Nazarg dead, then what use would they have with him? There would be no lock and key and guard for a corpse. No one had come back from that cave in years, Akash had said. Who would suspect that after all this time, anyone, let alone a _dwarf_ , would have the strength and skill to survive?

“It’s the perfect plan.” Kili whispered. That wasn’t true – it was a single part of the perfect plan, and Kili still had to put the rest together. He had to figure out how to get the poison in to Nazarg undetected, had to throw together some sort of ruse that removed him from suspicion, had to make sure that he wasn’t seen anywhere _near_ the tower on that night. He needed an unwitting accomplice who could convincingly swear ignorance on the slim chance that Kili was caught. He needed an alibi.

And with memories of glow-worms in his head, Kili smiled to himself in the dying ember-red light.

* * *

Fili found Ori coming down from the sealed Front Gate after his watch had ended. He was with Bilbo, the pair heading back to their rooms for a spot of breakfast and a little sleep if they could get it, but Fili grabbed the dwarf’s wrist and after a half-hearted apology to Bilbo, pulled him away and into the closest room he could find with an airtight door.

Ori saw Fili’s haggard face in the light of his lantern and knew exactly what was wrong. “The letter.” He murmured in a low voice, reaching out to squeeze his elbow. “What did it say?”

“It’s bad.” Fili whispered. “Oh Ori – it’s worse than I thought possible.” He could feel himself sinking inside, the horror eating away at his ribcage, his bones as flimsy and frail as rotting wood. “Thorin knew this was coming he knew for _years.”_ He lifted his head. “You don’t know about the deal, do you?”

“What deal?” His forehead knitted with a frown and he gripped Fili a little tighter, trying to soothe him. “Did he reach some agreement with Dain?”

“Not with Dain.” His hollow voice was very soft. “With my father’s people, the Ironfists.” He swallowed. “I’m their only son and heir to the crown and years ago, they tried to take me away. Thorin didn’t tell everyone, just his trusted advisors. He didn’t want it getting out.” His eyes drifted down to Ori’s hand on his arm. “So he reached a deal – when I came of age, I was to go with them. And Thorin, he never meant for that to happen. He wanted Erebor instead, with me beside him and we were to already be there, strong enough to fight them back and win. But we were too slow, you know all the setbacks we had.” Fili’s voice started to rush, the words running together in short, disconnected sounds. “So the Ironfists, they came of their own accord to Ered Luin, just a few weeks after we left and they weren’t there and they took _Amad_ and thought Dain was hiding us and now they’re coming to take me away and Thorin is being so _stupid_ and he’s not—”

“ _Fili.”_ Ori cut him short with both hands on his shoulders, their eyes meeting. “Breathe.” Fili gasped and nodded, realising only now how badly his lungs burned and head throbbed.

“He’s not listening.” He moaned after several deep lungfuls of air. “I’m trying to tell him that we won’t win – Dain won’t fight alongside us against the Ironfists. He says he doesn’t want to fight our own people and start a civil war, but I’m not an idiot.” Fili’s lip curled in a snarl. “He wants me gone. Without me, he can step in when Thorin dies and take the crown. He can be king of Durin’s folk and under the Mountain too, now that Smaug is gone. Thorin has no allies Ori, he has _nothing_ but his gold and I-I don’t know what to do.” He sat down on a broken piece of stool, with one hand in his pocket. “I have to tell you something – and you must _promise_ to keep it a secret.”

“I owe you my life.” Ori said simply, finding a scorched crate and pushing it towards Fili. He sat down carefully. “I’ll keep any secret you tell me and take it to the grave.” With his bottom lip trapped between his teeth, Fili slowly pulled his hand out of his pocket, an egg-sized lump of cloth in his hands.

“I’ve done something that is either awful or heroic.” Fili slowly untied the knot of cord around the little bundle. “And I don’t know what to keep on doing.” Ori’s mouth fell open as the brown rags fell away, the Arkenstone throwing its own light over the walls and ceiling, dazzling them both.

“Oh _no.”_ Ori pressed his dirty fingers over slack lips. “Oh Fili you didn’t.”

“You didn’t see him.” Fili’s fingers stumbled a little as he tried to rewrap the stone. “You didn’t see the way he shook down Bilbo, looking for that thing. It’s consuming him, it’s driving him insane and yet – yet I’m terrified that if he has this, he’ll do something irrevocable. He doesn’t think he’s worthy and already he’s pushing us into war. If he finds the stone, he’ll take it as a sign that what he wants to do is right and he’ll make everything so much worse.” He thrust the lump back into his pocket, staring down at his crooked fingers. “He’s going to fight Thranduil and probably lose. And even if he doesn’t, Dain will step back and let the Ironfists plunder Thorin’s heart. He knows he won’t win, but he’s determined to go down fighting.” Fili pushed his hair back. “Thror’s line will end and everything we’ve fought for will be lost.”

“What?” Ori stared at him, wide-eyed. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’ve tried talking to him.” Fili sounded so small and lost. “But he’s beyond help. He’s losing himself Ori.” The panic picked up again in his voice. “I don’t know how to help him and how to make all of this right. I should be his rock, his heir and yet he calls me a child and sends me away. He won’t listen and I know that I’m right in this.”

“What do you think we should do?” Ori’s mouth had gone tense and tight, a hard line beneath his beaky nose, and his hands were balled into two bony fists in his lap. “How would you stop this?”

“I hate to say it, I really do.” A muscle twitched in Fili’s throat. “But we need Thranduil. We need his soldiers and his help. We can’t ever think of establishing any kingdom without him, and Thorin _knows_ that, but if we offered gold enough, if we wrote peace agreements and settled our differences, he could fight with us. He could drive the Ironfists away and we would end all this ominous ugly bloodshed.”

“You already tried that, remember? In Thranduil’s Hall, you—”

“I know, I messed it up.” Fili made a face. “I tried to offer help and he threw it in my face. I know we were escapees and he probably wants to see us locked up. I _know_ Ori, but what else can we do? Everyone else is too far away to help. Thranduil won’t want a war, not with the people of Lake-Town so desolated. He’s a good king, at least politically. He will understand that peace is the only real solution to all of this.” His eyes locked with Ori, wide and pleading. “Tell me I’m right. Kili would.”

Ori clutched at his heart, at the piece of paper under his shirt bearing Kili’s reworked face. He tried to swallow but found his mouth was dry, and his tongue grated uncomfortably, harsh and gritty as sandpaper. He quivered under that expectant gaze, and breathed gently in and out. He tried to buy time, tried to look anywhere else but Fili’s face as the silence dragged out between them.

“ _Ori.”_ Fili reached out and gripped the hem of Ori’s tunic, his knuckles white. “Ori, _help me_ please.”

And Ori lifted his head. He could feel his heart pounding inside of him, as Fili’s words were repeated in his head, an echo that grew louder and louder and thrummed inside his ears. Fili was right. Of course he was. He was the one who wasn’t corrupted and mad. He still saw sense. And even though he was so naive and hopeful, so assured that Thranduil could be trusted even though he had already been betrayed, even though he would dismissed as a foolish, ignorant child, Ori knew that Fili was right, with an uneasy lurch deep in his gut.

“You are right.” He finally murmured slowly. “You’re right Fili.” Ori shuffled on the edge of the crate, with Fili still holding on to him. “Thorin’s mad.” It didn’t feel good, saying that. “He’ll kill us all if he’s not stopped.”

The shadows were shockingly deep on Fili’s face. He pulled his hands back as though Ori’s words somehow burned his fingertips. He covered his face with his hands for a long time, feeling as though he would cry and vomit through his fingers. Thorin would fight and die for his old beliefs; he would sacrifice Fili for them. He would sacrifice the entire company if it meant he could be King Under the Mountain until his dying breath. _Nothing_ was more important to Thorin than his crown. Fili could see it through his uncle’s eyes with perfect clarity. He saw it as his divine duty to lead his subjects into battle, in defence of his sovereignty. He would fight the Ironfists to the death in an effort to protect his heir. He would lay his life down for Erebor and Fili without a moment’s hesitation.

But it was a waste of a life. A waste of thirteen lives. They didn’t need to die for this, not at least without _trying_. No amount of gold was worth losing a single dwarf – and if Fili had to, he would break a hundred laws in an effort to spare his kin from violent, bloody warfare. There was no honour in unnecessary death. None.

“Then we need to stop him.” Fili’s voice filtered through his splayed fingers. Ori held his breath. Slowly, his shaking hands came down to his lap, twisting in turning in knots of flesh and bone. “We need to stop war from breaking out.” He dipped his head another degree, and the shadows deepened under his eyes, in the hollows of his cheeks. “E-even if it means committing treason.”

“ _Fili!”_ Ori’s shocked whisper hissed like a whistling kettle. “You _can’t—”_

“I’m not letting us die.” Fili sounded distant and far away. “I-I’ll do whatever it takes.” He remembered Kili’s heartfelt letter, his assurance that Fili would be a good king. Oh Kili. Fili would have given _anything_ to have his brother here. Kili would stand by him, would support him unfalteringly. Kili would trust him with his life.

Wouldn’t he?


	78. Wet Ink

There was a side of cured venison, a crumbling block of sharp cheese, and a long load of seedy bread, cut into thick slices and slathered with butter. He sat up on his knees, leaning across the table a little to attack the joint of meat with his long knife. Mautor might have been twisted and sadistic and more than a little cruel, but there was no denying that he knew how to eat. Heavy, simple food formed the bulk of his meals, thick and fatty and Kili couldn’t get enough of it.

“I hear you’re enjoying yourself, Kili.” Brown eyes flicked upwards. He’d almost forgotten about the orc-captain lolling in his chair at the other end of the table, with crumbs on his lip. “Spending your last two nights with a group of youngsters in town.” He was _smiling._ Kili paused with his knife in the venison. 

“Am I not allowed?” He finished slicing the meat and busied himself with the cheese. “You seemed pleased, when I first went out.”

“Oh, I am pleased. It’s good.” He kept his stare fixed on Kili’s bent head. “You’re making friends. They like you.” His lip curled and Kili lifted his head at the tone. “And you’re getting _very_ close with the youngest one. What was his name again?”

The bread stuck in Kili’s throat. “Ilzkhaal.” He murmured, swallowing heavily. He felt the lump slowly slide into his stomach. It was like trying to digest a rock. “He’s... a little sweet on me, but we’re just friends.” There was a sharp edge to his voice, the insinuation clear. _Leave him alone._ “It’s a pleasant change from soldiers and bullies.”

“I’m sure it is.” Kili chewed silently, staring over the table. He still rested on his knees, perched like a child in a chair too big for him. “I’m not telling you to stop, Kili. On the contrary, I think it’s wonderful. You’re integrating.” He spoke about Kili like a goat or sheep being added to the flock. Kili curled his toes inside his boots, mistrusting. He didn’t like that smile. There was something else going on there, some ulterior motive. And _how_ did he know about Ilzkhaal? “I am merely interested in how you’ve managed to strike up such a friendship in a few short days. Even after everything the orcs have done to you, you’re closer to those youths than I ever would have expected.” There was a gleam in those pale egg-white eyes. “Is it the good in him that draws you close?”

“Hm? Oh, no.” Kili allowed himself to smile, a twisted, cruel leer that made his eyes look dark. Mautor drew back. “I’m close to him because he does what I say.”

The orc laughed. He chuckled heartily at that, shaking his head as a grin stretched across his face. “Didn’t think you so devious.” Mautor paused after his laughter had faded. “Not the sort of harmless fun I expected from you.” 

“He interests me.” Kili kept the mask fixed perfectly on his face. And he apologised in his heart for his cruelty. Ilzkhaal was more than that. Really. “And he’s _so_ obedient.” He forced a low note of lazy pleasure in his voice. Across the table, the orc stared with that smile fixed on his face.

“You are truly fascinating Kili. You saw the truth and knew where you rightfully belonged. It’s... exquisite.” He had both hands clasped together and he leaned on them, looking deep in thought. “I have not yet told you my plan, have I?”

Kili froze. “What plan?” The smirk turned into a leer and Mautor lifted his head to free his hand. He motioned for his guards to leave him, all except the two that flanked his shoulders. They were his favourite guards. Not because they were particularly strong or quick or smart, but because they were deaf. They were the best secret-keepers. 

“I’ve told you about the creation of us. Our corruption.” The leer turned ugly. Kili nodded in intent silence. “I don’t need to tell you what the rest of the world thinks of us. And I don’t need to tell you how wrong they all are.” He paused for effect, leaning back a little in his chair. “I’m going to show them all.” He ran his finger idly over the stone tabletop. “I’m not interested in taking an army and killing them like insects. I don’t want to stomp all over defenceless settlements and leave the bodies for the crows. No. I will do to the other people what the dark ones did to us, at the beginning of the world.”

“ _What?”_

“Transformation.” He sneered. “Do you think they cannot be turned? What use is a land filled with empty towns? An _empire_ , now that is a much better accomplishment. I will take the innocent and poison their minds. I will shape them in _our_ image.” Mautor brightened in his own wicked delight. “Mirkwood is of course my first target. Thranduil and his wood-sprites will learn what it is to be an orc.” Kili’s eyes were wide, a little tense knot twitching in the base of his throat. “Everybody has a breaking point, don’t they Kili?”

And then he realised. _Everything_ fell together at that point. The orc’s interest in Kili, his immediate acceptance of him and chilling eagerness to hear about his downfall, it all made made _real_ sense. Kili wasn’t just a curiosity. He wasn’t even just evidence. He was a _prototype_. 

“I told you before, did I not, that we were condemned. That there was no mercy towards us. It’s an old, old hatred between us and the elves. But you know what lies beneath that hatred? Fear. Fear that there is nothing to stop _them_ from becoming just like us.” Impassioned, the orc rose to his feet. “Thranduil wants to see a monster? I will show him a monster. I will take him and _break_ him. And when I am done, I will hold a mirror to his face and then he will see the face of darkness.” He started to pace and Kili sat silently, the venison and cheese heavy in his stomach. Kili held his tongue but inside he was incredulous. How could someone condemn the brutality that their people were accused of, and in the same breath boast about how he was going to subject an entire kingdom to it? 

“I received word late in the night.” He started talking again, and it took a moment for Kili to drag himself out of his shocked daze. “It appears that Erebor is becoming quite the melting pot. Smaug is dead.” Kili’s throat closed. “He was slain in Esgaroth and his treasure claimed by Thorin Oakenshield and his people. Thranduil and his forces are at the foot of the mountain, as are the surviving men from Esgaroth. It appears there’s already a war brewing, even without us to interfere.” He stopped in his pacing to look at Kili. “It seems that Thorin Oakenshield will not give a single cold coin without spilling blood.”

“Thorin would rather die.” Kili let the hatred drip from his voice, and he wasn’t acting. “He stopped caring about anything else a long time ago.” 

“It is after, when I shall need you.” Mautor stood facing the dwarf, his hands clasped behind his back. “When the war is over and I have won. You know better than anyone the nature of true evil. You stared into the face of horror and it consumed you.” He began to walk towards Kili, hands still behind his back. “Who better to lead by example?”

“There are none.” Kili tried to keep his voice calm, but it rocked, for a single syllable. He swallowed and looked down at his plate, trying to steady himself. The blatant hypocrisy stank in the air. Secrets and plotting, that was all that was going on up here. And now, with his own secrets and forced masks, Kili had become a part of the lies and deception. There was no goodness in this tower. Kili found himself longing for that dim, grimy pub, filled with pipe-smoke and cheap alcohol with laughter ringing in his ears. He felt more honest down there. “No one else like me.” 

“No.” The orc-captain clapped a hand on Kili’s shoulder, gripping the bone. “Not yet.”

* * *

Thorin paced for a long time. Balin had already found him ink and parchment and it waited for him on the warped desk in his suite of rooms. Every time he crouched down at the table and picked up the quill, he could feel himself breaking further, as that crack in his heart split further, outwards, like a spider-web. 

How was he supposed to tell Dís that her son was gone?

How could he _ever_ explain what he had done? The guilt came rushing back. Every bitter memory, every lonely night, every fight, it all came back to Thorin and it sickened in his chest. He had to tell Dís that he killed his nephew. That’s what he had done – Kili was as good as dead, wherever he now wandered. He wasn’t coming back. Not now, not _ever._ He had to explain how this all happened. It seemed so destructively impossible now to think about it, and gather the threads of his twisting head all together. 

It took a long time. Thorin was a quick, neat writer and the well-shaped words flooded effortlessly from his quill. It wasn’t the writing that was slow, but the long breaks in between, when he had to stop and take a long, deep breath, dig the heels of his hands in his eyes and push down until the sockets throbbed. He tried his best but the page warped and bubbled under the falling moisture, from the tears he couldn’t quite catch. He watched the ink well up and run and tried to blot it away with the sleeve of his tunic. It was just a few tears but they burned like oil or tar on his cheeks, making the muscles clench painfully in his throat. 

He was destroying his sister a little more with every word. He cut a little deeper, his quill a knife that slashed ruthlessly at his heart and he _hated_ to do it. But what else was Thorin to do? He was the one to cause this hurt - he was always the one to cause this hurt. The blade of his soul must be worn-down and notched at this point, on the verge of fracture after years of battle. 

When he had finished, Thorin leaned back heavily in his chair, blue eyes trained on the stone ceiling. His lips moved, silently. A prayer. A prayer of protection and forgiveness. A prayer of mercy. Not for Dis, not for Fili. Not for himself, either. But for Kili. He silently begged in the darkness, a one-sided plea for his maker to spare Kili from further torment and some way, somehow, let him be all right.

Because no matter what happened, no matter how sick or angry Kili made him, no matter how terrible things were for the both of them, there would _always_ be a part of Thorin that remembered Kili the way he used to be. There would always be a part that loved his nephew, right until the end. 

* * *

Dís unfolded the letter slowly, shoulders hunched in her furs as a chill wind brushed her face. A smile graced her lips at the sight of Thorin’s handwriting, so stiff and neat and well-trained. There were never any mistakes. She brushed her index finger over the page for a moment, before reading.

_My dearest sister._

_I write to you with the heaviest of hearts. I have spent hours trying just to begin this letter, and now I have started I find myself already longing to stop. I don’t know how I can bring myself to explain everything to you. I don’t know how to start. I wish, so painfully, that I could hold you in my arms and speak these words with you face-to-face. But I cannot, and I know that to wait until your arrival will bring nothing but infuriating pain. So I will come out with it now._

_Kili is gone._

A scream tore from her throat. Dís fell forward from the balls of her feet onto her knees, holding the page close to her eyes. Her vision blurred and her hands trembled and she struggled to read the words that followed. 

_He isn’t dead. At least, not to my knowledge. But he is gone, and he is never coming back. I sound much crueller than I wish to be. They are hard, ugly words. There is no softening of this blow. You will not see your son again, Dís. Not after all that has happened._

_It began in the late-summer. The company and I were in the wilderland, between the Misty Mountains and the western edge of Mirkwood. One night, Kili went out alone and he never returned. It was a stupid, foolish thing to do and I to this day I don’t understand why. We searched Dís, we searched the caves and forests for any sign of life. After two days we found all his clothes and weapons in an orc-camp. No body, no bones. But you know the stories, you know what orcs do to their prisoners. We thought he had been hunted and eaten, like game. And although it broke my heart to do it, I had his things sealed in a tomb. And we moved on, in our bodies. But my soul stayed there, with Kili’s things. I never felt the same afterwards. It was like a part of me had died. And Fili... Oh Fili. He was beyond feeling. He became a shell. He hollowed himself out and drifted along, in a daze. For weeks, months even, he was a ghost. It was as though his right arm had been amputated. He couldn’t eat or sleep and nothing I or Dwalin or anybody could do was a shred of help._

_But we were wrong. We were horribly, horribly wrong. Kili was_ _never_ _killed. He was captured, yes, but the orcs didn’t kill him. They handed him over to – oh Dís, they gave him to Azog. The king of orcs who killed Thror and Frerin. The one who swore blood against the line of Durin. I didn’t end him at Azanulbizar. I failed. I failed and he had our Kili. We thought he was dead. There was no one to save him._

Dís stopped, lowering the letter and wiping at her face. She couldn’t stop shaking, and it was slow reading, squinting through her tears and trying to keep her hand steady. She bowed her head, hands clutching the message in her lap and tried to control her breathing, slowly, in and out, before lifting her head. 

 _You can imagine the things they did to him. He was beaten and tortured and starved. They treated him like an animal. For three months, the orcs had him. They turned Kili against us. They corrupted him. They did everything in their power to break him down. And when we finally got him back, on the banks of the River Running... He wasn’t Kili anymore Dís. He was a monster. He spoke_ _their_ _tongue and wore their clothes. I tried. I tried_ _everything_ _and Dwalin and Fili tried too. We tried for days in Lake-Town, to comfort and heal Kili._

_But we failed._

_He was lost to us. Azog turned him completely against us and he wanted nothing more to do with Durin’s folk. No one could get through to him, despite the best efforts of the entire company. It all came to a head at a grand feast, when he was accused of attacking a young girl. They had evidence Dís, they knew things only he could have told them. And then - he fought when they tried to arrest him and killed two guards. Just as I thought perhaps he was under control, Kili escaped in the night, but not without killing another guard._

_What was I to do, Dís? How much can I do as a king when he spurned every attempt I’ve made to help him? How much do I jeopardise for his sake?_

His handwriting had gone lopsided and sloppy, as though his hand was shaking when he wrote, and the ink ran in tiny spots. Dís stopped for a moment to press her wind-chilled hands against her flushed cheeks, feeling the tremors rock her chest. It was _impossible._ She closed her eyes as the heavy, grey sky grew too bright for her. Dís tried just to breathe, to feel her lungs fill and empty with the frosty air. 

She didn’t read any more of it. Not yet. Dís folded the letter up and put it inside her furs, drawing the heavy pelts around her hunched shoulders and bowing her head. She was alone here, on a stone ledge a little beyond from the rest of the camp. Away from Dain and his son and his people. Away from the Ironfists. She felt separate from the both of them and they felt her separation keenly. It was a little stone valley that housed all of them, pitching tents and lighting fires and fetching water from the ice-cold stream. She listened to all of it at her back, face turned to the naked stone scattered with handfuls of low, scrubby grass. The sun waned in the sky, a pale glow beneath a heavy curtain of grey. 

 _Kili._ The name flashed through her mind and Dís bowed her head with teeth gritted. She was _furious_ , the rage burned even hotter than the night she learned of her arranged marriage. But that white-hot coal barely touched her. It was blanketed in a haze of grief. Heart-ripping, soul-crushing grief and she had to wrestle the air from her lungs. The dam drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, forehead pressed against her legs. 

“Oh _Dís.”_ It was Dain. He sank to his knees beside her, with a heavy hand resting on those layers of furs. “Thorin wrote to me too - about Kili. I am so _so_ very sorry.” He wound his arms about her shoulders, stiff and broad. Good bones. She longed to believe in his show of grief “Nothing hurts more than losing a child.” He tried to comfort his cousin, even though he knew, and she knew he knew, that there was nothing Dís wanted more at that moment than to be alone. “You will get through this.”

“Will I?” She spoke after a long time. Her voice felt ethereal and far away. Dain lifted his head to look into her eyes. They were crystal-blue, like his, but while his were bright as they ever were, Dís’ were dull and foggy. Like mist, swirling on a lake during a cold winter’s morning. She looked cold and she felt cold too, curled up beneath those grand furs and shivering madly. “Y-You d-don’t-” She tried to speak again, but the words fell through her fingers like an overflowing handful of pebbles. Too many and none of the ones she wanted came out. She _howled_ after her voice broke. It carried with the wind across the valley and sent chills running down dozens of spines. 

“Hush, Dís.” He cradled her with the delicate care reserved for children. His beard was rough against her forehead and the whistling breath in his nose annoyed her. Dís _hated_  herself for leaning into his comfort. She hated herself for crying, for clinging to him, for breaking her famed silent grace and filling the air with ugly sobs and howls and screams. 

_Kili. Kili Kili Kili Kili Kili Kili._

There was nothing else to comprehend.

* * *

“Thank Mahal, thought you weren’t going to show up.” Nori swung one leg over the side of the wall back and forth, slow and lazy. He fiddled with a priceless diamond necklace, one that looked as though it had been made for a princess or queen a lifetime ago. They were beautiful white stones and he held a lantern close, checking for clarity. “Managed to sneak out?”

“Eventually.” Fili sat down beside Ori. The young dwarf was cross-legged, staring down at his knees. “Ori - are you sure?”

“‘Course I am!” He lifted his head. “Aren’t you? If there was anyone you could trust to distrust Thorin, it’s Nori isn’t it?” And it was, in that sweet irony. Fili conceded with a little nod. “He’s on our side Fili. Always.”

“You bet your arse I am.” Nori straightened up and thrust the necklace inside a deep pocket. “We go way back Fili. You’re a stand-up fella and I’ll do anything to help. And nothing comes before family.” He shuffled closer to the others, clapping a hand on Ori’s shoulder. “Nothing.”

“Nothing.” Fili echoed faintly, clenching his hands into twin fists. “If that was true, then I wouldn’t be considering any of this.”

“You’re saving Thorin as much as you’re saving all of us.” He kept his voice low, eyes scanning the dark corners of stone for possible eavesdroppers. Nori could never relax, not in enclosed spaces where spies lingered at every corner, or wide-open ground where you could be herded and trapped. “You’ll go down as noble, Fili?”

“Will I?” His eyes were wide and afraid. “Or will I go down as a traitor and a half-blood who tried to greedily snatch the crown from my uncle’s hands?”

“The winners write the stories.” Ori’s quiet voice broke in between them. “Is that what you’re worried about Fili? How people will see you a hundred, or a thousands, years from now?” He felt the shuffle at his right. “Even stone weathers away. Nothing will last forever, not really.”

“I-I don’t want to challenge him directly.” Fili’s voice quivered. “I couldn’t stand the confrontation. I don’t want the rest of the company to have to chose. This isn’t about starting a civil war, it’s about putting things right.”

“Well, the way I see it, we’ve got several options.” Nori started ticking them off on his fingers. “We sneak the Arkenstone out somehow, and give it to Thranduil. He’ll use it as a bargaining tool against Thorin and of course Thorin will back down when he sees it. I can even take it for you, if you’re afraid of getting caught. No one will ever know you were involved.” Fili couldn’t look at him. “Or, you could try and bargain with Thranduil directly. Say that Thorin isn’t right in the head and you’ll draw up an agreement if he fights you. Without your support, Thorin could back down and realize he’s in a corner.”

“Both of those are terrible.” Fili whispered, shaking his head. “I’m not having someone else take the blame for what I do and I’m not sneaking around and cutting deals without Thorin knowing about it. I have _honour_ Nori.”

“Thought you wouldn’t like ‘em.” Nori brooded. “I had a third idea - but you’ve just said you didn’t want to do it.”

“Do what?” Fili breathed. “Confront him? You’re damn right I won’t.” Nori chewed on the inside of his mouth, his cunning mind ticking over the possibilities.

“You want to be in control of this, don’t you Fili?” He looked up. “You want to take the credit - or the blame - for what happens next.” There was a very serious look in Nori’s eye. “Then you need to take it.”

“I’m not overthrowing my uncle.” Fili whispered. “Not a coup Nori. I couldn’t fight him.”

“You don’t need to fight him.” Nori watched his brother’s face, lines deepening in the shadows. “We could take care of it, on a night like this. _Not_ tonight,” he added as Fili’s face crumpled in horror “but one night. While he’s asleep. We’ll tie him up, lock him away. Then in the morning, you request a meeting with Thranduil. You say your uncle has taken ill, or mad and you are now the ruler of Erebor until he regains his health. He won’t care which dwarf is on the throne, he just wants to cut a deal.”

“Dain will care.” Fili creaked, disbelieving. “He will call me a traitor and condemn me.”

“No, he won’t.” Ori whispered. “Not when he sees what Thorin is doing. He’ll know you were right.”

“Thorin can’t rule.” Nori said flatly. “You don’t want to sneak around to make a deal, then you have to face up to it Fili. Dain loves you, he knows you’ve got the makings of a damn good king. I’ve heard all about your time in the Iron Hills, everybody has. When it gets out that he risked the lives of everyone for the sake of a single gem, everyone with half a brain will take your side. Dwarves or not, we can see right and wrong when it stares us in the face.”

“Do you honestly believe that?” Fili held Nori’s studious gaze. “People would side with me?”

“Even if they don't, you’ll have Thranduil as an ally." Even with his past treachery, there would be a price they could easily pay for the elf-king's loyalty. Everything had a price. "He’s the most powerful king between Rhûn and the Misty Mountains. This is politics Fili. You want to play the game, you need the pieces.”

“What do you know about politics?”

“A damn sight more than you, it seems.” Nori muttered. “Ultimately Fili, it’s your decision. You’re the prince here. But whatever you decide, you have to stand by it. Win or lose, you have to stand by it.”

“And you will stand with me?” The thief nodded silently. He reached out across Ori’s lap and took Fili’s wrist. Nori found his brother’s hand and held on to him, too. Fili locked fingers with Ori’s free hand and the three of them held hands, a line-shaped circle. “Win or die, you will stand by whatever decision I make?”

“You say you’re honourable and I believe you.” Nori’s voice was grim. “You stuck up for Ori when Thorin was ready to send him away. And you spoke for me too, in Ered Luin. Thorin told me it was you who convinced him to let me come along and clear my name.” His grip tightened. “I’ve known for years that you were going to bring Durin’s folk to their knees. I’ve always known.”

“Give me the night.” Fili whispered. “And I will tell you in the morning.” The brothers nodded, faces dim in the lanternlight. 

Durin, help him. 


	79. Conspiracy

Ori waited in the little side-room. He swung his legs on the long stone bench, picking at loose threads in his clothes and winding them around his fingers, watching the flesh swell and throb and turn purple. The pain was good. It kept him focused.

“Oh good, you are here.” Fili slipped, the door closing with a whisper behind him. The room was lit only by a slit-window, pale and white in the dawn. Everything was outlines and shadows. Ori’s face was a greyish smudge in the gloom. “No Nori?”

“Can’t. He’s caught talking to Bofur and Bilbo, told me to hurry on. Didn’t want to arouse suspicion.” He turned to look at Fili, sitting beside him on the bench with his hands clasped together. “You look exhausted.”

“I am.” Fili muttered in a low voice. “It’s not easy, trying to decide exactly which way you’re going to deceive and overthrow your king and uncle.” At his side, Ori chewed on his lower lip. 

“Did you decide?” The ragged mess of blonde curls and braids nodded. “And?”

“I’m not a coward.” Fili’s voice shook. “I-I’m many things Ori, but I’m no coward.” He dragged his wrist across his forehead, breathing heavily. “I’m not going to be a _sneak_ about this or make your brother do my dirty work. I’m not lying to anybody.” He fixed Ori with a level stare. “We’ll... Take care of him. At night.” He kept his chin straight and eyes lifted. “And then, in the morning when the soldier’s come to make their daily bargain, I-I’ll say that I want to talk. They won’t say no to it. And then - when it’s all done, when I’ve avoided war, I’ll talk to Thorin. I’ll give him the stone and explain everything and I _know_ he will forgive me.” His voice trembled and almost broke. Both of them knew that Thorin would never, ever forgive him for this. 

“Are you sure?” Ori asked, carefully. 

“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.” Fili whispered back. “I feel... It’s so strange Ori, but I feel deep down as though I was made for this. I’m not like you, I’m not pure Durin’s folk. I don’t have that _curse_ running through me, and I think that it’s my job to break it. For the sake of Thorin, of our line, of our people. I have to break this. I know it doesn’t make any sense but-”

“No, it does.” Ori cut over him. “It makes _perfect_ sense to me.” Fili nodded, just once, trying to fix a brief, trembling smile on his face. 

“And you.” He paused. “Are you sure, Ori? You could back out, I wouldn’t think any less of...” Fili trailed off. As soon as the _are you sure_ spilled out, Ori slid from the bench and got on his knees in front of Fili, reaching up to take his hands. 

“Fili.” Ori looked up at him, his voice more steady and clear and _sure_ than Fili had ever heard it. “You saved my life. When everybody else had called me a monster and a freak, you _stood up_ for me. You fought for me, without a care in the world for what you happen to you.” He swallowed. “I will follow no other king but you Fili, until the end of my days. I swear it, here.” 

Fili’s voice was stuck in his throat. He choked on his air and he didn’t know how he was going to speak. He opened his mouth but no sound came out. He couldn’t bring himself to form the words. His eyes stung, touched and overwhelmed at Ori’s declaration of loyalty. Fili sank from the bench and onto the ground beside Ori, arms around him, squeezing tightly.

“You can do this.” Ori whispered, realising that Fili wanted to speak, but couldn’t. Of course he saw that. Ori saw _everything._ “I believe in you, Fili.” 

Fili nodded against his most loyal friend’s shoulder, eyes stinging as a rim of gold edged the colourless sky, staining the dim room gold-red. Neither of them spoke for a long time. 

* * *

“Say, could I bother you for a moment?” He knew how to be wheedling when he needed to. Kili asked the guard with a little bit of a wince, looking as though he knew the guard would have better things to do. There were times to assert dominance and times, like now, when he had to play himself down and act as though he knew he was asking a favour, rather than being stern and demanding. 

“See, my knife’s gone blunt and the leather on the handle’s coming away.” He’d done that himself, scraping the knife against the granite of his fireplace and peeling the strips of leather away on the hilt, but the guard didn’t need to know that. “Will you have a whetstone in your armory?”

“Oh, course. Down the hall, turn left, then right, then left again. It’s the second door. They won’t be worried when they see you, just explain what you need.” Kili nodded and turned away from the guard, making his way down the stone passage.

Everything was going to plan. The longer Kili sat and thought, the more holes he found. And the more holes he found, the more thread he spun to sew it all up. He had already gone to the nearest healer and pleaded a terrible case of sleeplessness, smearing ash under his eyes to give the effect of exhaustion. After his begging, Kili came away with a bottle of strong tonic distilled from valerian root and a warning to have no more than half a teaspoon. It rested in his pocket now, another component to his elaborate plan. 

There was _so much_ that could go wrong, and it made Kili terrified to think on it. This was just the first part. He had to find a way of slipping the valerian root into the drink of the night guard, and worse, he had to do it without being caught. He paused to take a deep breath before stepping inside the armory, the bottle pressed against his leg in the pocket of his heavy trousers. 

“Don’t mind me.” There were only three orcs inside the vaulted room, one bent over his boots, another buckling a black breastplate close to his torso, and the third at broad table, repairing a hole in his shirt. “I need to sharpen my knife.”

“No worries.” The orc at the table grunted. “There’s a whetstone on the shelf by the wall.” The other two nodded a silent greeting at Kili before standing up and stretching in their armour. 

“We’re off to relieve Drûsh and Bûrz at the eastern gate.” One stared in the direction of the orc at the table.

“Off with you then.” He dismissed the pair with a wave of his hand, eyes on his work. Keeping his gaze low, but sneaking little sidelong glimpses all the time. “What happened to your knife?”

“It’s a piece of shit.” Kili sat down on the table, with his feet on the seat of a chair. He angled the blade into the light, examining it. “Notched all over and the handle’s falling apart.” The orc smirked. 

“If you want a new one, we have plenty,”

“Oh, no.” Kili cut over him quickly. “I don’t mind fixing it. I don’t want to take the knives from your guards. They’re yours.”

The orc looked up for a brief moment. “Rather fix something broken than get it replaced, huh?” Kili merely shrugged in response, the sound of his knife scraping against the whetstone filling the near-empty room. 

“What do they call you?”

“Gozad.” The orc didn’t look up, absorbed in his work. Kili nodded silently, thinking. 

“You don’t look like you have it too bad.” He spoke up after another silence. “Big room, plenty of weapons. I’ve seen much worse.”

The orc grunted again. “It’s better than it was. Used to be nasty work in the guard before Mautor took over. Had to buy your own armour and you were never paid on time. I had three little mouths to feed and it was sure rough.” He set down his needle. “People can say what they will about him, but he’s sure cleaned up this town, no mistake about that.” 

“Guard work was always dreary, I thought.” Kili spoke carefully. “Although not as bad as a night watch. That was definitely the worst.”

Across the table, Gozad’s lip twitched. “We roster the shifts about. Only way to keep it fair. You don't want to fall asleep on the job, that's death without a trial.”

“They must get tired.” Kili pressed. “Staying alert all night, it wears me out.”

“We’ve got a cure for that.” Gozad jerked his head towards the shelf. “We get it from the east of Rhûn. It’s a strong stuff, they make it out of beans, of all things. Gets the the heart going and sets your mind on fire. No falling asleep after a mouthful of _that_ , for sure.”

Kili steered the conversation quickly away, with a fluid ease that he knew would be totally unsuspected. He talked for a long time, until his knife was razor-sharp and the handle was repaired, and the leather Gozad was darning had been thoroughly stitched up. And they still talked. Just like every other orc with the guts to talk to Kili honestly and directly, he was bursting with questions. He wanted to know just how many rumours he’d heard about dwarves were true. He wanted to know what sort of training their soldiers had, how well they ate at home, how they ran their armies, and on a lighter note, if it was true that their wives had beards. Kili didn’t even feel homesick as he talked about it all, he slowly realised. Their was no grief or sadness. He had detached himself completely, and even the memories felt distant and vague. It was so very remote to him now. 

Eventually Gozad had to leave. Kili smiled and said he might stay here a little longer, where it was quiet and warm, and he said it with such a breezy, careless gentleness that the orc obviously thought nothing of it at all. But the moment he was left alone, Kili sprung into action.

The slim bottle felt oddly light in his hand. Kili popped the cork and swished the liquid around inside, taking an experimental sniff. It smelled like burning and smoke. There wasn’t much left, only a quarter of the bottle, and after a moment’s thought, Kili placed his lips on the rim, knocking back a heavy mouthful of the bitter drink. He had a long, long night before him. 

Oh _ugh._ He held a hand over his mouth and forced back the urge to gag. It was _horrible_. He felt a shudder prickle the back of his neck as he swallowed it down, panting in an effort to get the taste from his tongue. Kili set down the drink and reached for the tonic in his pocket. At least the smell and taste was strong enough to mask the valerian root. He drained three-quarters of the sleeping tonic into the bitter drink, leaving a little behind for the second part of his plan. With his heart pounding, Kili recorked the bottle, and after snatching his knife up from the table, left the room without a trace. 

* * *

“How are you feeling tonight, my boy?” A flash of a grin came from beneath the heavy blanket, in a warm, flushed face. Bain leaned against his father’s shoulder as he sat down before the fire, winding an arm loosely across his shoulders.

“Good.” He announced, eyes half-lidded in the heat of the fire. “Doesn’t even hurt much anymore.” Bard nodded, resting his other hand on the boy’s knee. “Is it boring, all the stuff King Thranduil’s making you do? You always look tired now.”

“I am tired.” The man admitted. “But it’s a good tired. There is... a lot to consider at the moment. Thranduil is being careful.” 

Bain bit his lip thoughtfully. “Is there going to be a war?” His soft question made Bard still. “That’s what everyone’s saying. They’re sharpening their swords and practicing and everything. It looks like a war’s about to start.” Bard paused, unsure of how he could answer his son. “What’s going to happen?”

The young king, and it still felt so _strange_ to think of himself like that, stared into the fire for several moments before his lips moved in a stiff answer. “I don’t know.”

They sank into a heavy, still silence. The two of them seemed to be apart from everything, even as talk rose and bodies moved about and horses stamped their feet in the cold. None of it seemed to mean anything. But just as Bain was drifting off on Bard’s shoulder, an oddly familiar horn sounded in the air, making the both of them start out of their warm daze.

And he realised, with a little ache in his chest, who that horn belonged to. “Gunnar.” He pulled free of Bain and stood up. He knew this moment was coming. He’d been waiting for a long while for it. It was going to be ugly. With the Master gone and his men all dead, the captain of the guard was, in all logical sense, the next link in the chain of command. In his eyes, Bard, always a troublemaker despite the best efforts to keep his head down, was now an upstart, a usurper. The soldiers that had trickled back to this ragged campsite would follow their old leader before someone as young and untrained as Bard. And without the guard, he had no armed men to secure his power. 

“Thranduil.” He whispered. Bard needed to see him _now._ Leaving Bain with a gentle command to go to bed, Bard wove his way through the campside, heading towards the grandest of the tents, with the king’s insignia painted on the side in green and gold. 

Thranduil lounged in his chair with a book, wearing his heavy red robe. His crown rested on a carved table beside him, feet bare in fur-lined slippers. Bard was one of the few with the right to walk straight on in, and Thranduil looked over the top of his slim book to stare at the man with an arched eyebrow.

“Did you just hear the horn?” Bard’s palms were sweating. He wiped them on his trousers, keeping his shoulders square. 

“Gunnar’s horn, you mean.” Thranduil closed the book without marking it, leaving it to rest on the table. “Yes, I did. I expect he’ll be rushing in to see me very soon.” He glanced down at his robe and looked back at Bard with a little frown. “You’re worried.”

“He’s the captain of the guard.” Bard’s voice was low. “He could try to contest me. He has the right-”

“No he doesn’t.” Thranduil rolled his blue eyes, and after a sigh, stood up. “He is nothing. Gunnar rose to the top through scheming and flattery. He has no right to even question your claim and if he attempts any sort of coup, I will crush him like a bug.” His gaze narrowed. “Do not trouble yourself with him.”

Bard nodded. His fears somewhat slowed, he bowed a short apology and turned to leave. But before he could step out from the tent, a servant entered, wringing his hands somewhat apologetically. 

“Your Majesty.” Thranduil stared. “The - the captain of the guard of Lake-Town has returned, with the last party of soldiers. He demands an immediate audience.”

“He demands, does he?” A smirk twitched at his lip. “Let him in then.” And the servant left. “Sit, Bard.” Thranduil gestured to his own seat. “I shall take care of everything.” 

Bard slowly crossed the tent, boots leaving little clumps of dirt on the thick rug. Thranduil narrowed his eyes half a degree, but pretended not to notice otherwise. Bard sank into the folding chair just as Gunnar stepped into the tent, nails biting the carved wooden arms. 

“Captain Gunnar.” Thranduil’s voice, so clipped and natural with Bard, grew slick. “I have been waiting some time for your return.”

“As soon as I heard the news of Lake-Town’s destructed, I ordered my men to return west.”  Gunnar noticed Bard in the chair, a frown creasing his forehead. “I heard about the Master’s demise, and the loss of his advisors. I am deeply-”

“Deeply grieved, yes.” Thranduil cut him short. “A mighty tragedy indeed. However, the survivors of Lake-Town have taken this opportunity to look elsewhere for leadership. They are a little sick of money-counters and officers, Gunnar.” Standing near the doorway, the man started to look concerned. 

“Begging your pardon, but I do not understand. What leadership?” But he was still frowning in Bard’s direction, the man looking more than a little uncomfortable in his seat. Bard stared down at his knees, pretending not to listen. "Who is in charge?"

“You are looking at him.” Gunnar’s face paled as his fears were confirmed. “It was Bard who slew the dragon, when all others had fled the burning town. He is the heir of Girion, Lord of Dale, the ruler of men by blood and in deed.”

“That’s preposterous!” He exclaimed, his pale face sagging in pained shock. “I have devoted my life to the service of the Master - for forty years I have served the people of Lake-Town and taken nothing in return, I-”

“You are a captain.” Thranduil’s voice was cold and unforgiving. “I remember you as a young guard, Gunnar. I remember someone who would rather trick their way into power, rather than earn it with honour. I remember a cunning, devious man who would stab his own brother in the back if it got him one step closer to taking control. I _tolerated_ you because Maxwell appointed you and I had no say. No longer.”

“No, now you have a _puppet_ in Bard, you can control us the way you’ve always wanted to.” Gunnar spat. “You _foolish_ boy,” he spoke to Bard now, “he is only using you to further his own means. I suppose he said he would guide and instruct you. He said the same thing to Maxwell, fifteen years ago, and all it was since were attempts at bribery and blackmail.” Thranduil fixed the man with a smouldering glare. “He’s sweet as honey until you’re useless to him, isn’t that right Thranduil? A mere month ago, you called me an asset to Lake-Town, getting _me_ to do your dirty work and frame that dwarf-“

“ _What?”_ Bard stood up in his shock. “You framed Kili?” Thranduil’s stare was blue fire, a rare scowl hardening on his fine, slender face. 

“Of course I did. He _tortured my son!”_ Thranduil lost control for a brief moment, hands shaking. He stopped to draw in a breath, balling the quivering fingers into fists. “But you were too incompetent to even capture an unarmed dwarf--”

“My men are not _incompetent!_ ” Gunnar shouted back. Bard stood in silence, his mouth half-open as the memories flashed in his mind of that timid little creature sitting in his shop, so afraid to open up. “You lied to me! You said he was nothing to worry about but that little _monster_ , oh he was clever Thranduil. Too clever even for _you_ it seems.”

And with that, Thranduil seized up, the scowl on his face warping into a full-blown snarl. He flung his long, graceful arm, pointing at the door. “Get out.” He muttered shortly. “Get out of my tent and do not show your face around here again. Not to me.”

“With pleasure.” Gunnar returned the snarl with his own. “Watch your back, _King_ Bard. The moment you’re no longer useful to him, he’ll find his way to cast you out, like he has all the others-“

“ _Get out!”_ And with a last growl, the fallen captain was gone, leaving the pair alone in the golden lantern-light of the tent. Bard still couldn’t trust himself to speak, the shouting and hissing a writhing mess in his mind. Thranduil stared at the empty air, his composure broken and scattered about his feet. 

* * *

Kili paced slowly. He walked across the mouth of the little tunnel that he’d been led down on that night, when he first came out to see what this town had to offer for him. What Ilzkhaal had to offer. His mouth was dry. He sucked on his tongue and felt the coarse scrape. Nerves, it had to be. Of _course_ Kili was nervous. There were so many ways this could go wrong, so many what-if’s and possibilities, they hurt to think about. He needed to get into that spider-lair. He needed that venom. And he needed Ilzkhaal to not suspect a thing. If this didn’t work, he was sunk. He couldn’t trust Ilzkhaal to keep this secret. Deception was the only way he could do this and he _hated_ it. He liked the orc, he really did and when he thought about lying, a burst of panic, broke in his throat. He hoped against all hope that he wasn’t caught. 

“Kili.” The orc’s soft voice broke through the fog over Kili’s brain. He stopped in his circled pacing, with his hands still thrust in his pockets. “Have you been waiting long?”

“No.” He could feel his own face, stiff and tense and tight. He stretched his lips into a smile, tried to pretend that the violent beating of his heart wasn’t there. “I was enjoying the solitude.” He stepped forward and stretched out his hand. “Come on.” He already had a lantern waiting for him at the mouth of the tunnel and he bent down to pick it up, still holding his out his hand to Ilzkhaal. 

Their fingers touched. “Why did you want to come back here?” He followed Kili, ducking his head to step into the low tunnel. 

“Because I liked it.” Kili looked back at him, half of his face in pale light, half in shadow. “Because I know we won’t be disturbed.” He gave Ilzkhaal another glance, watched the little crease of his grey brow. Kili swallowed back the nerves, edged with a sort of anticipative horror, forcing the smile back on his face. 

They sat down together, Kili’s cheekbone brushing Ilzkhaal’s shoulder. He fumbled inside his coat, pulling out a new little flask. “I brought something for us to drink.” With a little damp breath, Kili pressed it into the dark silhouette beside him. 

“Ooh, thank you.” Kili stared at the glass-still water, listening to the tinny, liquid sound of the orc taking a mouthful. He squeezed his eyes shut, but the greenish star-gleam of the infinite glow-worms danced on the black insides of his eyelids. “Phew, this ‘aint half bad. Where did you get it?”

“Some store in town.” He wrung his hands. The owner leered at Kili when he paid for it, sneering and saying someone as small as him ought to be careful with stuff so strong. He laughed and asked who Kili wanted to put on their back and he left then, a flush colouring his cheeks. _It wasn’t like that at all._

He felt fragmented. Ilzkhaal pushed the flask back into his hands and he pretended to take a sip. There was a brief back and forth between them. After a while, Kili asked how the last day was, and Ilzkhaal slowly breathed out.

“I was supposed to go back into the woods tomorrow.” He whispered. “It’s usually three weeks out there, one in here, gives people a chance to be with their families.” There was a stiff pause. “But I got a message this morning. We’re not going back. Mautor - he’s conscripting everyone he can to help Bolg march on the mountain.” Kili froze. Of course. Now that he _knew_ Thrandul and his elves would be in the foothills, he would do everything he could to seize this perfect opportunity to crush the elf-king while he was separated from the safety of his woodland halls. He started at the sharp intake of breath beside him. “So - well, I hunt for a living, don’t I? Of course I have to go - not that there’s any choice but I--” Ilzkhaal broke off and took a sip of liquor, before corking it, too nervous to even drink. Kili bit his lip. The orc hadn’t had _nearly_ enough. “I’m scared.” He whispered, afraid even in this dark privacy, to speak with his voice. “I shoot deer and rabbits - not _people_ Kili.”

“Surely, at some point, you must’ve…”

“Never.” The orc’s voice was dull. “I-I couldn’t _kill_ anyone. I’m not a monster.” Kili drew his knees up to his chest, head swimming. He didn’t know why he felt so strongly at what Ilzkhaal had said. Kili _knew_ he was gentle and soft, he knew it wasn’t a veneer or a camouflage. “I s’pose you think I’m a coward.” He was talking again. “Th-the closest I really ever came was _you_ , and that was in the heat of the moment, I wasn’t thinking and, well I apologised for that.” He was playing with the flask in the dark, his sharp nails clicking against the polished metal. “It’s why they teach us to hate. It makes it easier, to think of everyone else as scum and filth, as though you’re only slaughtering a pig or a goat. B-but then I met _you_ and-” Ilzkhaal stopped to draw in a quick, ragged breath. “I couldn’t kill a _dwarf._ Not now.” 

For a moment, Kili was struck dumb. He didn’t know what to say to that - he didn’t know if he even _could_ offer any wisdom or comfort. He never had that same sort of reluctance. Ever since he was a dwarrow, he burned with excitement and anticipation for his first ‘real’ kill. He thought it was a rite of passage, something he had to do to be a true warrior. But after that, the glow faded. For Kili, killing was just so common, it became a part of life. Beasts, orcs, men - he’d killed them all, brutally and remorselessly. When it came to guarding his own life, no one was spared. He wanted to say that killing didn’t make you a monster - it was what came afterwards, the guilt and self-forgiveness, that absolved the soul. But he couldn’t. Kili didn’t feel absolved. 

“Most dwarves aren’t like me.” Kili rasped. He didn’t know what else to say. There was a tense pause beside him, and then a short gasp of laughter. He felt the brief shudder against his side, as Ilzkhaal covered his mouth with a hand to keep the chuckle in.

“No - I imagine they’re not.” Kili felt a smile cross his face. A real one. 

“You’ll be all right, Ilz.” He lowered his hand, trailing his fingers over the rock in search for the orc’s skin. “The first one will be hard - but it gets easier in the end.” 

“I don’t _want_ it to get easier.” The orc whispered. Kili was very still. “I don’t want to do it - at all. I like _hunting_ , I like the trees and the air, and the chase, but a battle - that’s different. There’s a soul on the other side and I...” Ilzkhaal set the flask down. “I’m not made for war.”

Kili found his hand as the rough stone turned to warm skin. Ilzkhaal jumped a little at the sensation, his hand tensing and then relaxing as Kili grazed his knuckles with his small fingers. “Nobody is.” He placed his palm atop the orc’s, lacing their fingers together. He just wanted to show comfort. “I know I wasn’t _made_ for this - I had to change and... adapt.” He found the word, staring out at the greenish light. “Look-” Kili jerked his hand away with a start, the orc lifted his head with a frown. “Give me a moment.” He promised, rising to his knees and working by touch in the cave. He found the lantern and the flint in his pocket, and with his tongue between his teeth, tried to make a spark. 

“Kili?” Ilzkhaal was up on his knees. “Don’t light it - you’ll scare the glow-worms away if you do. They hide from the light.”

“I need to see you.” Finally, spark caught the wick and a tiny flame swelled. Ilzkhaal was right; as the golden candlelight rose, one by one, the starlight of the glow-worms went out. Kili knelt before him with his hands on both sides of the lantern, feeling the orb of blown class warm between his fingers. “Ilzkhaal,” he set their precious light down slowly, where they wouldn’t knock it over, “if I can earn the respect and love of Azog the Defiler, you can bash in a few skulls.” He stood up and worked at the toggles on his coat, eyes black pits in his head. This wasn’t a distraction, or manipulation. Ilzkhaal stared wit his wide eyes. They were black as ink, two round little stones ringed in white in his head. Kili liked Ilzkhaal’s black eyes. The red and white of so many other orcs, he could never get used to. Black was _human_ as these orcs could get, except for Azog and his bright blue gaze, the one that left a chill in Kili’s bones with just the thought of it. And when Kili looked into the orc’s wide black eyes, he saw fear. A deep-seated fear that he _knew_ , and Kili just wanted to wipe it all away. Ilzkhaal was quick enough to knock _Kili_ down; even in his pain and hunger and exhaustion, that would have been an effort. He was a fighter, and Kili knew he could draw that bravery out. “Take off your shirt.”

“ _What?_ ” The colour darkened on his cheeks, from the colour of granite to a deeper grey, as dark as a wet riverstone. It was the black blood in him rushing to his face, Kili realised with a bitten smile. He was _blushing._ “Why?”

“Just so you can move about, _flagît._ ” Kili tossed his own heavy coat to the ground, leaving on his sleeveless leather vest. He wanted to keep the scars hidde. He could just envision it now, how Ilzkhaal would look at the marks with that same pity laced with horror, his fingers stretching out, afraid to touch but sickeningly, perversely curious. Kili didn’t want to see pity. “I want you to fight me.” Ilzkhaal was on his feet, eyes wide. “Not for _real_ ,” he rolled his eyes, “just to spar. I want to see if you can take me down when I’m not dead on my feet.” That glimmer of a smile faded to a harder, serious expression. 

“Go easy, all right?” He worked at the belt that kept his thigh-length tunic close to his waist, but Ilzkhaal’s eyes were fixed on Kili’s shoulders, the bare skin of his biceps, the open neck of his vest and the ridges of his collarbone jutting through the soft leather. “You’re thicker than me.” His soft murmur made the balled fists of Kili’s hands loosen for a moment. 

“And you’re taller.” He asserted. “You’ll be taller than a lot of the men, too, if not the elves.” Kili stepped away from the lantern, the shadows hardening the planes and lines of his face. Ilzkhaal ripped off his tunic and threw it away with a little shake of his head. Kili waited with with his feet shoulder-width apart, arms raised in an attacking stance. “Come on.” Ilzkhaal lunged forward, hands on Kili’s shoulders in an attempt to throw him off balance. Kili saw the attack coming a mile off and blocked it with his forearm, catching the orc off guard and hooking him around the leg. He drove his side against Ilzkhaal’s hip and watched him go down, winded. 

“You cheated.” Winded, he got up on one elbow. Kili stared down with a rather odd look on his face, the planes and shadows deepening in thought. 

“You tried to go for my shoulders.” He flung out an arm. “Don’t do that. Dwarves are _hard_ to knock to the ground. You can’t sweep their legs, either. Their feet are like tree-roots in the ground.” Looking embarrassed, the orc nodded. “Their mail will hold up to your swords and arrows, so you have to use brute force.”

“I don’t _have-_ “

“Yes you do.” Kili wouldn’t hear it. “You have to know their weak spots. I know it feels natural to go high up, being taller, but you have to bend down and topple them. Remember that you will always be faster than a dwarf. Use your lightness. Go for the gut, or lower. It’s a dirty trick, but it’s the only way you’re going to knock ‘em down properly. The back of the knee is good, if you have a sword. Their mail doesn’t always reach to their knees, and you can cut through the leather with a sharp enough blade.” Kili fell silent, feeling wrung-out from his short speech.

Ilzkhaal sucked in a breath of air, staring at Kili with wide eyes. “You said _their_.” He murmured after a heartbeat of dim silence. Kili returned that gaze, his own brown eyes remaining hard, slightly narrowed with the jut of his frown peaking over the brim of his vision. 

“I did.” He answered in Black Speech, the way he'd been talking almost all night, but this time he forced his dwarvish tongue to drop his natural accent and use that low, guttural growl that left his throat dry as sand and aching. He lifted his hands wordlessly, waiting for the orc to hit him again. 

This time, there was a real difference. Ilzkhaal got his arms around Kili’s waist and had him teetering on his heels for a brief moment, but he couldn’t quite get Kili onto the ground. Kili steadied himself and shrugged Ilzkhaal away, putting him on his back with an easy elbow to the ribs.

He held out his hand. “Again.” He still used that harsh, grating, unnatural voice, keeping himself in check. And wordlessly, Ilzkhaal nodded. He was thin and light, reminding Kili of the leafless trees he used to see in winter, the younger saplings with trunks as thin as his wrist, stretching eight feet into the air above his head. But his bones were as hard as rock, and Kili knew that beneath that, there was a flash of something rough-hewn and unshakeable. Ilzkhaal may have been kinder and softer and sweeter than any other orc Kili had met, but he was still an orc, with black blood and black organs and razor-sharp teeth in his grey face. He _had_ to know how to fight, on some implicit level. 

But he tried five times to bring Kili down, and five times, he was beaten back. If he was hurt by Kili’s fists and knees and elbows, he didn’t show it, crouched on the stone as he tried to get his breath. “Pretend I’m something you’re hunting, if that helps.” Ilzkhaal looked at him with horror. “Like a deer or a pig, or-”

“ _No.”_ His raw voice made the hairs stand up on Kili’s neck. And he struck. 

Kili was winded as Ilzkhaal knocked him to the ground. For a moment he forgot where he was, he froze with that familiar, orcish smell in his nose and the feeling of a body so much bigger than his wiry frame, pinning him to the rock. He gasped, the terror welled up in his throat and on instinct he grabbed Ilzkhaal’s shoulders. 

“Kili-”

“I’m all right.” Kili mumbled. But he didn’t let go. He dug his fingers in and waited for that momentary flash of panic to fade. Ilzkhaal leaned on his hands, planted on either side of Kili’s head, his ribcage heaving. 

“I didn’t hurt you did I?” The orc rested a hand on Kili’s chest, as though he was checking for a broken bone.

“No - you didn’t hurt me.” Kili kept his hands wrapped tightly around those slim shoulders. His fingers locked into place and even if he wanted to, he wasn’t sure if he could let go. Their eyes met, brown and black. With the _oddest_ little shuddering breath coming out of his tight lips, Ilzkhaal slowly sank onto his elbows. 

“Why did you want to come here?” His mouth barely moved. Kili swallowed, his throat stiff and sore and tongue as coarse as sandpaper, like it was when he paced at the mouth of the little tunnel.

“I wanted us to be alone.” Kili didn’t know what else to say. He couldn’t tell the truth - he couldn’t even _begin_ to tell the truth about what he wanted to do. He didn’t want to keep looking into those wide, black eyes but Kili found he couldn’t pull himself away. 

“Why.”

 _Oh don’t do this to me._ Kili _begged_ with his eyes, his closed lips, and he could see Ilzkhaal studying him in the light of the stout little lantern four feet from his head. He didn’t know how to stop this, how to push the orc away, how to turn his back. He didn’t know if he _wanted_ to. And that was what scared him, what sent the shiver down his spine. Ilzkhaal shifted his weight forward from his knees, obviously feeling the rough stone bite his skin, leaning down even more, until their hips touched.  

“Why do you like me.” Kili countered with his own question. He watched the orc suck on the inside of his cheek, caught off-guard, his black-stone eyes not moving for a single moment. He didn’t even blink.

“Who couldn’t?” Ilzkhaal was whispering. “Kili - you’re stronger and smarter than almost everyone here - and you-” He stopped, tripping over his words. “You’re fearless. The way you look at people, as though you could kill them with your bare hands without breaking a sweat. And, you’re so sure, you know that nothing can ever hurt you.” He lost himself for a moment, three fingers pressed loosely against the hollow of Kili’s cheek below his eye socket, where the scar began. 

Kili closed his eyes. He couldn’t bear to keep looking into that heavy black gaze. Ilzkhaal’s words set something alight in him, something hot and violent, and now it swirled around in his stomach, pooling and sinking lower, to the place where their bodies met. He expected another bullshit, babbling speech about how there was good inside of him that needed to be drawn out, about how deep inside there was someone kind and gentle, waiting to be loved. But it wasn't - it _wasn't_ that at all. Ilzkhaal liked him like this, rough and hard and mean, clad in leather with the Black Speech driipping from his lips. He was stunned.  _Did somebody really think that about him?_

It must have been some orcish custom, closing your eyes. Kili parted his lips to breathe in, because it felt so _hot_ and he couldn’t breathe properly, and of course how else was Ilzkhaal supposed to see it? He was confused at first, the air was _gone_ and there was something pressed against his mouth. It was so strange and _new_ to him and when he realised what was happening, Kili pulled away with a gasp, his lips wet and breath heaving in his lungs. The hand on his face was gone and Ilzkhaal drew back, the shadows deepening in sick horror in his grey-flushed face. 

“I-I thought...” Ilzkhaal swallowed heavily, the pulse thudding plainly in his bony throat. Kili stared at it with the writhing heat flooding his stomach and abdomen, feeling as though he was going to burst from the nerves and the sickness and the rumbling wave underneath that, one that peaked and broke a little higher with every shift of the orc’s skin. His hand’s were still on the orc’s shoulders, holding him close. Kili’s eyes darted to the side for the moment, flicking to the gleam of his metal flask in the soft yellow light. It was like a knife cutting through his gut. His alibi. His plan. _Everything._ His eyes darted back to Ilzkhaal, face very plainly frozen in humiliation, looking as though all he wanted to do was jump up and run and never ever see Kili again. 

So he pulled Ilzkhaal down. He closed his eyes and tried to think of someone else. The one he was doing this for. And he heard the gasp of the orc, the breath of hot air against his lips and he hoped that this was indication enough of what he wanted, because Kili really had _no_ idea about how any of this worked. They met. And that undercurrent in his stomach rose, swelling with every pulling heartbeat. 

“If you want me to stop, just say it.” Ilzkhaal whispered against his face. Kili’s lungs heaved for air. One bony hand had already wound its way into his hair, dragging on the thick tangles, the other resting on his hip. Kili’s heart was beating against his ribcage, and all he could do was nod at the orc’s words. He thought if he opened his mouth, he would be sick. “I’ll slow down. I’ll stop. I-I’ll do whatever you want Kili just tell me.”

Kili nodded again. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t _think_ , it was all a rushing and a buzzing and a tight, hot mess in his stomach. He could only feel. He didn’t have to do this he _didn’t_ , Ilzkhaal said he could stop at any time, he knew Kili was new to this, he must, they’d carefully discussed it more than once, with that casual, self-deprecating swagger between friends. He wouldn’t think any less of Kili if he backed out now. All he needed was the chance for this to happen. This was wrong, so wrong. He didn’t _like_ Ilzkhaal like that, not at _all_. It might be all right down here but the thought of it happening to him still left a coppery, bitter taste on his tongue. Kili could say stop right now and whisper that he wasn’t ready and it would be perfectly all right. Ilzkhaal shifted his weight, as though he was afraid of his thin body somehow crushing Kili’s sturdy form. But somehow, in spite of the wrongness and the anxiety he didn't want this to end. He wanted it to go on for ever. The pooling heat bucked in Kili’s abdomen and he was biting down on his own tongue.

He almost opened his mouth to say stop.

But he didn’t. 

* * *

After the rest of the dwarves had gone, Dwalin remained behind, sorting through the treasure. 

He wasn’t searching for the stupid gem. He couldn’t care _less_ for that, although of course that was a thought he kept strictly to himself - no, Dwalin had a much rarer prize to claim. His own Arkenstone. It drove him almost insane, it kept him awake and made it hard for him to concentrate on anything else. And with Dís - oh, _Dís_ \- with her on the way, Dwalin knew that he had only a few days left to find it. 

He could still remember shaping the beautiful little brooch from the strongest white gold and set with diamonds. It took days, several tries, until his hands were trembling from the strain of precision. It had to be _perfect_. Nothing else was good enough for her. 

He remembered his pride, when it was finished. He showed it to his brother with a wide smile, but Balin only scoffed, called him a stupid dwarrow and said there was _no_ chance the finest dam in all of Erebor would ever want him, not with the sons and nephews of kings jostling about to fall at her feet. 

_But she did._

After dragon’s flame, after the death of Thrór, after her failed marriage to a distant prince and her slow return home, Dís grew to love him again. And Dwalin, he had never stopped. Not for a single moment. He sighed with the memory, pausing to feel his hands sink against the shifting pile of gold. She _loved_ him. She loved him for over seventy years, in the end. Longer than the lives of Men. He never knew what it was she truly wanted from him. She remained mysteriously closed-off and he knew there were some parts of her heart beyond his reach. But he must have given her at least part of it, because she promised, she _promised_ to marry him, when Erebor was retaken, when the dragon was slain and Thorin sat upon the throne as the king he was destined to be. She promised to give him everything he had ever wanted, for nearly two hundred years. 

 _He needed that gem_.

Dwalin remembered the thrill of pride when Dís stepped stepped out in her finery, just twenty-one years old, dressed in deep blue velvet and her hands and neck dripping with diamonds, and the brooch, four stars and a crescent moon, proudly pinned to her chest. His heart was breaking with the memory. He opened his eyes and plunged his hands back into the priceless treasure, raking his fingers through the gold and feeling it shift and fall and pool around his feet.

And there.

It.

Was.

He knew in a _heartbeat._ A choked cry spilled from his lips and he reached out with shaking hands. Dwalin scooped the brooch up in a handful of treasure and backed away, staggering as his knees weakened. He splayed his fingers and let the coins and rings fall away, eyes fixed on the little diamond brooch. There it was, on the back. A little long-line poem he’d carved for her in Khuzdul, calling Dís his moon and stars. He pressed the gold to his chest and bowed his head, lips moving silently.

“Dwalin?”

He jerked his head up. “Fili?” Dwalin turned, realising that his neck and knees were stuff and his hands had almost frozen around the brooch. How long had he been kneeling there, clutching this little thing with the wealth of an empire around him. “It’s late - why are you here?”

“I could ask the same of you.” Fili breathed, shaking his head as Dwalin made to get up. He sat down instead, in front of Dwalin with his hands balled into fists, eyes dark and face pale. “Looking for the Arkenstone?”

“N-Nay lad.” Dwalin stared down at his brooch and his eyes crinkled in a flash of a smile. He put the brooch away in his pocket, his heart still pounding. “Just a little thing from when I was a dwarrow.” He stopped, only realising now just how strained and _nervous_ Fili looked before him. He couldn’t look up in Dwalin’s eyes. “Fili? What troubles you?”

“Too much.” He let out a half-laugh and he didn't know why, staring for a moment over the older dwarf’s broad shoulder. Yes, they were alone. Nori was out on guard duty with Bofur, and Ori stood watch in the large passageway outside the apartments where the rest slept. No one was going to disturb them. “Dwalin - I need to speak to you.”

“I figured.” His frown deepening, he reached out and touched Fili’s knee. The memories of Dís throbbed away at the back of his mind, bursting in little flashes as he stared at her eldest son. “What is it Fili?”

“It’s Thorin.” Fili leaned in, very close, but Dwalin still had to strain to hear his whisper. “I’m worried about him, Dwalin. So worried.” He licked his lips. “He’s lost control of himself - he’s not thinking straight. We both know he’s making a terrible mistake, with this.” He looked up. “Don’t we?”

“You mean - not giving up a share of the treasure.” Dwalin stared at him. “Fili - he’s not entirely wrong. If he bows to the first demand Thranduil makes, he will see Thorin as weak. He will know that he can threaten and intimidate Thorin, to get what he wants.”

“Better a weak king, than no king at all.” Fili hissed back. Dwalin pulled back. “Our lives - the lives of Thranduil’s elves, of Dain’s soldiers, they’re not _worth_ these power games and politics. This dangling about of warfare, it’s disgusting.” His teeth were bared. “This can’t continue Dwalin. It _can’t._ ”

“Fili,” Dwalin found his breath shaking in his throat. “What are you saying?”

“This has to end.” Fili’s heart was pounding and he could feel the rushing nerves double in his throat. Oh _Mahal,_ everything depended on this. Without Dwalin, he was sunk. Fili knew he needed one of the sons of Fundin on his side, someone with respect and influence. Someone to guide him. Ori agreed with him, in that little side-room, after their silent embrace. They needed _help_ and Dwalin was the one to give it. “It’s for the best, even thought it might not seem that way now. I’m not going to kill him Dwalin. I couldn’t. I’m just going to make sure he can’t interfere. And then I’ll negotiate - not on his behalf, I wouldn’t tarnish his honour like that. I will say that it’s me, it’s all me and I’ll take responsibility for everything that comes next.”

The earth rolled beneath Dwalin’s feet as the full force of Fili’s words came crashing into him. He shook his head slowly, dazed. “You... You want to overthrow Thorin.”

“It’s the only way, don’t you see that?” Fili reached out, grabbing the edge of Dwalin’s sleeve. “Nothing will drive him from this path and - I’m _not_ standing by again. All I’ve done is stand by and watch. I stood by when we lost _Kili._ I’m not doing it anymore. I’m fighting for this. I’ll go down fighting for what I _know_ is right.” His grip tightened. “Right now, it’s just me, Nori, and Ori. I’m going to ask Bilbo in the morning and I _know_ he’ll say yes. And when _Amad_ comes, she will be on my side, there’s no doubt. She never wanted any of this. She just wanted Kili and I safe and - and we’ve already failed her.” His voice wavered. “We can’t fail a second time. If I strike a deal with Thranduil and Bard, they will drive back the Ironfist army, the way Dain refuses to. I’ll be safe - _Erebor_ will be safe and we can finally rebuild.” Fili drew back a little, panting after his speech. “I can trust you, c-can’t I Dwalin? You’ve always been there for us. F-For Kili and I. You always said that nothing was more important than _Amad_ and us. I-I need you to be there for me again.”

Manipulative little sneak. Dwalin gritted his teeth at the indignant flash of anger inside of him. Fili _knew_ what he was doing, bringing the memory of Kili and his mother into this. He knew just how it would strike against his heartstrings and fill his chest with that deep, beautiful thrumming chord of love. Dwalin bent his head and tried to fight through the knotted tangle of Fili’s words. This was _insane_. Fili was too young, too inexperienced to attempt something like this. He couldn’t approach Thranduil with this level of open honesty. He would ruin them all with this naivety. Thranduil would break him into pieces and smile every moment, during it. But - Fili was _right._ At the heart of it, for all his youthful idealism, Fili was completely right. Thorin _was_ a fool, a goldsick fool and if something didn’t change, he would destroy every single one of them in the name of Durin and his own honour. 

“He won’t find it.” Fili’s whisper pierced his brain. Dwalin’s head snapped up. The blonde was reaching into his pocket. “The Arkenstone - he won’t find it.” He pulled out his hand, the wrapped stone in his palm. “There’s no chance of saving him without this. And I’m going to do it _my_ way.” Dwalin held his breath. “Are you with me Dwalin?” There was a new fire burning in his eyes, hard and determined. He hadn’t seen it in Fili before, not like this. 

“Yes.” Dwalin’s shoulders sagged. There was nothing else he could do. Fili needed his protection. Without it, he would fail and fall and Dís would _never ever_ forgive him if he lost her second son too. “I’m with you, Fili.”


	80. Glass Knife

Afterwards, there was silence. Ilzkhaal lay on his side with his head propped up by one arm. Kili stared up at the ceiling, sick and soft and spent, a mess of snakes writhing in his stomach while the warm glow cooled and faded, lingering in his legs, his spine, the tips of his fingers. Beside him, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his flushed limbs, Ilzkhaal hummed under his breath. One palm was pressed against the stone, an open invitation for Kili to take his hand if he wanted it. 

Suddenly, Kili sat up. The orc jerked at the movement. “I need to drink.” He got up on his knees and fumbled with his trousers, with the fastenings and the belt-buckle, putting everything back into place and staggering down to the water’s edge. He dipped his hands in up to the elbow, splashing the water against his face with a gasp. It wet the hair that framed his cheeks, dribbled onto his leather shirt and got up his nose. Kili bent down and took another shaky handful, bent over the water, panting and quivering in the candlelight. 

_What just happened._

Kili lurched forward, almost falling in. Perhaps he should. He could wash it off, the smell and damp that clung to him, got into his hair, into the creases of his skin. It wasn’t the act itself that left him writhing in a flushed suit of flesh.  

It was that he enjoyed it.

He wasn’t like that he _wasn’t like that_ , he wasn’t. Kili splashed more water over his face, swallowing the lump in his stuck throat. He liked dams, with their soft breasts and their long skirts and full mouths. His hand drifted to the juncture of his neck, running his wet fingertips across the skin stretched over veins and tendons. A shiver ran down his back at the memory, of lips and teeth, and Kili shook his head, flinging droplets of water from the tangled snarls of brown hair. He wasn’t.

“Kili?” He drew back from the water at the words, looking over his shoulder. Ilzkhaal sat up with his legs stretched out, idly wringing his hands. “Are you...” He trailed off, not knowing what he wanted to ask. Afraid of the answer.

“I’m fine.” Kili’s voice had slipped back into his familiar, dwarvish accent. He raked his fingers through his hair, and after a brief pause, stood up slowly, making the slow eight foot journey back to their little nest in the stone. He leaned against a stout, coarse rock, with his palms pressed on the ground, knees drawn up a little. “I’ll be fine.” The orc rested a hand on his arm, and Kili tried to relax. He felt oddly fragile, rattled about, something small and precious being held in slick, slippery fingers. Any moment now, he would fall and break. 

“W-We don’t have to do it again.” Ilzkhaal’s rushed voice made him look up. Kili stared at him, at his wide black eyes, his lower lip caught between his teeth and his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in his bony throat, looking humiliated, upset, utterly disappointed.“I got caught up - in the moment. I should have seen you didn’t like it, I’m sor-”

“I did.” Kili pulled down his sleeveless shirt, tucking it another half-inch into his trousers, self-consciously. He wasn’t lying. Ilzkhaal fell silent and leaned against the rock, cheek pressed against a folded arm. “I did like it.” That look of horror melted into a smile, small and secret. The black eyes shone. The hand on Kili’s arm slid up to his shoulder, squeezing tight. 

He fished out the flask, pressed it against his lips and pretended to take a sip, before offering Ilzkhaal a mouthful. While before he seemed so nervous and distracted, there was a smile that refused to fade. He grabbed the drugged liquor with eagerness, spilling it over his chin and laughing while Kili winced. They sat side-by-side, with Kili leaning on his shoulder, Ilzkhaal hogging the drink and resting his spare hand on Kili’s thigh. Kili bit his lip and looked down, ready to push at the orc’s wrist but he must have sensed his resistance, because he simply left it there, six inches from his knee with no show of moving upwards. He murmured, then he talked, then he gabbled, his eyes brightening, sitting up and leaning over Kili. He talked about his cousins, about his mother, one of seven, about his _brogund_ which Kili assumed was a pet name for a little brother. He wanted Kili to meet every single member of his great sprawling family, asserting that they would _love_ Kili, that he was so brave and staunch and tough they wouldn’t even care that he was a dwarf. It would be a lie, to say that didn’t make Kili glow in a muted pride. Ilzkhaal toyed with the tooth at Kili’s neck while he said that, lips pulled in a smile. Then he leaned his head on Kili’s chest, his temple on Kili’s jutting collarbone. His hand drifted from the tooth to his neck, running his fingertips over the coarse scrape of his dark stubble. Kili shivered and his stomach lurched. 

“What about you?” Kili hoped the orc couldn’t feel just how hard his heart was beating. “Kili - you’ve never said a thing about _your_ family.” His voice was starting to fade, he mumbled against Kili’s chest. It must hurt his back to bend down like that. Kili tried to get him to lie down. Ilzkhaal was soft and pliable, eyes half-lidded under the touch and he willingly lay with his head on Kili’s lap, staring up with just a glint visible in the candlelight. 

Kili’s mouth was dry. The confessions pushed at his throat. He _longed_ to talk about Fili, his strong, steady older brother who had been broken to pieces at Kili’s loss. About his sweet mother who loved him unconditionally. About Thorin, the one he thought would always be there to protect and guide him, and how badly that biting knife-wound of betrayal had cut into his soul. He wanted to talk about his place in his family, how stupid and innocent he was, how he bore his brother’s shame and his mother’s joy, how he carved a name for himself as an archer. He wanted to explain how _important_ it all was, being a son of Durin and third in line to a throne, vague and dusty that it may have been, how rigid and unforgiving the dwarves were, which made Kili’s desertion of his own people all the sharper.

Instead, he shrugged and stared at the wall. “I don’t have a family.” He said quietly, wishing that horrible burning in his heart would go away. Kili closed his eyes. It didn’t matter if he never saw any of them again – they didn’t understand, not in the slightest. Even Fili had tried and failed, parading that old worn-out excuse that Kili didn’t _mean_ any of what he had done. The only one who even tried to dive right into his heart was Ori and he didn’t even know where the poor scribe was now—

A rock fell in Kili’s stomach. His eyes snapped open and he lifted his head, trying to keep the rest of his body loose and lax. _Ori._ The realisation came as a flood of guilt, crashing right into his chest and making it hard to draw air into his lungs. _What had he done._ Ori, who had felt this way about him for _so long_ , knowing that there was nothing that could ever, ever happen. It was the impossible, nothing more than a secret fantasy. And he broke that distant purity with someone who he’d known for less than a week. Kili had sullied himself with another - a male, an _orc_ \- in a double-edged wrongness that sent another wave of guilt rushing in his chest. Ori hadn’t crossed his mind for a moment until now. He tried to tell himself that it didn’t matter - Kili knew in his heart that he didn’t _love_ Ilzkhaal, there was no attraction there, it was just something that got out of hand, something he should have stopped but didn’t. He didn’t _ask_ for it.

 _Liar._ Kili gritted his teeth, remembering the hot pulling in his stomach, the deep shudder than went down to his bones and rocked through his limbs. He liked it. Every hot, writhing, disgusting moment. Kili wrenched his hand free and raked his fingers through his hair. He needed more water.

“Ilz, I...” Kili trailed off, looking down to see the orc had fallen asleep. He was heavy and silent, the only sound a soft whistling in his nose. With his tongue between his teeth, he carefully wedged his way out from beneath Ilzkhaal, careful not to wake him. The valerian root had worked wonderfully. Kili crouched before his coat and slipped his hand into the inner pocket, pulling out a second flask. After a moment’s thought, he gently draped the warg-fur over Ilzkhaal’s sleeping body, smoothing the collar over his shoulders. In his sleep, Ilzkhaal’s naked brow twitched, his right hand curling on reflex. On his knees, Kili bent over, leaning down to press their foreheads together. Whether he thought it meant anything or not, whether it happened again or not, nothing could change the fact that it _had_ happened. Kili wasn’t innocent to the touch of another, not anymore. He remembered that wide-eyed admission from his brother in that rented room over the pub, almost thirty years ago now, the careful whisper that he _had_ someone, a young dam with beautiful dark locks and bewitching green eyes. Fili was changed after that. Something had _lifted_ from him, and suddenly everything was different. Kili thought it was just the silly rambling of a young fool, but Fili was _right_. Something was different inside, but it wasn’t the exhilarating lift of a burden. He felt more like something had been ripped out of him. 

Kili rested both hands on the ground beside Ilzkhaal’s head, thinking. Part of him wanted to chuck it all in, his pride and inhibitions. Who _cared?_ It didn’t matter, not here. Mautor certainly thought that was what happening and he seemed only to enjoy it. Ilzkhaal’s friends and family all thought he was wonderful. But another part, the overwhelming part that dominated his heart, still curdled in horror and disgust and what he had done just an hour before. Even though he was sweet, and kind, and young, even though he looked so much more _human_ than the mutated and battle-scarred orcs sometimes did, there was no masking the fact that in the pit of Kili’s stomach, he was screaming in protest against what he had done.

Kili sighed and lifted his head. “I’ll be back.” He promised. 

* * *

“Glad I could catch you Dwalin. Are you free?” Thorin closed the door softly behind himself, after seeing the crack of light beneath the sagging door. Dwalin sat up, cross-legged in his mess of furs and mouldy blankets, leaning against the stone wall with the glint of Dís’ brooch in his massive hands. 

“Aye of course.” He felt the straining pull tighten in his heart at the sight of his king, forcing a thin smile on his pale face. Thorin sat down before his closest friend, his shield-brother, on his knees with his shoulders bowed and heavy. “What ails you, Thorin?”

“Everything, at this moment.” Dwalin stared down at the brooch, one last, lingering look, before putting it away in his pocket. “But Fili most of all. I can’t stop thinking about him. It’s starting to concern me, this rebelliousness. He’s misguided.”

“He puts too much trust in outsiders.” Dwalin murmured in soft agreement, his eyes trained on the floor. He couldn’t look at Thorin now, not with that awful plan ticking away in his brain. His promise to Fili, to work alongside him and _depose his king._ How could he do this? How could he shatter his vows and betray his closest, oldest friend? The one he fought alongside his entire life, the one he bled and broke and would die for, in a heartbeat. How could he bring himself to do it? Dwalin tried to tell himself it was all for the best - the greater good, for their people, for the men of Lake-Town and for the elves - it was the only way to avoid bloodshed. But the cost? Thorin’s trust. His pride. The worth of their people, all of it would be cast into disarray. Dwalin’s honour would be broken too. He would be a traitor. His name, Balin’s name, and his father’s too, it would all be turned to mud. His own line would be corrupted with this act of treachery. 

Thorin was talking. Dwalin jerked his head up with a little grunt to catch the tail end of it. “I know he thinks I’m being cruel and blind. How is he to understand? He’s too young, Dwalin. He needs to learn that his implicit trust will be his downfall. I thought - that with the whole mess with Thranduil, that he would have realised that we cannot trust the elves. But he _insists._ ” Thorin shook his head. “I don’t know how to get through to him.”

“He’s afraid.” Dwalin wished he could stop the cramping guilt in his stomach. “He doesn’t see any other way out.”

“Then he is a fool.” Thorin said flatly. “If he thinks pandering to Thranduil’s whims will win us our sovereignty and property, he’s stupider than I thought. I trained him, _Dain_ trained him to be stronger than this.” He shook his head. “The _foolish_ boy. I’m afraid for him, Dwalin. I’m afraid he will try something stupid.” He looked up, eyes fixed very clearly on Dwalin now. “He’s changed since Lake-Town. He no longer accepts my ruling, not even reluctantly. He’s rebelled against me twice now, with Kili and with Ori, with his ill-thought, naive ideals.” Thorin was working himself into a low, smouldering rage, the one that remained inward, while his voice was soft. But Dwalin recognised that cold glare in his eye. “I’m afraid for him.” He repeated.

Dwalin stared at the ground in silence, too torn to speak at that moment. He thought of everything he had fought for, what had been lost and regained and hung once more in the balance. Dís. Fili. Kili. And Thorin. The thought of Thorin _hating_ him, calling him a dog and a traitor, spurning their weathered century-and-a-half of friendship over this unforgivable betrayal, it was a heated, swelling agony inside of him that refused to fade.

After Thorin finally left, Dwalin stared for a long time at the opposite wall as everything whirled around him, the rushing waters rising over his head and threatening to drown him. He had to find out how to breathe. After a little searching, he found Fili alone, staring at a ragged piece of paper. Fili scrabbled wildly at the sound of Dwalin’s entrance, trying to fold it up and thrust it back into his pocket, but relaxed when he realised who it was. He smiled, but his face looked worn and strained in the dimness of the small room.

"A drawing of Ori's." He held it out with a little smile. Kili. Dwalin's throat contracted it at the sight of it and he let out a long, long sigh. "You won't tell, will you?" Of course he wouldn't. All the same, Fili folded it up and put it back inside his shirt. “Dwalin, I—”

“You have to stop this.” Dwalin broke in before the young prince could speak. “Fili, there is another way. You don’t have to do this to Thorin, to yourself. You can still save your name.” He sank down to his knees before Fili, staring imploringly at him. “We can think of something else, something less disruptive, that won’t hurt your uncle quite so much.”

“What are you talking about?” Fili sat up very straight, the lines deepening on his forehead. “Where did this come from – everything is planned, we were _all_ in agreement! How can you say this?” He started to panic. He needed Dwalin. “You can’t back out on me!”

“I’m not backing out.” Dwalin said quickly, holding up his hands. “Fili, I am on your side, ‘til the end. I’m just concerned for Thorin, and for you. This is will sever the bond between the two of you. He will never forgive you for this. We both know that.” His rushed voice began to slow, softening. “Please, just give it another night. Just one more night, to think of something else, a way to avoid a direct revolt.”

“Do you think I haven’t thought this through?” Fili hissed. Dwalin started, taken aback. “Do you think I haven’t considered _every_ other option? I know I could sneak about and arrange some sort of alliance without Thorin ever knowing it was me. But I will _not_ be a two-faced liar to my uncle.” He paused to swallow the lump in his throat, eyes wild. “I would rather stand in my deeds and face judgement for them, and fall, than creep about in the shadows like a filthy snake. I have one thing, Dwalin. I could lose _Amad_ , and Thorin, and my name, my pride, my honour, but I will _never_ lose my honesty. I am done with being standing back and watching the world crumble before my eyes.” His shoulders sank. “I lost Kili because I was too afraid to stand up to Thorin. I’m not making that mistake again Dwalin. I am going to fight for us, until the end. I won’t ever stop fighting.”

Dwalin’s hands were over his mouth. He sat with his elbows on crossed knees, eyes drifting from Fili’s tense form and to the ground. _Oh Fili._ Stupid, naive, brilliant Fili. He looked like a real king for a brief moment, with his chin held high and his eyes so bright, impassioned with his own declaration. But that gleam tarnished with the thought of Kili, and he sagged under the weight of his brother. He looked bowed now, heavy with grief. Dwalin wanted to hug Fili but instead he reached out and gently patted his knee. Fili dragged a hand through his hair, trying to push his braids back from his face.

“I believe you.” He whispered. Fili looked up. “I do.” Dwalin felt defeated, trapped between two rocks that were going to crush him. “I know you have nothing but the best intentions for everybody, Fili.”

His chest rose and fell rapidly. “You’re still on my side, aren’t you?” Fili reached out and seized his hand, like a little child grasping for his mother, afraid of being lost in a crowd.

Dwalin forced the most painful smile of his life. “Of course I am.”

* * *

Kili carried only his six-inch knife strapped to his hip, a clean, empty little flask wrapped in leather, and the lantern. He left Ilzkhaal sleeping under his thick coat, innocent and unaware. His walk was slow down the narrow passage, feeling the stone angle downwards beneath his feet, down, down, with no seeming end. Surely soon, it would broaden into a cavernous network of shafts and holes, slimy with water and insects. He just wanted it to come. The anticipation was _worse_ creeping silently through this narrow tunnel, breathing soft and shallow in his throat.

Of every component in his plan, this was probably the most _insane._ It was pure arrogance of Kili to assume that he could walk out of this unscathed, that he could face an untold number of those giant spiders and walk out with a flask filled with precious, undetectable venom. No one else had survived these beasts for years. _No one._ And in his confidence and grim pride, Kili knew he was going to be the first. He had no other chance. Kili had no other option. He wasn’t going to let Nazarg die for a crime he didn’t commit. He wasn’t going to take Kili’s blood debt.

Kili stopped as the stone tunnel opened up, the walls falling away into a black void. The lantern was a tiny bauble of light suspended in blackness, as tiny and ineffectual as a pinprick. He arched his neck to look up at the dark nothingness, feeling the push at his throat. And with a short breath, he stepped forward.

“Come on!” He jumped up and down, stamped his feet and made noise as he shouted in Black Speech. “I know you’re down here, you _pushdug!_ Afraid of a lone dwarf are you?” Kili kicked at a rock, watching it skitter away into the darkness. After a thought, he slowly unbuckled his belt and threaded the lantern through the leather, letting the bright glass swing against the side of his thigh. He drew the six-inch knife and paced slowly, keeping his ears sharp, eyes searching for any glimpses of shadow on the edge of his meagre light.  “What are you scared of!” The words sank into the darkness, and Kili received only a cool silence in return.

His nerves thin and stretched to a paper-thin membrane on the point of breaking, Kili gasped aloud at the low, unmistakeable click of spider-legs on stone. He whirled around, knuckles white around the knife and heartbeat rising to a frenzy in his throat. The beast scuttled, avoiding the little orb of light. A hiss shot through the air, as swift and resolute as an arrow. Kili took a careful step backwards in the direction of the hiss, eyes locked in the place he assumed the spider crouched in wait. He squared his shoulders and steeled himself, jaw locked into stone, but before he took another step, he heard another click, another low scrape, to his right. The spider was trying to _trick_ him. Kili side-stepped with a cry; the spider burst into the light, with a flash of gleaming black eyes and long, furred legs. He got down on his knees in an effort to get away, the lantern swinging madly from his hip. With a pause, his brown eyes caught the underbelly of the beast, the four-inch stinger already extended in anticipation for the kill.

“Oh no you don’t.” Kili sprang to his feet with a growl as the creature rounded on him. The spider hissed again in return, two long forelegs extended. He heard the rush, the little clipping sound, a second too late. Kili turned at the flash of shadow, vision blurring black-and-gold as a second spider pounced, knocking him to the ground. With the sound of breaking glass, the light went out.

 _“No!”_ Kili screamed, thrusting wildly out with his knife. He felt it sink into something, heard the high screech as he hit his mark in the darkness. He brought the knife into the spider-flesh, again and again, feeling the creature convulse. His knife found the sharp pincers of its mouth and he tore into the muscle and bone, severing thick arteries that spewed black blood all over his bare arms. The scream rose, filling the deep cave, and Kili’s ears rang with the awful sound. He tried to wriggle out from underneath the dying beast, getting away on his hands and knees and staggering to his feet, doubled over as fear struck at his chest.

No light. There was nothing but darkness around him. Black, solid, _endless_ darkness with no hope of escape. With his heart pounding in his throat, Kili held his breath and tried to listen out for the remaining spider, trying to tune himself into the lightless stone. He was scared – _terrified_ of what was happening to him, but he refused to let the fear consume him. _He was going to win._ He wasn’t going to die down here, alone, wrapped in a crushing blackness. Kili wasn’t going to fall. Kili heard the sound behind him. He ducked back and rolled onto his side in an effort to avoid the beast, feeling the brush of a leg against his boot. With a rush in his throat, he kicked out, hearing the creature squeal in the dark. “Come on then!” His voice rose with the taunt, a leer spreading across his face. Kili heard the swish of air on his face as the spider pounced, and he threw himself on the ground, hoping to get his knife into the underbelly of the beast and gut it.

He plunged the knife easily into the spider’s massive thorax as he landed heavily on his side, winded. Kili ducked his head at the ear-splitting screech, and the knife was ripped from his hand, embedded in the spider to the hilt. Blindly, Kili dragged himself onto his knees, reaching out for a rock, a stick, anything that could help him. The spider staggered heavily on the stone, turning clumsily back to Kili as his hand closed around searing hot glass. He hissed in pain but held on tight, rising to his feet with his heart hammering. This time, it was Kili who leaped. He misjudged the distance in the darkness, landing a little further than he meant to, but it was enough. He knocked the bleeding creature off its spindly legs and hard onto the stone. Another screech filled the air and Kili reached at the sound; not at its mouth, but at those beetle-black eyes he knew were fixed on him, seeing through that heavy blackness. Kili slashed wildly with the heated glass, his free hand on one of those curved pincers, trying to hold the spider at bay. Blinded, the beast bucked wildly in rage and pain and Kili was thrown to the stone.

Kili crouched with the jagged shard of glass in his hand, teeth pulled back in the snarl of a wild animal. But the spider sounded as though it backed away from him, the hissing and screeching fading away in the darkness with the sound of lopsided, clicking steps. With a groan, Kili fell onto his knees, panting. His hand was wet with blood around the cooling glass. His eyes sank closed and he bowed his head, trying to catch his breath and slow the racing of his heart. His very bones hurt from the fight, and he knew there would be bruises on his spine and legs from the constant falling and rolling on the stone. He tried to slow the heaving gasps of air in his lungs, but the terror of what he had done, the press of the darkness around him, rose to a peak and he could feel the panic flooding through his bruised, exhausted body.

“No.” Kili whispered to himself, a little whimper in the blackness. “Calm – down.” He tried to just breathe, his free hand curled in the dark tangles of his hair. The air was heavy and wet. There was no way out. He didn’t know which way the path began, leading him back to Ilzkhaal, to freedom and safety, and which way would only bring him to the depths of the spiders’ lair. No way out. Kili hunched over, his forehead almost touching the stone floor, just waiting, waiting for that burning panic to subside in his stomach. He could get out of this. Even if he had no light, no knife, he could get out of this.

First things first. Kili staggered forward, getting up on unsteady feet and almost hobbling, his hands stretched outward. The carcass of that first spider was here – somewhere – and Kili needed to find it. Now. He walked in slow, wide circles, eyes closed out of habit. Finally, his fingers brushed the massive hairs of its still-warm abdomen. With a low groan of relief, Kili dug into his pocket and pulled out the empty little flask. Lightly, his fingers grazed the upturned belly of the beast, searching for that extended four-inch stinger and the poison hidden inside. He sliced with the glass when he found it, oozy venom spilling over his fingers, too thick and slow to be blood. Kili leaned in for a careful sniff. It didn’t smell like blood either. He placed the mouth of the flask to the cut he’d made, pressing with his fingers to milk the beast dry.

When he was done, Kili stood up, his face turned upwards in an effort to try and _feel_ just a breath of wind, _something_ that would guide him home. Kili licked one of his cleaner fingers, one that wasn’t dripping with poison, holding his breath as he raised his hand to try and trace the air. The stone enfolded him like a womb with its dull, deep silence. Kili swallowed and turned slowly, wondering if he imagined that soft gasp against his wet fingertip. There were tricks to find your way in the darkness, but Kili never mastered them. He couldn’t tap on the stone and listen to those whisper-soft vibrations, humming in the right direction. His face crumpled, and he buried his nose and eyes in one arm, trying to ride it out as a fresh wave of panic flared up inside of him. He could die in here so easily, alone in the darkness that pushed against his stinging eyelids. No one would ever, ever know. He would fall prey to those beasts like so many others before him, lost in that deep, damp pit of claws and pincers and scrabbling legs.

Calm down. Kili breathed out, slow and even. There was nothing to be had in this panic. It was an instinct, to throw himself to the ground and cry, and he had to battle it. He unclenched his fist and let the bloodied glass fall from his hand, the clatter rising, bouncing back against the rock, growing louder and louder for a few racing heartbeats and then fading away. With his face turned towards his best guess for the exit, Kili began to walk, his good arm thrown out, feet shuffling with the careful effort to avoid any pitfalls.

When his fingers touched stone, Kili sagged with relief. He ran his hand along it and picked up his pace. It had to be the right way it _had_ to, in that huge cave he would have had to walk twice as long to reach the other side. It had to be the right way. When the cave-wall eventually folded into a narrow passage, Kili’s throat closed, daring to hope. He tried to summon that map inside his head, the gentle slopes and lazy winding turns. Was he going back up that same thin route? It _felt_ as though his feet were going upwards, rather than deeper and deeper into the heart of the craggy mountain. It had to be the right way.

With his heart beating faster, the breath growing shallow in his throat and his cut hand throbbing, Kili let out a sob when he stumbled into the tiny mouth of the glow-worm cave. He dragged himself over the stone shelf and fell on his knees. The glow-worms were slowly coming back, like a deepening twilight, the scattered pinpricks of light the most welcome sight Kili could have imagined. When the burning in his throat subsided, Kili staggered down to the water and tried to clean himself up. There wasn’t much he could do about the blood splattered on his shirt, already sticky and drying out, but he hoped it would fade into the black leather. His hand flexed into a careful fist and Kili winced. It wasn’t too bad, just a shallow flesh wound that barely broke the callused skin. It would be gone in a week.

He placed his good hand over the lump in his pocket, the flask that brimmed with poison that would save the life of his best friend. He had done it. Everything was working out, everything was going to be all right. With relief softening the rock in his stomach, Kili smiled in the growing pinpricks of light.

* * *

Fili and Ori stood together, before the closed door of Thorin’s chamber. Dwalin was out on night-watch, he couldn’t switch and arouse suspicion, and Nori was keeping an eye on the rest with Bilbo. He embraced the both of them as they left, whispering in Fili’s ear that he was doing the right thing. Fili needed to hear that from Nori. He needed validation from a corrupt, crooked thief. Oh, the audacity of it. But Nori _wasn’t_ corrupt and crooked. He was rock-steady and faithful. Fili trusted Nori, and Bilbo too. They were the ones who would convince the others, wrhen Thorin was subdued. Between Bilbo, Nori, and Dwalin, Fili was sure he had enough support to win the company over. Bofur would side with them instantly, and Bifur and Bombur wouldn’t need much convincing. Dori would never abandon his brothers. Oin and Gloin were old and stubborn, and Fili wasn’t sure about either of them. Balin, he too was a concern. Fili hoped he could win the old dwarf over, with Dwalin on his side. It was all planned out; Fili thought he had worked out every detail, every possible problem, and stopped the leaks in his scheme before it could all spill out.

Bilbo was _so_ forthcoming. It took day and a half for Fili to finally snatch a few precious moments alone with the hobbit, and the time set Fili’s nerves alight within his body. He grew increasingly unsure that Bilbo would even agree to this. As he whispered his plan in Bilbo’s ear, those soft eyes grew hard and his mouth thinned into a line. He stared at the ground for a long time, his throat bobbling and hands in fists. But he looked up and whispered that he just wanted everyone to be safe, he wanted to _stop_ this war and if that took sacrificing his friendship with Thorin – well, that was a loss he could bear, in exchange for their lives. Fili was still stubbornly sure that he would see it all in time, when everything was sorted out and the Arkenstone was returned, when alliances were forged and the threat of war thawed out from a frozen chill in the air. Thorin would not die in his madness.

“I am not going to back down.” Fili stood with his chin held high. He felt the paper against his chest, a welcome feeling. Ori had finally given the drawing back a week ago and it never left Fili's chest. It was a muted, quiet sort of warmth and Fili basked in it for a moment before putting it away. He couldn't think about Kili now. He hadn't thought about Kili much in a while, not with that indulgent reminiscing that veiled him from the rest of the world for hours at a time. He didn't allow himself the luxury of distraction. Fili cracked, looking at the drawing before, but he wouldn't stray again. He had to be  _focused._ This was the moment that was going to define his _entire life._ After this, he could never stop the words leaking into air, the ink on paper and chisel against stone. He was changing the course of Durin’s Folk, but to what direction, he didn’t know. King. Prince. Traitor. How would their people remember him? Would they speak his name with dread or hatred or reverence? Would it be uttered at all, or would the very memory of him vanish like smoke in the air, his name wiped away. Would Thorin do to him what he did to Fili’s father, if he had the chance?

He cast the thought from his head. There was no room for his father here. No room for anything else but Fili. This wasn’t the crazed power-lusty act of an Ironfist, or the greedy scheming of a Longbeard. This was Fili, saving his people, saving his uncle. Saving himself. He wore a heavy cloak over his shoulders, two broadswords slung at his waist. They wouldn’t be used, not against Thorin. It was all a show, an act. The only thing he would use on his uncle was the coil of rope dangling from Ori’s skinny arm.

With Ori at his side, standing in his eternal faith, Fili opened the door. He hoped Thorin was sleeping. It would be easier that way, no struggle, no cursing or crying or spitting on Fili’s name. He could gag Thorin and it would all be painless. But Thorin wasn’t sleeping.

_Thorin wasn’t there at all._

Fili walked slowly into the room, the tightness winding in his stomach. Something uncertain prickled in his spine, but he pushed it all down. Ori followed, chewing on his lip. “Maybe he’s just taking a leak.” A tremor crept into Fili’s voice. “I didn’t hear him leave – damn. We’ll hide in the shadows, wait for him to come back and then strike. Mahal, I didn’t want to do it like this-”

There was a cough at the doorway and in unison, Fili and Ori whirled around.

Thorin stood in the doorway with Dwalin and Gloin just behind him. His face was cold and dead.

_He knew._

“No,” Fili whispered as his shaking body seized, stiff as stone in his horror.


	81. Narishkû

He dreamed of fire.

That was what he saw when he closed his eye. The flash of red-hot iron, the hissing steam of steel on skin, the screams so loud the mutilated remnants of his ears were still ringing, his throat was still burning. It wasn’t this pitch-black cell that kept Nazarg trapped. He was a prisoner inside his own head, a steel cage growing tighter and tighter, and all he could do was sit in the darkness, waiting for the end to come.

It was Kili that had done it. Before he saw the dwarf again, he had hope – a tiny fragment, a grain of sand that burrowed in under his skin. Yes, he was going to die, but _he was going to die for something_. He suffered in the knowledge that he had won, that Azog had truly lost and Kili was home, and safe, and healing. To see him here, in black warg-hide with that burning hatred in his eyes, blaming _him_ for Azog’s death, it smothered that last piece of hope, snuffed it out, and Nazarg just felt cold. He had suffered for _nothing._ He didn’t save Kili. No one could save Kili now. He had seen that wild look in the dwarf’s eyes for a dazed, bleary moment, the darkness that lay in wait, a beast resting on its haunches, waiting to strike. The chains had been broken and it was free, and now it waited.

He should have babbled that it was Kili who’d done it. It could have been his bitter revenge, his last-gasp stab to make _someone_ suffer in retribution for this agony. But he couldn’t. That low door opened thirteen times since Kili had rushed at him with burning hatred. Thirteen painful stretches of a black, empty void. Thirteen times a bowl of gruel and smelly water was thrown down at him with a snarl, thirteen times he was kicked at and spat on and pushed into his own filth. But thirteen times, he remained silent. It was pathetic, this stubborn loyalty to someone who took everything Nazarg gave him and let it break into pieces. His ideals, his burning hope that at least Kili was safe, it was all gone, and Nazarg was cold and yet he did not utter a word.

The end was coming, there was a grim, dead relief to that. It was going to _hurt_ , but he felt as though his nerves had been burned away and there was nothing left to feel. They would drag him out and roast him alive, or cut him up slowly, or send wargs tear him to piece. Even if by some stupid, nonexistent chance, Nazarg managed to walk free, there was nothing for him, in his shame and mutilation. Orcs would see him and they would _know_. He couldn’t go to his birth-home. He couldn’t go back to Moria. He would be wanted. He could only run and hide and that wasn’t any sort of life at all. The end was coming and Nazarg was at a cold, helpless peace with what was next.

Nazarg slept fitfully on his side, his head pillowed on his good arm. He was jerked awake by a hand shaking his arm, and on instinct, Nazarg curled into a ball with his arms over his head, face pressed into the stone. He whimpered and hated himself for it, cowering and moaning like a beast, steeling himself for a rib-cracking kick in the side.

“Nazarg.” The soft voice made his heart seize up. The orc stopped breathing, the glow of a lantern searing on his closed eyelid. _Kili._ “It’s me. Sit up.” He was whispering, the low breath of someone who didn’t want to get caught. Kili drew in a shuddering breath. “Please—”

“K-Kili?” His teeth were chattering. With his eye cracked against the light, the orc slowly lifted his head.

“Oh – the light. _Ishi_ I forgot sorry.” Kili carefully put it away from the both of them, behind a rock. He rested on his knees before the orc, careful and unsure, looking as though he wanted to throw himself in Nazarg’s arms but holding himself back, not knowing what to expect. Without the lantern, Nazarg saw only a soft outline, the shadows of his eyes and a shapeless mouth. He sat up, his weak limbs straining. _Kili was here_. Those bare arms stretched out towards him, palms flat and open in a gesture of peace. “Nazarg—”

“You!” Nazarg pushed those hands away as a wave of _anger_ flared up in his chest. “What are you doing here?” Kili gasped as the orc lunged forward, latching on to his shoulders. “Come back to see what you’ve done?” He tried to snarl at Kili, tried to frown, but his face was so mutilated, he only twisted the misshapen scars further. He caught the horror in Kili’s brown eyes, his mouth half-open in his rushed, shallow breathing.

“ _No.”_ Kili’s face was crumpling. “Nazarg – please, it was an act, I needed to see you and I can’t let Mautor know I’m on your side. I’m not here to mock you. I’m here to rescue you.” The eight-fingered grip on his shoulder retracted for a moment.

“Rescue me.” He repeated flatly. Nazarg bowed his head with a low chuckle at the uselessness and stupidity. He kept laughing and laughing in strained, quiet gasps. Then all of a sudden, they were sobs, bitter and hot, his eye was stinging and his hands were shaking on Kili’s shoulders. The dwarf grasped those thin wrists and easily lifted him away. He wrapped one arm around Nazarg’s chest and pulled him in. The burst of anger had drained him, and now he leaned against Kili weakly. “You are such a fool.” He was still so thin, with the lines of his bones pressing against Nazarg’s skin. The last weeks hadn’t been kind to Kili either, then.

“I’m _so_ sorry about all of this.” Kili hugged him tightly, winding his fingers into the worn rags of his shirt until the seams were straining. “P-Pretending to hate you, before, it was the hardest thing I ever had to do.” The breath was warm and wet against Nazarg’s neck, soaking through his skin and into his blood. “But I’m going to make it all as right as I can. I’m going to get you out of here and you’ll walk free.” He closed his eye at the word, shaking his head. There was no freedom for him, not like this. His brain felt sluggish and overwhelmed. He processed it all slowly, struggling to believe that he was even _awake_ , that this wasn’t some sort of dream. There was that dull throb of pain, in his eye and hand and ears, that burning ache of hunger and thirst and he knew in his empty stomach that this was all real. He still saw Kili, screaming at him, cursing his name and almost crying. This wasn’t _real_.

 “I’ve got it all planned out, all right?” Kili was still whispering to him. “Your guard is asleep and the rest are easy enough to dodge. I sneaked in to the tower through the drain at the back, it was easy to pry open. I probably smell _awful_. No worse than you though.” The smile crept into his voice. “You’re going to get out of here.” Nazarg screwed up his twisted face. The force of Kili’s words were finally cutting through the dull haze, echoing in his head, drowning out the screaming. _Getting out_. It wasn’t true – it couldn’t _ever_ happen, he had convinced himself after weeks and weeks of lonely blackness that he was never, ever going to get out and now Kili, who had somehow crept unseen into the heart of this bristling dungeon, was promising to set him free. He should be bursting with relief and hope with the promise of freedom, but instead, Nazarg was just cold, cold as he had always felt, curled up in this cell, waiting for the end.

Kili held him close, trying to spread his own warmth to the cold skin pressed tight against him. Nazarg was had faded away down here, little more than a weak-limbed, freezing ghost, already dead inside, in his helplessness. The sick panic began to creep into his stomach, along his spine and into his chest, a grim realisation that he was already too late and Nazarg had long ago abandoned any traces of hope. He _rejected_ Kili, pushed his hands away and reacted with anger. What did Kili expect from him after all of this had happened? Gratitude? Trust?

“Say something.” He whimpered in his defeated, sick terror. “Please.” The shaking breath had subsided in Nazarg’s lungs and now he sat quietly, his cheek against Kili’s collarbone. “Say something to me Nazarg.”

“You’re wasting your time.” His soft voice cut right down into Kili’s heart. Nazarg lifted his head and stared at Kili with his single eye. “ _Look at me.”_ He gripped the dwarf’s face, the bristles of his beard rasping against his palms. “Just let me die.”

“ _No.”_ Kili hissed at him, hands balled into fists. He stared back, unflinching, his face set into hard lines. “I’m not wasting my time.” His voice sent a shiver down the orc’s spine. “Nothing – _nothing_ is more important than surviving, do you hear me? You can’t give up, you can’t let these _bastards_ win and kill you.” Nazarg swallowed, his eye lowered as Kili breathed against his face. “You can’t let them break you.”

The orc let out a dry half-laugh. “Let them break me? Look at me.” He repeated. “There’s nothing to save—”

“Shut up.” Kili growled. “You’re alive, aren’t you? You were the one who told me I could still save myself and now you sit here and say you would rather _die?_ ” His fists tightened. “If I can survive Azog, you can survive this.” It was a horrible comparison, and Kili felt arrogant and presumptuous to make it. It wasn’t the same – Kili still had his body and mind, but Nazarg had been completely broken, torn almost to pieces in brutal torture and left in darkness for weeks. He didn’t think less of him for wanting to give up, but Kili was determined to repay that debt that grew like an inkstain on his soul. “You’re a hypocrite.” Kili gripped those twiggish arms now, his voice warbling, growing thick. “You think I didn’t want to die? S-So many times I just wanted to give up rather than see myself fall further and further and you _saved_ me.” He butted their foreheads together, coaxing Nazarg to look up.

“Now, let me save you.” The orc kept his gaze low, darting slowly from side to side as he tried to process Kili’s words through his exhausted, frantic mind. “Why do you think I’m here?” The growl softened. “I’m not here to find myself or seek shelter, Nazarg. I’m here for _you._ I came here to save you, when I heard you were still alive. My family – they didn’t want me, and I had to run away. It’s such an ugly story, but _trust_ me, I can’t ever go back. They gave up on me. You’re the _only_ one who ever kept faith in me when the whole truth about Azog came out. ” Nazarg listened. Kili was breaking down his defences, pulling off the splintered remains of his armour away in an effort to get to his lifeless heart. “So I ran away, I kept on going, a-and then I ran into these orcs, in the woods. They _welcomed_ me and it was the strangest feeling. I was going to just take what I could and leave – but they mentioned you were here, that you confessed to killing Azog and you were still alive. What else was I going to do?” He swallowed everything back and lifted his head. “I would _never_ leave you to die.”

“Kili.” His fingrs grew loose on that pale face. Nazarg finally looked up, seeing Kili with his bottom lip between his teeth, his soft brown eyes pleading with him. This was the Kili he thought had died, the vulnerable child reaching out for comfort. He swallowed the rising lump in his throat. “What is your plan then.” His voice was low and dead, but it somehow sparked a new life into Kili’s eyes.

“All you have to do is drink this.” He pulled back and found the flask, fiddling with the cap. “It’s going to save your life.”

“How?” Nazarg was bleary and dazed. He stared, his eye half lidded as Kili held the mouth to his lips. He tasted metal for a brief moment, something sharp and bitter beneath it, more acrid than the strongest liquor.

“It’s going to kill you.” Kili breathed. Nazarg tried to pull back, but Kili had one hand on the back of his neck. “It’s all right, I harvested spider-venom tonight. It will stop your heart from beating and turn you cold and everyone will think you’re dead. But you won’t be. I’ll come and find you, and I’ll get you out of here, and no one will ever look for you. You can be free, change your name and go somewhere new.” He pressed the flask to Nazarg’s lips, and the orc gave in. “Drink.”

It was the _foulest_ thing he had ever tasted. Nazarg sputtered, holding his hand over his mouth as his stomach writhed and burned in disgust. At least arsenic had some mercy in its tastelessness. This putrid drink was as thick and greasy as pus and he panted, dragging his tongue across the roof of his mouth to try and get the horrible taste out. Kili held on to him, whispering in his ear. They were low words that Nazarg couldn’t really hear, but the tone was soothing and he felt his limbs grow weak and heavy.

“I hope I got you the right amount.” Kili whispered. Too much and he was dead. Not enough and he could wake up too early, be caught and everything would all fall apart. He had just guessed. Everything was a guess. A calculated guess – but a guess all the same. Nazarg’s head slumped against his shoulder, his breathing already growing slow and laboured. It was _fast._ “I guessed – but if it’s not, a-and this doesn’t work,” but it would it _would_ Kili was so sure of it “I have to thank you again. You saved me twice now, Nazarg. I would be lost or dead without you. You gave me the strength to win and I _promise_ I will repay you. I’ll set you free.”

“Just get yourself out of here.” Nazarg mumbled into Kili’s neck. Stupid, _stupid_ Kili. He wanted to hug him and hit him all at once, but his arms were already numb and hard to move. The agony started to swell in his stomach, burning like a hot coal, and he forced down the grunts of pain. He remembered now all those stupid things he’d said to Kili, about being strong and protecting himself, about not falling into darkness, about remembering who he really was. What a load of bullshit. It was so false and meaningless now. But somehow, _somehow_ , Kili had held on to what Nazarg had said, even as his fragile attempt to rebuild his life all fell away, even as he was forced to be alone again, even as he braved the same monsters that pulled Nazarg to pieces and used every ounce of his wits and strength to save him. His mind was growing dark, and it hurt to think. He just wanted to sleep, sleep, until the pain went away. Oh, he was so tired. Months and months of fighting had broken his body down, wearing him away like a file on a weakened blade until there was nothing left, only a paper-thin shard that would break with a single touch.

“I will.” There was the barest trace of a smile on his lips. The breath strained in the orc’s lungs, and his body was limp and lifeless. Kili held on until Nazarg stopped breathing, and when he pressed his fingers against the bones in his neck, he felt the weak pulse slow and soften until it faded away. “Please, wake up at the other end _narishkû_.”  

* * *

Fili couldn’t breathe. Dwalin marched into the room and in a heartbeat both hands were at his back. The room pitched and swayed, he heard Ori crying out in complaint as Gloin manhandled him onto his knees and his vision blurred but he could still see Thorin’s stone-blue eyes fixed on him in a frozen face.

“Search them.”

Fili gritted his teeth as his knees hit the floor, arms tied behind him. Dwalin unfastened the cloak at his neck and threw it away, eyes lowered. His broad hands went to the belt at Fili’s waist and he cast the heavy swords to the ground, hands searching. Fili closed his eyes as Dwalin fished around inside his clothes, pulling out his secret knives which to Fili were a natural extension to his limbs, so comfortable and familiar that he never even felt them. He wanted to scream at Dwalin, to break the ropes at his hands and lash out. He could do it if he wanted to, but Fili remained kneeling on the rock as Dwalin pulled his clothes apart, those marked warrior’s hands trembling as a fingertip brushed the paper inside Fili’s shirt. Their eyes met then, dark and bright. His lips moved in a brief whisper, but Fili couldn’t hear it. He shot back his own retort, under his breath.

“Traitor.” Dwalin’s hands froze for a moment and he looked away. His hand abandoned the drawing, leaving the secret over Fili’s heart, and he instead reached inside the deep pockets of his tunic. _Oh no._ Fili let out a tiny, strangled cry, one that wasn’t missed, and as Dwalin closed his hand around a large stone wrapped in rags, his face shot up. _No._ Fili mouthed, eyes wild and desperate. Dwalin pulled out his closed fist and stood up.

“Thorin.” He held out the stone. Fili bowed his head with a low moan as the panic exploded inside his chest. That was the death-knell. Thorin would _never_ forgive Fili when he realised that he had been hiding the Arkenstone from him. He would carry that pain and betrayal for a hundred years and never whisper a word of forgiveness.  

The sound of his footsteps echoed across the chillingly empty room. Ori was silent and wide-eyed, muffling his shaking breath with a bitten lip as Gloin stood behind him, hands clamped firmly on his shoulders. Thorin stopped two feet before his closest friend, reaching towards the wrapped gem with his dead, flat eyes finally widening, showing life. He clasped his hand, felt the weight of the stone he had never held with his own hand before, and peeled away the ragged cloth. The Arkenstone dazzled with its own iridescent light, taking the breath from Thorin’s lungs. His pale skin looked washed and grey in the gleam, even his eyes in comparison were dull. He stood in dumb shock with his eyes locked on the jewel, lip quivering uncontrollably. It slipped through his fingers and fell on the floor. The others watched it bounce and turn, skittering away from Thorin. But the king had no interest in watching the beams of light dance about. He threw himself on the floor before Fili, his hands on the front of his clothes.

“ _How could you!”_ Something had broken inside him, with the sight of the stone. The knife of betrayal that was already lodged in so tightly turned and dug in deeper, gouging out his heart and Thorin lost himself in his rage and grief. Fili’s face was twisted, shying away from Thorin in anticipation of a painful blow. Thorin shook him, a gasp breaking from his throat. _“How could you do this to me!”_

Fili couldn’t speak. He didn’t know what he could even say. His eyes burned and he could feel the tightness growing in his throat, the horror and panic of everything falling away and the cold, cold realisation that he was going to suffer for this. Thorin shook him harder, trying to wring a response from his nephew. _“Answer me!”_ But Fili remained silent, staring at the ground with a half-open mouth, shoulders trembling. “This was for you, Fili! All of this, it was for _you!”_ Thorin’s voice cracked. “I retook this mountain for _you_ and _you betrayed me!”_ Fili shut his eyes tight, teeth gritted. “I was ready to die for you! I have _always_ looked out for you – you are the most important thing in the world to me and you treat me like this?!” He grabbed a handful of blonde curls, forcing Fili to open his eys. “ _Look at me when I am speaking to you!”_

Fili obeyed. The dark blue stare _burned_ with a new inner fire, one that made Thorin let go and draw back in shock. He opened his mouth with a snarl and spat his retaliation. “You _liar.”_ His voice was low, much lower than Thorin’s screaming, but everybody heard him in the stone chamber. “This isn’t about me. This is about _you,_ about your pride and honour.” The flames swelled with every word, licking at his insides. “You don’t care about our people. You only care about being king of Durin’s Folk and sitting on that throne. You don’t give a _damn_ for your subjects! It’s all about the gold and power and that _stupid_ stone to you!” Thorin remained on his knees, stunned. “It was never about family to you, was it uncle? If you gave a damn about us _you never would have left Kili to die!”_

Thorin drew back, the hurt deepening in his heart, agony with a jagged edge of horror. Dwalin still held on to Fili tight, averting his face from the cold, ugly scene. Thorin stared at his nephew, his treacherous, scheming nephew who tried to _overthrow_ him and the horror doubled inside. He reached out to Fili’s neck, his broad hand shaking as fingers dug inside the collar of his shirt. His grip stilled on the thin leather cord, throat burning from the effort of holding back the animal sounds of his betrayal. When he finally summoned the words from his throat, his voice was low and broken.

“You don’t deserve this.” A mewling, broken whine came from Fili’s throat. Thorin jerked his hand back quickly and the cord bearing Fili’s pendant broke and came away. It was a miracle the dwarf was able to speak at all. “You devious traitor,” Thorin’s voice started to rise, “you defied my rule and challenged my authority, again and again. You questioned every decision I made and arrogantly assumed that in your idealistic naivety, you knew better!” Fili stared at the mithril device, shaking his head. Thorin slowly stood up, towering over the kneeling blonde. “You would bring us to humiliation and ruin with your cowardice!”

“Uncle,” he whispered, breaking. “Listen to me, please—”

“ _Never_ call me your uncle again.” Thorin spat on the stone at Fili’s knees. “I have no sister-sons.” He threw the pendant as hard as he could. It bounced against the opposite wall and fell into the shadows. “I will never forgive this treachery Fili. I swear upon my grandfather’s soul you will _never_ be absolved for your treason!” Fili’s eyes were growing wet in his horror. “Everything – I did _everything_ to save you from your father’s people and this is how you repay me?” He turned away, unable to look at Fili for another moment. “Bring them.” He spat. “Bring them to the main Hall and gather the rest of the company. I will get to the bottom of this twisted plot.”

Ori staggered as Gloin forced him to his feet. The ground was rolling beneath him and it was hard to walk. His arms were tied too tightly, his shoulders were straining and already his fingers throbbed and purpled in the bonds. Gloin was rough with him, forcing the dwarf along the narrow passageway mercilessly and pushing him when he stumbled. It was difficult for anything to move, horror making his limbs numb and dead. Ori stole a glance at Fili’s figure in front of him. Dwalin held his elbow, trying to be tender with his prince. He leaned down and murmured in his ear but Fili shrank away from him. Ori was so _cold._ Fili would face some mercy; Thorin wouldn’t kill his nephew, no matter how much he claimed to hate him, but there was nothing that could save Ori. He could only kneel in silence and listen helplessly, and hope that his paranoid, maddened, cruel king could find an ounce of pity in his black-stone heart.

“Get down.” When they reached the main Hall, Gloin shoved Ori back onto his knees, spitting the words out with a locked hatred. The four stood on the edge of a dais, facing outwards and waiting for the rest of the company to meet them. Ori kept his shaking mouth closed, stealing a sidelong glance at Fili. Dwalin had left and it was Thorin who stood behind him, close but refusing to touch him. His face sank into a pale, waxy whiteness and his eyes looked deep and dark. Fili sensed Ori’s eyes on him and his head turned half a degree. Their eyes met, and the breath heaving visibly in his chest as panic took his body captive. Ori could only stare for a few more moments before the weight of Fili’s stare crushed him, and he looked down at his knees, trying to fight the sting in his nose and eyes.

Fili’s head jerked to attention at the sound of footsteps entering the Hall. The row of vague silhouettes drew closer and took shape as they approached the light. Fili tried to look for Bilbo and Nori. The thief held his composure, but as the rest of the company approached the kneeling traitors, spreading out in an obedient line, Fili could see the minute signs of terror creeping into the edges of his body. Bilbo had both hands over his mouth, eyes very, very wide.

“Tonight, I witnessed something I never, ever thought I would see.” Thorin’s voice wasn’t low and shaking now. It rang through the Hall, strong and clear. Fili wondered what his face looked like. “My nephew attempted a direct attack on me to take my throne. He has concealed the Arkenstone this entire time in an attempt to _hurt_ me.” _No_ , that wasn't it at all. Thorin had got it all wrong, horribly wrong and Fili couldn't block the rushing in his ears. There was a collective gasp, a shocked murmur running through the group. Nori’s face had gone grey, and Dori was shaking his head, whispering unintelligible words to himself. “There was a _plot_ in this Mountain and I unravel it.” Fili heard the ragged gasp of Thorin taking a breath. “Dwalin has informed me that there were two others involved and I know who you are. Step forward and confess and I will _consider_ mercy.” There was a shift at his right; Ori had lifted his head and he stared at his brother.

The silence stretched into seconds. Fili and Ori remained kneeling, Dwalin standing at Thorin’s right with a heavy scowl on his face. His eyes were locked directly on Nori and he cracked his knuckles slowly. That seemed to be the tipping point. Nori stepped forward with his head held high, eyes fixed straight on Thorin. The king’s growl was audible. “I should have always suspected the thief to be a traitor.” Ori made a little uncontrolled whimper in his throat and Nori’s face flickered in a momentary expression of pain before twisting into a deep snarl.

“Fuck you.” Fili’s throat closed. “You cruel, arrogant bastard, _fuck you_ Thorin!” Nori’s cursing brought the tension in the room to a new strained peak. Dwalin was already making his way towards him. He landed a stunning blow to Nori’s stomach, leaving him to choke through his snarl, and grabbed his arm as Nori pitched forward. Dwalin dragged the stumbling figure towards Thorin, leaving him to sprawl out before his king’s feel. Nori swayed, hands on his knees before standing up straight with one hand on his stomach. He shrank in obvious pain, but refused to let an ounce of it cross his face. He was fearless and unrepentant.

“I should have done my people a service and banish your whore mother when I had the chance.” Ori couldn’t look at either of his brothers, or at Fili. He stared at the ground, his gasps of air missed by nobody. Nori’s hands were balled into fists. “I should have known her bastard whelps would bring nothing but depravity and corruption on our heads.” Thorin’s voice was growing raw and jagged. “A base thief – and a _disgusting,_ twisted—”

“You!” Nori lunged at Thorin and Dwalin grabbed him by the shoulders, trying to restrain him, but the dwarf twisted, slippery as an eel. “You egotistical, greedy, nasty piece of _shit!_ ” The insults flew viciously from his mouth. “Come down here and say that to me – _no one_ disrespects us and lives to tell the tale! I’ll fucking make you _sorry!_ ”

“Stop it!” Bilbo burst forward, eyes very bright. “Nori, Thorin, _stop!_ ” He was so small on the ground, with Thorin looking down on him from the dais. His face tightened at the sight of Bilbo, eyes burning with inexpressible pain. “I am so sorry.” He steeled himself. “I didn’t want to do this.” Nori fell still and he watched as Bilbo walked slowly towards them. “But Fili was _right_ in wanting to stop this fighting. He just wanted to find a way to make peace and all you’re doing is driving us to war.” His thin, pleading tried to drive down into Thorin’s heart, but his heart was as hard and cold as stone and nobody was going to get in. “Don’t punish him for this. He didn’t want to hurt you, he just wanted to help.”

“Help?” Thorin shouted, turning his blazing eyes towards the hobbit. “What he did was _treason_ and you helped him with it!” Bilbo stopped short. “You know nothing of politics and power Bilbo. You had no right to involve yourself in the matters of dwarves. Fili would have brought a humiliation upon this mountain which would take generations to forget, because he is a child and a coward.” Thorin had worked himself into that cold, deadly rage, where he refused to see any reason or sense, blind and deaf to everybody around him. His heart was already souring against Fili and Bilbo, the sting of betrayal bringing him to an irretrievable anger. There was no more shouting, no more cries of betrayal and treason. Thorin had been bled dry and now he stood before them all, a hollowed-out shell with nothing left to beat inside of him. It would be a lie to claim that he hated Fili – but at this moment, with the cold and numbness seeping through his body, he felt nothing for him. Thorin looked at him now, on his knees with his head held up high. He remained proud and dignified, even now. He was refusing any acts of penitence or guilt. He was stubborn and sure, right to the very end. Thorin swallowed and parted his drying lips with a soft breath of air.

“There is only one punishment fit for a crime so vile, so contemptible, as what you have done tonight.” He walked the short distance to the blonde, the hollow sound of his boots thudding against the stone. Fili’s head remained level. In the corner of his eye, he could see Ori shaking from head to foot. “You will _never_ walk among dwarves again.” With his arms clamped around Nori’s arms, keeping him subdued, Dwalin whirled around with horror set in his face. With the wild burning in his eyes, Thorin reached for the short knife at his waist. This wasn’t the blade he had used against Fili’s father, seventy-eight years before. That knife was somewhere in Mirkwood, lost forever and Thorin felt the sharp loss of it. This belonged to his father, if the marks along the polished blade were anything to go by. The hilt was inlaid with gold and set with glittering rubies, but Thorin didn’t remember it. That was good. He could throw it away after the night was over and he would never miss it. He grabbed a handful of blonde curls, forcing Fili’s head up as he gripped the knife in his hand. The dark blue eyes were rimmed with red.

“Thorin.” Dwalin’s sharp voice made him still, the knife just a few inches from Fili’s scalp. He tried to be calm and clear, but the fear written across his face showed a soul pushed almost to breaking point. “Don’t.”

“It’s what he deserves—”

“She will _never_ forgive you.” He let go of Nori now, with every ounce of propriety gone. Dwalin stepped on to the dais, a broad hand closing around Thorin’s wrist. “She’s already lost one son. Don’t take away what she has left.” Thorin’s eyes were fixed on Dwalin’s grip, his head slightly bent. Through it all, the sense of Dwalin’s words seeped through the fog over his brain. Dís would never, ever forgive him for this. No doubt she hated him already. She would have torn up his pathetic excuses for Kili’s loss and tossed them to the wind. Thorin knew his sister, and already she would be cursing his name through her tears. It would be a death-wound, to take Fili from her too.

“Am I to lock him up until the end of my days? Wait for him to rally enough people to his cause?” Thorin’s voice rose, as though he was drying to drown Dwalin’s words out. Even the mention of Dís couldn’t smother that roaring fire inside of him. “I either kill him or make sure his very name vanishes from this world without a trace.” Bilbo made a low groan of horror in the base of his throat, Thorin unmoving and deaf to the sound. “He _knew_ the consequences when he did this. He knew what would happen if he failed.”

“You don’t have to end his life.” Dwalin knew how dangerous it was, to play with Thorin like this. He saw the rage in his eyes, cruel and unforgiving, rage he knew Thorin had every right to feel. Whatever Fili meant to do, he was still responsible for this and he saw him now, in the corner of his eye, shaking and holding back tears, but keeping his head up all the same. “Exile him. Send him somewhere he can never come back.”

Fili’s gasp broke the cool moment of silence in the stiff room. His head and shoulders whirled around to see Thorin, that attempt at calm, resolved defeat cracking and falling away. He knew in an instant what Dwalin meant. Thorin stared back with his cold, unforgiving eyes, his hand still gripped around the knife. He considered Dwalin’s words inwardly, the quiet on his face matched with a twisting, red-eyed terror. “You wanted to stop the war, Fili.”

“No!” Fili’s hands strained against the ropes as the panic rushed in his voice. “Thorin _don’t do this to me!”_ His resolve had crumbled with Thorin’s threat, a fear that he had nursed in his heart for over sixty years breaking through and leaving a wreck. “Don’t send me back _please!”_

“I will show mercy.” Thorin’s nose creased. “As much of it as you deserve.” Fili begged silently, shaking his head. “You will _never_ walk in these Halls again. Every claim you have to Erebor, to the line of Durin, to the wealth of our people, is revoked. You are never to use your mother’s name in conjunction with your own. You are no longer my sister-son. You are not a Longbeard.” He swallowed. “You are an Ironfist and _nothing else_. And if they want you to be their king, they can have you.” Fili shoulders sank, and for the first time since he was first forced on his knees before his unce, his head was bent. Thorin turned his gleaming eyes to Nori and Ori, and his lip curled in utter disgust. He thrust the knife in his belt and grabbed Ori by the arm, snarling as though the very touch contaminated his skin.

“Take these two and in the morning, I’ll finish them properly.” He pushed Ori hard, the dwarf landing heavily on his side and trying breathlessly to right himself. Fili’s bent head shook slowly from side to side. “No one will _ever_ utter their names again.” There was a single, strangled cry from the gathered company; Dori wavered on his sturdy legs, his greying face hidden in his shaking, interwoven fingers. “And _you,_ ” Thorin rounded on Bilbo. “You are no longer a friend of dwarves. You are a thief and a liar and I have nothing but regret for any companionship we had.” Bilbo listened to him wordlessly. “Go back to your hole in the west and never again speak to my people.” His judgement passed, Thorin paused, his hollow eyes staring at the collected group of his subjects.

“Gloin, Bifur, lock this filth up until the dawn.” He kicked Ori in the side, the young dwarf bearing the blow silently. Nori growled, but before he could move to defend his brother, Bifur had his arms pinned at his side. “Dwalin and Balin, take Fili and Bilbo to the Front Gate and get rid of them.” Dwalin got one arm under Fili and tried to help him up, but Fili pulled himself away and stood up himself, a little unsteadily, shooting him the coldest look he could muster through his grief and terror. Fili stood frozen, staring as Gloin shoved Ori along by the scruff of his neck. Their eyes only met for a moment, Ori _pleading_ with him reaching out for some kind of help or forgiveness. But Fili couldn’t help the poor dwarf, not anymore. Thorin was going to the worst thing he possibly could, Ori would be branded and shaven and no dwarf could ever speak his name again, and there was nothing Fili could do. Even Ironfists respected the old laws, he was just as helpless outside the mountain as he was inside of it. Oh the _Ironfists._ Fili’s cramped stomach doubled in its fear. _Anything but that._

“And you’re just going to stand there.” Nori spat at his older brother as Bifur silently pulled at his pinned arms. “You limp-wristed _coward_ , you’re just going to let Ori disappear?” Dori still had both hands over his mouth, Bofur trying surreptitiously to hold him up. There was no trace of a smile on the miner’s face, his sad eyes down at the floor refusing to look at anyone.

“So ends the line of Thror.” Thorin whispered, his voice crippled and so low that nobody else could hear it.


	82. Loyalties

It was a long walk to the Front Gate. Fili stumbled along in a daze, with a low, constant buzzing in his ears, leaving his head throbbing. Over and over and over Thorin’s words repeated in his mind, paired with that snarl of disgust and the dead, cold look in his eyes. There was nothing left inside of him but hatred and contempt towards his nephew, and Fili knew that he deserved it for what he had done. The bond between the two had been beaten and battered over the autumn months, the cracks forming when Fili had lashed out in his unbearable anger and hit his uncle, vanishing into the trees of Mirkwood.

Everything that had happened since, rushed around in his mind, a low, blurry haze. Thranduil’s Hall, Lake-Town, _Kili_ , all of it seemed to be building up to this. Thorin had been growing weaker and weaker; the closer they drew to the mountain, the sharper those attacks against his body and soul grew, and the stronger and wiser Fili seemed to become. Losing Kili had torn the veil from his eyes, and he realised just then how Thorin’s unyielding, rigid way of looking at the world could destroy them all.

Fili wasn’t sorry it came to this. He wasn’t sorry that he failed. It wasn’t even a failing, it was a _betrayal_ at the hands of someone he thought he could trust. It was a mockery of the love and trust he thought had been as strong and sure as a mountain-ridge for eighty years. Dwalin’s hand wrapped tightly around his right elbow, and the dwarf made no sound at first as they walked together down the long hallway, for what Fili knew would be the last time.

“I had no choice.” Dwalin hissed the words as soon as he knew that the four of them would be alone. Balin’s hold on the hobbit was just for show, and Bilbo made no signs of any escape. Balin didn’t take the sword; it wasn’t his to take. Bilbo looked numb. Fili stared straight ahead, pretending he couldn’t hear that rough voice at his ear. “Fili, he _knew_ you were planning something. He knows you so well, he could tell there was something wrong, and when he questioned me - _Mahal_ , I knew I had no choice. All I could do was barter for mercy, for all of us—”

“Save your own skin, you mean.” Fili spat coldly. “Don’t feed me lies Dwalin, I’m not a child. Thorin never would have shown mercy, whether you asked for it or not.”

“He _did.”_ The grip tightened. “Fili - you are going to _live_ , as a dwarf, Longbeard or not. You still have your life in the face of treason.” He didn’t say anything about Nori and Ori.

Fili closed his eyes for a brief moment, in an attempt to ward off the sting. “I would rather be dead.”

The rest of the walk was silent. There was no great ceremony to farewell Thror’s youngest heir. Fili’s banishment was brutally short. Dwalin jerked his head out to the direction of the stars with his head bent. Stripped of his cloak and weapons, Fili climbed down the stone gate slowly in his light tunic, struggling a little for a hold. He fell eight feet from the ground and landed heavily, gasping in pain. Bilbo managed to make his way down on his own terms, and he stood facing the wall with his hands balled into tight fists.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Bilbo’s quiet voice came almost immediately. On his hands and knees, Fili stared up at the smooth stone wall, his heart beating in his throat. “It’s not your fault you tried to do the right thing.” He paced slowly, head down and hands clasped together. “We should go.” He whispered after a time. “There’s no point in hanging about here.”

Fili stood up, silent as the panic started to take hold. Where were they even going to _go?_ Was he to approach Thranduil? Wait in the valley with no food and shelter, for the Ironfists to come and take him away? Or run away, just take off in the night and try to—

 _Kili._ His stomach curled at the chance and he did his best to ignore the temptation. The future stood out before him, a yawning chasm with no bottom and Fili couldn’t turn away from it. What in Mahal’s name was he going to _do?_

“Where will we go?” Fili breathed. Bilbo already had his back to the gate, walking slowly. “What will we do?”

“First, we get out of here.” Bilbo sucked on one of his molars in thought, twisting up his mouth. “We’ll worry about all of that in the morning.”

“And Ori and Nori.” Fili gasped. “We _can’t_ leave them to be wiped away. _I_ did this to them, I need to save them,” but Bilbo grabbed him by the wrist, pulling him back from the faceless stone. “I need to save them!” His voice rose into the moonlight air, breaking in the chill wind.

Bilbo shook his head, looking very, very sad. “You can’t.”

He waited until they had walked down the valley and out of sight, hidden in one of the thick ridges. It was at the top of a low ledge, thirty feet high with a cluster of jagged rocks at the bottom. Fili and Bilbo sat side by side, their backs to the stone and feet stretched out, one pair bare, one in worn boots. Bilbo whispered carefully in Fili’s ear, a hand on his elbow. He explained that he was going to creep back with his ring, slip through unseen and break the two brothers out. With Fili and Bilbo gone and Nori and Ori locked up and needing their own security, there would only be one guard at the Gate, numbers were stretched paper-thin. He got very, very good at sneaking around after the days in Thranduil’s Hall, and that was crawling with sharp-eared elves. He was brisk and confident, and when he squeezed Fili’s arm and said that he would be back before the dawn, those dark blue eyes lifted, just a little.

Bilbo slipped on his ring well in advance, walking carefully with his eyes down at his feet, wary of loose rocks. When it came to the wall, he stared for a long time, tracing a possible route with his eyes. The dwarves had done their best, but the Gate was built in haste and there was still the odd uneven placing of a rock, the natural jaggedness of the stone. He climbed in almost total silence, holding his breath and pausing to suck in soft lungfuls of air, as slowly as he could. It was agonizing, and by the time Bilbo’s fingers curled around the top edge, his lungs burned and his arms were weak and trembling. He heaved his chin over the stone, peering anxiously about for any sign, but it seemed at first abandoned.

That was when he heard it. Bilbo swung a leg over and paused, frowning with his head cocked at the rushed, heavy breathing. He slowly climbed over and peered through the darkness, making out the hunched figure in the light of a tiny lantern. Dwalin. Bilbo went very still, holding his breath. He sat with his back to the wall, face in shadow from Bilbo’s angle, turning over and over in his hands what looked like a brooch made of diamonds. His ragged gasps of air were all Bilbo could hear, standing with bowed shoulders, hidden in the darkness.

* * *

Of course there were cells. Gloin tested the door first, closing the bold and throwing his weight against it. The iron-braced door was firm and steady and satisfied that it would hold the young dwarf, he pushed Ori in the small of the back with his arms still tied, sending him sprawling face-down on the ground. Nori shouted and cursed at that, before his voice became distant and muffled, before fading entirely and Ori was left alone in the cell.

It was pitch black. With his shoulders straining, he managed to bring his tied arms around to his front. Ori tore at the ropes with his teeth, trying to loosen the binds. When his hands were finally free, he rubbed his throbbing palms together, trying to get some feeling back into his stiff fingers. He brought his knees in close and rested his forehead on them, feeling the pressure rise in his throat as the thick panic of what was happening to him began to set in.

He was going to be wiped away. Ori gritted his teeth and leaned his head back against the stone. Fili couldn’t protect him from this, not when he himself had suffered. Thorin had won. He won the battle for Dwalin’s loyalty. He won the mountain, the throne, the Arkenstone. There wasn’t a hint of regret in Ori’s soul for what he had done. He knew that he couldn’t live in the world Thorin wanted to build. He couldn’t do what Dori had done, spitting on his mother’s memory and building up this pointless life, where everything was all just an artifice. He couldn’t pretend to be something he wasn’t. He had tried, for seventy years, to life that sort of strained, precarious existence and he got nothing out of it.

Nori was right. Nori had _always_ been right, and Ori was just too ashamed and self-conscious to ever work up the courage to tell Dori right to his face. Now, he would never get the chance. Ori swallowed hard. _He_ wasn’t wrong. _They_ were all wrong, with their hatred and disgust for something that had nothing to do with them. Why did it ever matter that Ori liked dwarves instead of dams? His affections were only ever aimed in one direction, and they never went anywhere. He never hurt or ashamed anybody, except himself.

There was some relief in his departure. Ori knew he couldn’t stay here, wait for the mountain to fill up with people like Gloin and Thorin, who looked at Ori as though he was a monstrosity. He couldn’t resign himself to living a cold, loveless life. Even if he wouldn’t ever get Kili, he hoped, deep in his heart, that someday he could still have _somebody_ , but he knew that here that was nothing but a wretched dream, doomed to bring him to ruin. Ori pressed his cold fingers against his face, feeling his unmarked cheeks, his soft beard. But he didn’t want to leave like _this._ He didn’t want to go without leaving a shadow of a memory. He didn’t want to be marked. Fili wouldn’t be able to undo Ori’s shame and exile. There was no dwarf who would ever flout the rules of their people so openly and risk their own reputation and livelihood. Not for Ori.

Save _one._ Ori held his breath as the thought flooded his mind. _Kili would_. Kili wouldn’t care one bit, he ran away himself to avoid something like this happening to him. He said he would rather live with _orcs_ than under his uncle’s thumb. He had broken those chains that kept him bound so close and walked free. If Ori found Kili, marked or not, he would still stay by his side and swear to never leave him. It was a little fire burning in his chest, that refused to go out. Ori smiled to himself in the pitch-black darkness. If he could find Kili, then the rest of the world didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.

He let himself sink into those thoughts for a long time, and it wasn’t until he heard the soft _click_ of the door, the gentle creak, that Ori realised he had even fallen into a soft doze. He jerked awake and shook his head, getting quickly to his feet and balling his hand into fists, keeping his head held high.

“Ori.” It was his _brother_. Ori gasped at the arms that held him tight, holding on to the hem of Nori’s shirt as his knees grew weak. “It’s all right. We’re going to get out.”

“Be quiet.” Bilbo whispered from the doorway, his figure a vague shadow from a distant lantern. “I managed to sneak Nori out first and he got Gloin under control but someone else could come in at any moment.”

“Is he all right?” Ori drew back. Why did he care? After the way Gloin looked at him and muttered and snarled, Ori should have been glad to hear that he had been hurt in some way. But Ori never wanted anybody to be hurt. He didn’t have that malicious desire to see anyone suffer for mistreating him. Not even Thorin. Would he be in this position if he stood up for himself, just once? If Ori had fought back, would it have collapsed like this?

“Just a little knock on the head, he’ll be fine. I’m just thankful it wasn’t Bifur. I’d feel a right pig for knocking him out. Come on, we have to hurry.” Nori dragged at his arm. “We need to get out of here as fast as we can.”

His breath hurt him. Bilbo whispered that they would have to be _careful_ , he was the only one with a blade and there was still Dwalin to contend with. It was the weakness in his plan, and he admitted it readily. Sneaking about was all well and good for one invisible hobbit, but to bring Nori and Ori into it made things tricky. Nori growled that he deserved to be stuck like a pig after his treachery, and if Bilbo lent him his sword, he could just run him through and be done with it. It was Ori who suggested sneaking up to Dwalin and holding him up _just_ long enough to get away. It was the riskiest plan, but after a brief huddle in the darkness, the three of them realised it was the only way to avoid getting anybody hurt.

Nori and Ori waited, holding hands as they lurked behind a wide stone pillar. Nori moved his lips in something that looked like _sorry_ , and Ori squeezed hard, hoping his smile was visible in the dark. They could both smell the night air, the chill of the wind with a damp promise of rain. With their hearts beating in unison, they waited.

Bilbo unsheathed Sting before he put on his ring and started to creep through the darkness. Dwalin had calmed himself down and put the diamond trinket away. Now he just sat, quiet and pensive, staring out at the night sky with his hands still in his lap. Bilbo approached Dwalin in almost perfect silence, holding his breath for the last few moments. When he put the blade against Dwalin’s throat, he could feel that massive, bulky frame stiffen, a low growl sounding instinctively through clenched teeth.

“You’re not going to do anything stupid, are you.” Bilbo murmured softly. “You can’t see the blade, but I know you feel it.” He wondered if Dwalin could feel his hands shake, too. He should have given the ring and dagger to Nori, charged him with this hideous, slimy attack. Bilbo felt sick. He was only betraying a traitor, he tried to tell himself. Dwalin had done this to them all. He remembered breaking in on Dwalin’s intrusion listening to his ragged breathing and the guilt pulled at his stomach. But he couldn’t back out from this now.

“Bilbo.” Dwalin sat very, very still. “What are you going to do?”

“I’ve already done it.” Bilbo lifted his voice. “Will you two _hurry_?” Dwalin gasped as Nori and Ori jogged into the light, shaking his head lightly as a red indentation bit into his skin. “Get over the wall, _now._ ” Bilbo had one hand on Dwalin’s shoulder, trying to act threatening. He knew Dwalin could get out of this if he wanted to, he could overpower Bilbo even in his invisibility, wrestle the dagger free, hold him down and pull of his ring and lock Bilbo away. Thorin wouldn’t forgive this, and then he would have the _ring._ Bilbo’s spine prickled and he shivered, but when he saw the two brothers he knew it was worth the risk.

“How?” Dwalin’s voice sounded eerie in its smallness. Bilbo swallowed hard, his grip tightening on the knife.

“How do you think I broke you all out of Thranduil’s Halls?” He tried to fight the quaver in his voice. “I’m sorry to put you in this position.” Ori swung a leg over the wall, and with a fleeting glimpse at Bilbo, disappeared. Nori followed suit, quick and light as a cat. “But what other option do we have? They don’t deserve Thorin’s punishment Dwalin, you know that.” His voice hardened with the accusation he couldn’t dare to make. But Dwalin knew it was there.

“All I can do is apologise.” Dwalin said simply. “I’ve followed Thorin for nearly two hundred years, Bilbo. He’s not just my king. He’s my shield-brother. I would die for him in a heartbeat but I thought I was strong enough to abandon my loyalty and do the right thing.” He sighed, a long, heavy sigh that pressed the knife closer against his throat. “I couldn’t.”

Bilbo was silent for a long moment as the guilt rose. They weren’t fair and he knew it. Dwalin’s unwavering loyalty was set in stone long before Bilbo had ever met him, and not even the threat of death could break it. He saw Fili’s rage and understood it; the knife of betrayal cut him too, though not quite so deep. Bilbo gritted his teeth and tried to fight back a hot wave of homesickness, stronger than anything he had felt before, even in those quiet, lonely nights in Thranduil’s Hall, in the deep of Mirkwood, or in the throes of Thorin’s approaching paranoia and madness. Nothing hurt like it did now, holding a knife to the throat of someone he considered a friend. Even Bilbo, supposedly incorruptible in his alien distance to this war, to the gold-hoard and to Erebor, had been forced to raise his blade against someone he had only ever trusted and cared for.

“This has monsters of all of us.” Bilbo was exhausted. “Gold and honour and power – it’s brought us all to ruin.”

“Thorin and Fili most of all.” Dwalin didn’t fight or argue. “Protect him Bilbo. Do what I failed to do.”

Bilbo nodded his head, forgetting that Dwalin wouldn’t be able to see it. “I will.”

* * *

Kili awoke in the dawn with an arm around his waist. He froze for a moment, drawing his head off the pillow in a flash of concern, in a brief moment of panic, waking up in a strange house and for a terrifying heartbeat have no recollection of arriving there at all.

It all came back to him. The cave, the spiders, Nazarg and Ilzkhaal, the poison, holding his best friend while he died and leaving his body hanging carefully by the neck. There were other memories too, ones that made his stomach tighten to remember and he tried to push them all out. It was all right. Kili’s muscles softened, and his eyes drifted shut. He had _done_ _it._ Through some ridiculous miracle, everything had _worked_ perfectly and all he had to show for it were a few painful marks on his hand. No loose ends. Behind him, the orc sighed in his sleep, his breath hot and wet against the back of Kili’s neck.

Kili abruptly pushed himself up on one elbow, and Ilzkhaal’s arm shifted down to his hip. He bit down on his tongue, feeling his throat close. That wasn’t true. There was one loose end, one nasty hole he had fallen into and had no way of escaping. How did this even _happen?_ Kili hadn’t planned for this at all, it just... sort of _happened_ , not once but twice already. Twice now, Kili let it go too far, planning to stop, _wanting_ it to stop but just being unable to form the words. How was he supposed to look the orc in the eyes and say that everything had been nothing but a distraction, a mistake? How could he admit that there was no love, nothing like it, that all he wanted to do was _control_ Ilzkhaal and keep him on side and everything just fell apart?

That was a lie. Kili had wanted it – he _needed_ it, on some primal level. As soon as Ilzkhaal offered himself to Kili, he rushed and took it in his desperation and thoughtlessness. He didn’t close his eyes and think of somebody else – he fell, completely. He let himself drown and no amount of self-loathing or disgust could purge his soul.

His brain was searing. Not now – he was too tired for this, too worn-out for the heartbreak. Kili shook his head and pushed back the blankets, working by touch in the darkness. There was a rim of light under the door, thin as a piece of string. Kili blundered as quietly as possible, grabbing handfuls of soft leather strewn about on the foot of the bed and dressing as best as he could in the dark. Izlkhaal slept soundly, the occasional little snore punctuating the heavy rising and falling of his chest. Kili draped his coat over one arm, grabbed his boots and pushed carefully on the sagging door, wincing at the low creak. He slipped through the crack, hoping he could simply vanish from the tiny house, at least for now.

He froze in the half-closed doorway. It was a narrow little room, with no open fire. Instead a cast-iron stove, like something that Kili had seen in a forge but much smaller, rested in the corner with a kettle resting on the hob. The stove-door had been thrown open for warmth and it bathed the room in a soft, ember-red glow. He didn’t have much of a chance to see it last night, with no light and Ilzkhaal dragging on his shoulder, stumbling and giggling and saying they had to be quiet or they could wake up his mother. There was a sideboard covered in well-shaped figures of clay, narrow shelves at head-height groaning with jars and bottles, even thin handful of very ragged books on the table pushed against the wall near the stove. It was a warm, homely room, filled with the pieces of an honest life. The domesticity of it twisted a little in his stomach and he berated himself. What did he expect, an open fire in a cave with bones scattered about on the floor? He should have known now, more than _ever_ , that they weren’t animals, that they were just as human as he was – and in some special cases, even more.

Kili didn’t see her at first, too busy taking in the room. It was only the soft _click_ of a bone-handled knife against wood that made him notice the figure bent over the table, unmoving except for her hands slicing through a handful of pale, scrubby leaves. Ilzkhaal’s mother. He’d gone on and on about her the night before, said she was terrifying and strict, that he loved her to pieces but they drove each other insane on the best of days and he was always more than a little nervous to bring anybody home. Kili held his breath and froze for a moment, torn between fleeing back to the room and creeping out the door behind her back as quietly as he could. Before he could take a step in either direction, she lifted her head and turned, looking over her shoulder at him.

“Kili.” Her lip twitched. “Sneaking out?” She posed the question in Westron, a cautious wariness in the edges of her face.

“I-I should probably get back.” Caught, stumbling a little over his Black Speech Kili’s heart sank. Her eyes widened a little in surprise and the sharpness softened a degree. “I said I would be back in the morning and I don’t want to miss breakfast—”

“Oh, sit down.” Her rolling eyes were the soft grey of a pre-dawn sky, but Kili could see traces of Ilzkhaal in her nose, her high cheekbones and the small but sharp points of her ears. “May as well wait for that lump to drag himself out of bed and say goodbye proper. It’s easier to wake the dead than to get Ilz up in the morning.” She pushed at one of the backless chairs with her feet. “Unless you _have_ to leave?”

“Well...” Kili paused for a moment, his eyes flickering back to the door before sweeping the room one last time. He thought about the high ceilings, the seemingly _constant_ chill, the guards everywhere, Mautor staring in his direction with his colourless fish-eyes. “No, I can stay.” That did it for him. He set down his coat and boots, taking the chair and resting his hands on the table.

“Tea?” She didn’t wait for a response. Ilzkhaal’s mother wore her hair down in a sleepy shock of black tangles, gleaming as she stood up and moved towards the stove. “Your shirt’s inside out by the way.” Kili stared down. It was hanging open haphazardly, and he could see now that the seams were sticking out and the stitching of the cord was visible. Kili cleared his throat and righted the leather, tying up the front as best he could with the broken leather cord. _Idiot._ A shawl was draped over the her bony shoulders, brown and coal-black. His mother had one similar, Kili remembered, although hers was knitted with geometric squares around the edge. The thought of her made Kili’s throat closed, and he desperately tried to turn his mind towards something else. “I’m Harna, by the way. I’m guessing Ilz has already warned that his mother is some breed of _olog_ who tears apart every young thing he drags through the doorway.” Harna smirked at her own joke, setting down a squat mug of sharp, bitter tea. “Ignore him. He’s just whinging.”

“ _Narnûlubat_.” Kili murmured and took a sip. He almost choked at the taste but managed to keep it down. “It’s um, s-strong.” He closed his eyes and forced down another mouthful, swinging his bare feet six inches from the ground.

“It’s good for you.” She didn’t sit back down. Instead, she pushed the kettle back and took down the small pot hanging on the wall. She bent down to close the stove door with a folded rag, giving Kili a fleeting glance. “So you know Black Speech.” Harna lifted the cloth on a deep bowl, spooning a sticky, greyish mixture in the pot.

“Azog taught me.” Kili mumbled into the rim of his mug. “He doesn’t allow people to talk Westron in his army.” She added a little water to the sticky mess, stirring slowly and waiting for it to heat up. “He kept things strict, and didn’t tolerate anything that resembled... well, unorcishness.” Kili hunched his shoulders and stared down into the black tea. Things like laughter, weakness, expression of pain.

“Unorcishness.” She repeated the word with a smirk in her voice, and he wondered what she really meant. The two of them fell silent, Kili sipping occasionally at his tea,  Harna stirring the pot. She was right – Kili was exhausted from a sleepless night, his nerves stretched to breaking point and a deep, fresh wound in his heart, but as he felt the fiery liquid sink into his belly, he could feel a prickling in his brain, something quick and racing, and the blood seemed to push a little faster through his veins, as though he had just been sprinting. He could feel those pale grey eyes on him, sizing up the dwarf that Ilzkhaal had brought into his home and bed, staining their threshold with his foreign blood. He remained bent over and hunched, running over the last night in his mind and picking at the pinprick-holes he might have left behind.

He jumped as a thin cry sounded from the next room. From the stove, Harna sighed heavily and rolled her eyes. “ _Ishi_ if I stop stirring for a moment it’ll burn the pot – _Ilzkhaal I know you can hear that!”_ Her sharp voice cut through Kili’s head and he winced. She stamped her foot. “Get yourself _out of bed!”_ The wail grew louder, protesting. “That _damn_ boy.”

“I’ll go.” Kili pushed himself off the chair. “Just in the next room?” Harna grunted in assent and he backed away slowly, leaving the door open so light could spill into the bedroom. It was a tiny nook, just a little bigger than Ilzkhaal’s room, taken up by a bed, a chest, and a small wooden cot.

“Hello.” Kili whispered, reaching out in the dimness. The wailing faded into soft whimpers, and against the pale blanket he could make out the soft shape, as black an inkblot, a little lump of clay lying on his back and reaching out with short, stubby arms. “You must be the little _brogud._ ” He leaned in and took the infant under the armpits, lifting him carefully. He had held an infant dwarrow once or twice – whining, lumpy things that sank like rocks in his arms, but there was a lightness in the baby’s tiny body that made Kili start. As he stepped into the rectangle of light, Kili could finally make out the features of the first baby orc he had ever laid eyes on. His wet, black eyes were fixed on Kili, the little line of his mouth wavering and threatening to cry at the sight of this stranger. “No – it’s all right.” Kili crossed into the front room, with one hand on the back of the baby’s head. There was the softest little fuzz of jet-black hair, as short as moss. “I’m a friend. Look, there’s your mama.” Kili turned so the baby could make out her bent figure. From the stove, Harna made a noise in her throat.

“Grandmother.” She corrected him quietly. “Ilzkhaal tends to let that detail slip.” Kili froze, halfway to the chair with his eyes slowly growing wide.

“I thought...” Kili sank down in the chair, looking back at the closed doorway with those wide eyes. He didn’t know what he thought. Ilzkhaal was still just a boy, a thoughtless, naive boy. How could anybody like him be a father? The infant in his reaching curiosity had closed his tiny fist around the tooth around Kili’s neck, doing his best to shove the token into his mouth. He turned his attention back to the baby, placating himself with Kili’s necklace. So _tiny_ , so soft and small and defenseless. Kili had forgotten that Azog, Bolg, Mautor, all those commanders and generals who towered above him and ruled with that merciless brutality would have been just like this. It was easier to forget. Kili breathed in slowly and realised that his nose was blocked. “What’s his name?” He murmured, his hand hovering just behind the baby in case he fell back.

“Frûshkul.” Harna's clipped voice made Kili look up. She must have been able to sense his confusion. “ _She_ named him.” There was a low rumbling growl in her throat. “Hung around long enough for that, but not much else.” Frûshkul was pulling at Kili’s hair now, staring up with eyes round and dark as his father’s. He thrust a grimy handful of tangles in his mouth, quietly holding that soft, studious gaze. Kili stared back with a little smile that turned into a wince as Frûshkul tugged hard. There was no hint of mistrust. Harna was stiff with him, polite for her son’s sake but obviously keeping her guard up, but this baby didn’t even seem slightly perturbed to be held by a dwarf. All that mattered were Kili’s soft, soothing words, his smile.

“ _Ilzkhaal_ I am putting food on the table _now.”_ She put the pot right on the tabletop, finding three clay bowls and some dented spoons of tin. “That boy could sleep through the mountain falling down around our ears.” Harna sat down and began to dole out the breakfast.

The door finally creaked. Bouncing Frûshkul on his knee, Kili turned to see Ilzkhaal blearily wiping at his eyes. “Ma, what were you—” He saw Kili with the infant in his arms, Frûshkul too young to sit up without a little help, but looking as big as a staggering toddler in Kili’s lap. “Kili.” The bleariness melted into the warmest, most _genuine_ and carefree smile Kili had seen since his brother had sniggered to him about the elves in Rivendell. It stole the breath from his lungs. “I thought you left.” He was still in the afterglow. “So you’ve met Frûshkul.”

“I have.” He rested his little grey cheek against Kili’s chest, right over one of his scars. Ilzkhaal wordlessly reached his arms out for Frûshkul, who had his sticky fingers bound up tight in Kili’s dark hair. They untangled the baby and Ilzkhaal took a careful spoon of what Kili guessed was at one point cracked wheat, resting it in his mouth for a moment to try and suck out the heat. “Your son.” Ilzkhaal leaned back and shot his mother a filthy look.

“I was going to tell you.” He explained. “There’s just... moments. And – c’mon grizzle-guts I know you like _zausru_.” He coaxed the baby to sit still, trying to spoon the mess into his mouth. “There we go. Another one for me?” Ilzkhaal sighed. “I promise, he’s the best baby you’ll ever see, dead quiet, and not a bit fussy, are you?” Frûshkul reached for the spoon with fat little fists, gabbling. “He – was a mistake.” He lowered his voice in a vain effort to keep their conversation secret. “Too much drink and not enough sense. Ma still grumbles now and then, but she’s just glad to have a grandchild, even if he’s so early.”

“I can hear you.” Her sharp voice made Ilzkhaal straighten up and flush the colour of coal, eyes fixed determinedly on the tabletop. They ate breakfast slowly, Ilzkhaal alternating between eating and feeding the baby, trying small-talk with his mother’s sharp around and failing miserably. He was pained and self-conscious. He seemed restrained, bound to the floor just out of arm’s reach of Kili and though he thrashed and struggled, nothing could get him free. It was a welcome relief when Harna finally took the baby off his hands and with a wrinkled nose declared that he needed changing, and disappeared.

“ _Finally_ I thought she would never leave.” Ilzkhaal threw down his spoon and leaped out of his chair, pouncing. “I threw all the hints in the world but she’s as deaf as a post when she wants to be.” His hands were already on Kili’s face, palm pressed to the underside of Kili’s jaw and fingers against his temple. “It’s just _agony_ , having to sit and watch without—” His voice stopped when Kili jerked away, just as Ilzkhaal was leaning in close. “Kili?”

Kili kept his face turned away, eyes shut very tight as the orc’s breath carefully brushed his skin. Ilzkhaal’s hands tightened a little on reflex, trying to pull Kili’s face back towards him, forcing their eyes to meet. “Kili?” That edge of confusion and fear in his voice was a sharp, painful pulling, right in the pit of Kili’s gut and he parted his lips to speak, to blabber that all of this was one big awful mistake, he didn’t love Ilzkhaal, and the thought of them together, reliving those memories of the night before made the nerves swell and rise, edged with a softness in his stomach that made the self-disgust all the sharper because he _knew_ it was so, so very wrong to enjoy it.

The demanding _boom_ of the door made Ilzkhaal jump back in strained fright. His pinched face turned to the sound and Kili could see the tendons shift in his throat as he swallowed. “You should get that.” Kili breathed, and with every word, he could see Ilzkhaal’s bewilderment growing, souring. He stood up and cast a look over his shoulder before approaching the door, the heavy line of his brow somehow making his soft eyes look cold.

“Yes?” Ilzkhaal opened the door a crack against the intrusion, and with a gasp of surprise, it was flung open and Ilzkhaal was sent staggering back.

“Kili.” The dwarf was already on his feet hands around the knife that Harna had been using to slice those pale leaves. It was one of the guards, with the black leather and armour. “Time to go.”

“What’s going on?” Ilzkhaal righted himself, upset and indignant. Kili knew in an instant. His grip relaxed on the knife. They must have found Nazarg’s body. “We’re barely out of bed, what do you want?”

“Now.” The orc jerked his head out the doorway with a little snarl. “Hurry up.”

“I’m coming.” His lips barely moved. Kili pulled on his worn socks and thrust his feet into the leather boots, working the laces as quickly as he could. Ilzkhaal was standing in silence, his thin ribcage visibly rising and falling with every breath. Kili threw the coat on over his shoulders and crossed the room with his eyes averted.

“Kili—”

“I’m sorry.” He crumbled and looked for a moment, feeling his stomach contract at the confusion and pain. Perhaps it was best that he had to go, that with the guard staring at him with that sharp sneer, he didn’t have to do this right now. But to abandon Ilzkhaal like this tore at his chest. He knew, deep down, that he didn’t want to go at all. He wanted to stay with the stove and the baby and the house filled with soft clutter. “Tonight – I’ll come see you, I’ll do my best.” His hand was on the latch, one foot inside the tiny home, one out. Ilzkhaal’s mouth was trembling. “I have to go.”

“Kili!”

He closed the door.


	83. All That's Left

They walked beneath a grey sky, a rim of white on the eastern horizon as the final stars faded and died. There was no colour yet, just grey rocks and clothes and skin. Fili’s hair was the colour of marble, falling over his face in ratty tangles. A gust of cold wind rushed against them and the four hunched over and braced themselves for the chill. Ori had rushed up to Fili as soon as the three made it to the stone ledge, holding him tight and murmuring in alarm at the blonde’s frozen skin. He took off his own bulky scarf, and despite Fili’s protestations, wrapped it around his shoulders. Fili buried his nose in it now, breathing in the loose scent of musty paper and chamomile. It soothed him for a moment; only a moment, and then the cold reminder of what lay in stall for him came with another blast of frozen air.

The Ironfists. He tried to breathe through the panic. Only a scattered handful of memories of his father’s people cluttered his mind, all of them stained with blood. A cruel, heartless race of monsters, who killed for sport and earned their sick glory in violence and brutality. He would rather live among orcs. And yet, Fili was fated to be their king. It had been signed and sealed, when he was still a bare-faced dwarrow and every escape, every diversion and plan, had been exhausted and Fili was defenceless against them. He would be a prisoner, a king only in name. A placeholder, a puppet, used only to continue the bloodline. They wouldn’t let him near any real power, not at his age. Perhaps if they got their hands on Fili when he was still young, they could have turned him, but at eighty years old, the Ironfists would know there was no chance of scouring the Durin from their heir.

“Are you sure about this?” The four stood at the mouth of the valley, narrowing their eyes against the wind as the sun broke on the eastern horizon. Ori found Fili’s hand, squeezing tightly. Fili squeezed back, staring down at the cluster of tents down by the river.

“Either we run away like cowards, or we do our best to make this right.” Fili tried to sound strong, clear, confident. He tried to keep his voice from trembling. He didn’t embarrass himself or the others by asking if they were willing to go along with what Fili was going to do. They had already proven they would follow him to whatever end.

* * *

“About _time_ you showed up!” Mautor was pacing back and forth in the wide chamber, pouncing on Kili with his eyes flashing and teeth bared. “Do you even _know_ what happened while you were off bedding that damn boy?”

“I didn’t bed anyone—”

“If you’re going to lie to me, at least cover your tracks.” The orc spat. “I can see your neck Kili.” He clapped his hands over his throat on instinct, feeling his face grow hot. Did he leave marks? Kili pulled up his coat, fastening it self-consciously almost to his chin. Mautor turned to walk away in that brisk, stressed pace, obviously not giving a damn beyond snarling insult. “He’s _dead!”_

“Who?”

“Who do you _think?”_ Mautor stood in profile, staring at the wall. “That devious, murdering _cowardly_ scum Nazarg!” Kili forced a look of deep confusion on his face, growing into shock. “He hung himself on the torch-bracket in his cell.” The growl rose and broke in his throat. “Bolg will be here before nightfall and I let his father's killer slip through my fingers." He kicked at a chair in his fury. "How _dare_ he!”

He had prepared for this. Kili turned his face away for a moment, raking his fingers through his hair. “No!” His breath started heaving. “ _How?_ ” He rushed forward, grabbing the orc by his elbow. His hand barely closed around half of the thick bone. “H-He _barely_ suffered!” Kili tried to look into those whitish eyes, scanning them for any sign of doubt, any suspicion that Kili would have any involvement in this. But there was only a cold, cold fury wrought there, edged in a glimmer of fright.

“I’ll burn the body once I’ve shown the evidence to Bolg.” Kili masked the little rush of panic in his chest, sharpening the lines of his scowl. “ _Damn_ it all!”

“Don’t even bother with him.” He snarled back. Mautor paused. “There must be some pit, some hole somewhere where all the shit and filth in this town is cast away. He’s not worth anything more than that.” His teeth were bared. “He is _nothing_ , dead or alive he was always nothing.”

“He was revenge.” The pair stood, facing one another with eight feet between them. “Do you even _realise_ what this means? Bolg will be furious.” His voice was very low. “The one who murdered his father is dead and he will be _bursting_ for blood.” Mautor was staring at Kili now, with a little shake of his head. “You were the last person to see Azog alive. You’re the only survivor of his retinue.” Kili stared back with that hard, haughty expression that became almost natural to him. “Be very, very careful around Bolg, Kili. One step wrong and no one be able to save you.”

* * *

Thranduil was halfway through his breakfast when the soft voice in the doorway made him look up. “Your Majesty... I have some news.”

“Can it wait?”

“Not exactly.” The elf moved in slowly, and with a little frown on his face, Thranduil set down his fork. “Not half an hour ago, our camp was approached, by three dwarves and their halfling companion.” Startling blue eyes visibly widened. “One of the dwarves is Thorin Oakenshield’s nephew. We attempted to question their intentions but they all refused to talk. Fili is requesting your audience and no other.”

Thranduil carefully wiped at his face with a spotless napkin, hiding a momentary smirk. “Send him in.” He got through a little more of his meal while he waited, the hot venison sausage steaming and bread still soft and warm. His long legs stretched out beneath the spindly folding table, Thranduil waited.

Fili’s entrance was low and subdued. He walked into the tent with his eyes lowered, bowing his head in Thranduil’s direction before lifting his face. “Forgive me for the intrusion.” He stared at Thranduil’s near finished direction. His stomach growled loudly. How long had he been living on nothing but that awful _cram_ now? It felt like a lifetime since he had touched a side of meat. He would even eat his mother’s horrible tripe at this point. His chest contracted at the thought of her, and Fili shook his head, fixing his gaze on the lithe figure stretched out on the low stool. “I need to speak to your Majesty a-as soon as possible.” He licked his lips, and in the sleeves of his light tunic, his hands clenched into tight, nervous fists.

“Come to broker peace, have you?” Thranduil took a long sip from his goblet, one eyebrow slightly raised. “Thorin thought it better to send his nephew rather than take the risk?”

Fili breathed in. “No. I have no ties to my uncle anymore.” He thought he could see a muscle twitching in Thranduil’s face. Slowly he set down the bejewelled vessel, his eyes never leaving the dwarf. “I was cast out this morning, along with Mr. Baggins and two of my comrades.”

Thranduil drummed his fingers on the tablecloth. “Why?”

“Because I am a traitor.” Nori had instructed him in this, had told him just the right amount of truth he could give away to make his story seem honourable. He didn’t need to tell Thranduil how his exile came about, just that it happened in itself. “I haven’t shared Thorin’s views for a long time. Last night, I made my position clear and in response, he stripped me of my birthright and position and ordered me to leave.”

“You always were a naive fool.” His tone was disdainful, but Thranduil’s sharp blue eyes remained focused and calculating, fixed on Fili’s face, examining the flicker of every muscle, every breath of air in and out. “So now you have nowhere to do. Nobody to protect you.” His lip curled upwards. “So you come to me, in the hopes that I will offer you shelter.” The elf-king paused to let Fili defend himself, but he remained silent, head held high. “Is that what you want, Fili? Protection from your uncle’s rage? Or have you come to broker a different sort of deal?”

“All I ask is this.” Fili released his clenched hands from his thin tunic. “That you give my friends and I food and a space to sleep, until this war has ended. You give Mr Baggins provisions and guidance to return to the Shire in the West, and Nori and Ori to reach whatever new home they decide to make.” He didn’t expect either of them to follow him. Promises of allegiance couldn’t be expected to reach that far.

“And what of you?” Thranduil took the napkin on his lap and carefully folded it into a thin triangle. He pressed it on the table and ran his long fingers over the fresh new lines. “Why do you exclude yourself, Fili?”

Fili couldn’t hide from those gleaming eyes. “Because my fate is already sealed. You seem to know everything about me, Thranduil. You know my father’s name, which is more than most will ever admit.” Thranduil tilted his head a little to one side. “You may also know that King Vili of the Ironfists is heirless. But you don’t know is a deal was struck, long ago, that promised me to them when I came of age. A company of a hundred Ironfists dwarves approach Erebor in step with Dain Ironfoot. Without Thorin to speak up for me, I’m defenceless against them.” Thranduil was losing that languid, mildly amused expression on his face. He sat up straight now, with all pretentious of disinterest gone. Fili’s stomach and head were in pain, the horrible reality of his words catching up to him. Fili didn’t want to think about it, how much he stood to lose, how close he was to becoming their prisoner and puppet.

“So,” Thranduil narrowed his eyes. “You have then resigned yourself to your father’s people. They will not treat you kindly, Fili.”

“I remember them.” Fili swallowed, the sound audible in the tent. “They’ll marry me off to whatever young dam has the strongest relation to my grandfather, wait for me to bear a son, and poison me, or strangle me in my sleep, or accuse me of unforgivable crimes and have me executed. I know what they plan to do to me, Thranduil.”

“And you will simply accept it?”

“I have _nothing_ to fight with!” Caught up in a fit of passion, Fili took two steps towards the elf-king. “I have an army of three and nobody to call upon. After what I’ve done, why would anybody defend me?”

“What have you done?” Thranduil stood up slowly, challenging him. Fili stood very still. “Did you simply declare your animosity with Thorin, or did you do something more rash and thoughtless?”

“It wasn’t thoughtless.” Fili’s voice was low and ragged. “It was the only thing I could do that left me with a shred of self-respect.” He had to arch his neck upwards to stare at Thranduil, and the tendons in his shoulders were pulled, already aching from a long, tiring night. “I tried to overthrow him.” His muted confession drew a wide-eyed intake of breath from the elf-king. “If successful, I would have given you your share of the treasure and done everything I could to help the people of Lake-Town and stop this war. Thorin will never give you a single copper coin. He thinks it more honourable to die for a battle he has wrought, rather than sacrifice even the tiniest portion of his wealth and sovereignty to the first person who demands it.”

“And you do not.” There was a new tone in Thranduil’s voice and face, that sharp edged had softened, minutely, and now he stared with a different sort of gleam in his eye. “You would rather be seen as a traitor of your people who avoided war than an honourable prince who died for them.” Fili’s silence was all the assent he needed. “Many would simply think it cowardly of you. Dain Ironfoot, I am sure, would have had a significant issue with what you had done.”

“Dain is not like my uncle.” Fili responded quietly. “His honour and glory is all a hollow show. He’s a cunning, devious schemer who has had his eye on the throne since the fall of Erebor. He thinks I’m a filthy half-breed who doesn’t deserve to be Thror’s great-grandson. You cannot compare him with my uncle.” His voice slowly rose. “Thorin believes in his heart that he is doing the right thing. His only flaw is he remains two hundred years in the past.” Fili pushed his hair back, wishing he had re-braided his hair before approaching Thranduil. He was painfully aware of how dishevelled he looked. “I wanted Erebor to be a bastion of peace and prosperity, not a stronghold of war. I have never shown enmity towards you, Thranduil. I’ve only ever come to you for help, even when you betrayed my trust.” He wished he was just a little taller. “And I come to you again. Please, shelter me and my friends and help them find their way home.”

Thranduil stared at Fili for a few more moments, at his wide, pleading eyes, the honestly that lay there, openly, with no secrets. He had accepted his mistakes and rather than run away like a coward, he bravely accepted the consequences of what he had done. He turned away slowly, pacing back and forth in his rich red robe with his hands behind him in deep, deep thought. Fili watched him with his hands at his sides. What a change it was, from the stammering, nervous stranger who stood in his Hall and shouted and cursed once he realised he wasn’t going to get his way, who sulked in his cell and refused to eat even though he was plainly starving . Fili had aged twenty years in those long, long weeks.

“Let me see if I am correct in this. You face a likely imprisonment and probable death, you are exiled from your people and stripped of your name and birthright, and rather than attempt to save yourself, you come to me with open hands, knowing I am more likely to consider you an enemy than a friend, after I have clearly shown that I do not make any plainfaced bargains with those who threaten the peace of my lands.” Thranduil spoke as he paced back and forth, catching glimpses of Fili from the corner of his eye as he turned on his heel. He stopped when he had finished, his feet close together, staring straight into Fili’s face with that piercing blue stare. “Either you are a complete and utter idiot, or you are trying to manipulate me.”

“Neither.” Fili shook his head. “Thranduil, I’m just trying to do the right thing for my friends. I’m not going to run and hide. I’m trying to be honourable – Even if I am the only one for a hundred miles who knows what the word needs anymore.”

“Honourable.” Thranduil repeated the word with a little shake of the head. “That is what your uncle _insisted_ about himself when he stood before me last. Is your little coup honourable? Do you think your people will sing songs of reverence to Prince Fili, who tried to usurp his uncle and claim the wealth of Erebor for himself?”

“Don’t twist it all around.” Fili’s teeth were gritted. “You _know_ I don’t give a damn for the gold.” Thranduil knew he had touched a nerve. There was a deep, deep fear inside of Fili that Thranduil’s chilling taunt would eventuate, that he would be remembered with hatred and contempt, his noble intentions mutated into something dark and corrupted. He was so truly foolish. “I just wanted to stop this war from happening.” Thranduil believed him, he truly did. He knew Fili hadn’t even considered any other options, not when he was this self-conscious and fixated on somehow salvaging his own honour. He knew dwarves, probably better than most elves did, and he knew that Fili would never be remembered with joy or love, if what transpired the night before was his last political act. Thranduil looked at the dwarf again, and he could see that Fili knew deep in his heart, that he had stained his own name, a blackness that would never, ever be washed away. But whatever desires Fili had to maintain his own glory, they were clearly outweighed by his own moral conscience. He cared about reconciliation more than fame, and after the pompous greed of Thror, Thrain, and Thorin that was almost as astonishing to Thranduil as his rejection for long-lost gold and gems.

“You don’t care for gold. You don’t care for your reputation.” But he did, even if he would never admit it. He still wanted to be seen as worthy, in some desperate, childish need to please. Thranduil read Fili so easily. “What do you care for, Fili?”

“Peace.” Fili’s voice was fading. “Safety, security for my people. A home I can be proud to call my own. A kingdom I can one day be proud to rule.” He felt so small. He wasn’t on his knees, locked in a cell in the heart of Thranduil’s magnificent Hall, but he felt just as shrunken and defeated as he did then. Thranduil didn’t care for him – Fili was a passing interest, an oddity to be briefly toyed with and thrown away. “Just arrest us then.” It didn’t make any difference, in the end. “Better to be chained and fed than free and starving.”

“I’m not going to arrest you.” Thranduil sat back down in his chair, with his eyes flickering occasionally in deep, deep thought. “I’m going make an entirely different offer.”

Fili’s knuckles were white, gripping the worn cloth of his trousers. “Like what?”

“What you should have asked for, if you had an ounce of sense.” He lifted his goblet, and rested his lips on the rim, before taking a drink. “An alliance, between you and I. If you promise to sign a treaty of peace, and pledge a share of Erebor’s wealth, as compensation for the men of Lake-Town and a... small token of contrition, I will support your claim for the throne.”

Fili couldn’t speak. The blood was throbbing, hot and painful, stretching down to his fingers and toes and it was hard for him to hear over the rushing in his head. Thranduil smirked at him, a sharp glint in his eye. “You will have the elves of Mirkwood and the men of Lake-Town behind you Fili. More than enough to secure your place, exile or not.”

“You’re insane.” Fili whispered. His knees were weak and he pitched forward, gripping the edge of the table. _Negotiate with Thorin’s enemy to take the crown away from him._ His heart was ripping in his chest at the thought of it. “I’ll never betray him so deeply.”

“You said what mattered to you was peace, and security. Do you think Erebor will _ever_ be truly safe with Thorin at her helm? It’s not just about this one battle, there’s nothing that can stop this. He has proven incapable of leading without falling victim to the lure of his own treasure and power.” Fili’s head was bent. “His response of barricading himself inside his home and refusing to negotiate will lead to repeated disaster. Erebor needs a king who is strong, sure of heart and willing to put the safety of his own people before any personal sense of glory.”

“You’re not saying this.” He whispered, blonde curls flying as he shook his head. “You can’t be.”

“Dain will not risk civil war, he’s far too clever for that. The Ironfists will be powerless to exercise their claim on you. You can steer your people out of the shadows, and restore Erebor to her former greatness.” Thranduil stopped then. He knew it was dangerously easy to push Fili too far, to overexert his manipulation and turn this naive young prince against him. It was selfish as much as it was cruelly sensible, to put such a proposition forward. But was Thranduil _really_ wrong, for wanting only what was best for his own people?

“I’m not listening to this.” Fili tore himself away from the table and reeled back, his face pale. “Not another word – I would _die_ before betraying my uncle.”

“The one who is casting you aside? The one who left your brother at the mercy of the Lake-Town guards?” Fili drew in a very sharp breath, eyes wide. “He doesn’t deserve your loyalty.”

“Enough.” Fili went rigid, the muscles pulled tight on his face and accentuated his hollow eyes. “I’m not listening to any more of this.” Thranduil stood up, but before he could speak another word, Fili managed to regain the use of his legs, turning his back on the elf-king and running, running as fast as he could with his legs staggering and lungs burning from the frozen wind, with Thranduil’s final words echoing in his mind, again and again.

 _He doesn’t deserve your loyalty_.


	84. Who to Trust

“It is done.” Balin closed the door softly behind himself. Thorin sat on the mess of furs and blankets that he called his bed, barefoot and in his soft underclothes. He sat with his feet pushed together and hands around his ankles, knees angling out sharply with his head bent. He reminded Balin of those rare Eastern manuscripts that he used to have in his old life, the crude marginalia of exotic figures twisted in prayer. He knew Thorin wasn’t praying to any of the Creators tonight. There was nobody that could answer him, nobody that could ever absolve this. “I watched the raven leave just as the sky turned. He will reach Dain and Dís in the morning, by my reckoning.”

Thorin made no sound in response. Balin shrugged off his heavy cloak and sank to his knees with a low sigh. He stretched his hands out towards his king, resting gloved hands on Thorin’s naked wrists. “You should sleep.” He breathed. Thorin lifted his head at that. His eyes were shadowed in dust-grey, the whites red. “There is nothing more you can do.”

“How could he _lose_ them.” Thorin spat. Balin drew back at the venom in his voice. “Dwalin is the best warrior I have left and he let himself be tricked by a _hobbit.”_ His jaw shook. “How could he?”

“Bilbo’s ring has tricked all of us, at some point in time.” He tried to defend his brother. He didn’t blame Dwalin either way. He had been there when Thorin questioned him, his accusations rising with his voice until he was screaming and Dwalin cracked. He wasn’t a traitor, but he didn’t want anything bad to happen to anybody. He never made his softness towards Fili and Ori secret. Thorin snarled down at the floor, clearly thinking the same though. “Don’t blame Dwalin for this. Our hobbit has become a cunning burglar, Thorin, and he has us to thank for that.”

“I’ll skin him alive if I _ever_ see his sorry self again.” Balin’s face sagged, unnoticed. “I should have suspected further treachery, after what they attempted. I will _never_ forgive them. I will never forget. Those filthy sons of Glori will hang for this! I will hunt them down and I will _punish_ them like the common, traitorous dirt they have always been!” On instinct, Balin grabbed Thorin’s arms, just below the elbow, as though he were trying to hold on to a tree-limb in the billowing wind. “Every kingdom, every village and town from here to the Orocani Mountains, will know their names. They will _never_ be safe from me!” Thorin pressed his hands against his face, breathing wearing down, harsh and ragged. “Oh Mahal Balin, I’m undone.”

“No. _No_ you are not.” Balin hissed, locking his hands behind Thorin’s back, and demanding he look up. “You have Dwalin and I. You have Erebor. You are still young enough to hold on to the crown long enough to find a new heir.” Their foreheads touched. “Don’t give up hope, Thorin. Not yet.”

“Dís will never forgive me.” Thorin gasped. “I killed Frerin and now I’ve killed her sons.” He remembered his promise to her, that he would die for her boys and now here he stood, alone, with one long missing and the other cast out into the darkness, facing a cruel, painful fate. He had failed her and nothing could ever abate the guilt and terror in his heart. More than anything, he was afraid to face his sister in that rage and grief. He would rather face a thousand orcs than stand before Dís while she screamed his betrayal.

“They killed themselves.” Balin ran the pad of his thumb over the fine hair at the base of Thorin’s neck. “Kili could have saved himself Thorin, but he didn’t want to. He abandoned us. Fili is a traitor. There is no justification in what he has done.” He only partly believed his own words. In the back of his mind, the uncomfortable thought that had been buzzing away flashed in a sharp, painful moment. If Fili had come to Balin, what would he have done? Did he have the strength to forsake Fili for Thorin? Would his iron-clad loyalty remain unbroken underneath that blow? Balin tried to push it all aside. “Don’t think on it now. We will survive this, Thorin. Nobody, not Thranduil or Fili or Dain, will take away what is rightfully ours.”

But Thorin was shaking his head, overwhelmed with panic, as the weight of what Fili had done, of what _he_ did in response, had him pinned, crippled, unable to move. “I’m undone.” He repeated in a gabbling mantra, clinging to Balin like a terrified child as he suffered his cold, lonely breakdown. Even though their hands and faces touched, there was a chasm between them, too wide to jump or climb. In that chilling darkness, Balin’s platitudes were empty and meaningless, nothing more than condescending comforts reserved for children. Thorin knew he was breaking apart. Fili was the golden thread that held him together. No matter how much Thorin had ever lost, and regained, and lost again, Fili was a constant, his shining _hope_ that all of this suffering would come to an end, the guiding light for his people, his strength and will to go on.

Now Thorin was alone in the dark.

* * *

Fili stood hunched over in the low doorway of the tent, his chest heaving. He held his breath and surprise, making the cross-legged figures out in the gloom. Ori and Nori and Bilbo, and _Gandalf_. His mouth formed a little ‘o’ of surprise, his fair brows knitted closely together. _When did he get here?_

“Fili!” Ori looked up at the shadow, a smile on his face. “Look who’s—” He stopped at the expression on Fili’s face. “What happened?”

“I need to talk to you.” Fili gasped. “Just you.” Not Bilbo who didn’t understand this, not Nori who was practical and merciless. Just sensible, soft-spoken Ori, who saw everything and yet didn’t say a word. He put the wizard out of mind and turned back into the greyish morning. 

Shoving the last piece of biscuit in his mouth, Ori gave Gandalf an apologetic look before rising to his feet. He didn’t tell Fili that it was awfully rude to just look the wizard up and down, that they had told Gandalf everything and he just sat there with his brow furrowed, stroking his beard. Fili was walking away with short, staggering steps, his eyes on the stone as though he were taking careful note of where his feet landed, afraid of tripping.

“Tell me.” Ori caught up with him, gently taking his shoulder and wiping the crumbs from his lips. They were up against the wall of a sheer cliff-face, out of earshot. “What did Thranduil say? Will he help us?”

Fili laughed. It was a low, hollow laugh, completely like anything else Ori had heard from him before. It disturbed him. Fili shook his head and ran his fingers through his hair, snagging one of his braids and unravelling it. “Oh, he’ll help us.” Fili swallowed, looking from side to side. “He’ll help us all right.”

“Fili?”

“He said I could be king.” Fili hissed, eyes very dark. “He said if I fight with him, I can have the throne and he will stand up for me.” Ori’s hand clamped down tight on his shoulder in reflex. “He will help me destroy Thorin completely.”

Ori’s other hand came up to Fili’s arm. “Will you do it?”

“What?” Fili bared his teeth in a snarl. “Betray Thorin further? Have them all think that I’m nothing but a filthy usurper who couldn’t wait for his uncle to die? Lose whatever self-respect I have left in the name of power that I don’t even want?” Ori drew back at the venom in his voice. “I would rather be dead. I would rather be an Ironfist with honour than a traitorous son of Durin.” His hands closed around Ori’s wrist. “Why do they do this to me? Why do they think that all I want is the throne? Why can’t anybody trust me?” Ori’s stomach knotted at the pain in Fili’s voice. “He didn’t say he’ll throw me out if I deny him, but I saw the look in his eye. It’s not beyond him to be so cruel.” Fili sounded lost. “I just want to do what’s _right.”_ He tightened his sweaty grip. “Tell me what to do. You’re _so_ smart, you knew about Kili before anyone else. You see everything, Ori. Tell me what to do.”

Ori’s heart was breaking. “I don’t know.” He whispered. It could spell disaster for them both, either way. In his gut, he knew that Thranduil was too dangerous to be trusted, that he would have someone as young and naive as Fili entirely under his control. Somebody more cynical and experienced, somebody like Thorin or Balin, they could take Thranduil head on and win, but not Fili. But Mahal, they were so _helpless_ like this, outlaws and exiles, with their fates sealed. “I’m sorry Fili.” He whispered, stamping the last of Fili’s hope out. How could they escape the trap Thranduil had already set for them? “I just don’t know.”

* * *

“He’s here.”

Kili sat cross-legged on the floor of his room, chin propped up by one hand as he stared into the fire. Nardur lay stretched out on his side with his head in his master’s lap, his tail thumping on the floor as Kili scratched him absentmindedly behind the ears. “He’s asking for you.” There was a sharpness in the guard’s voice. _Hurry up._ A muscle tightened in Kili’s face at the unspoken command, and with one last stroke of the warg’s ears, he pushed Nardur away and rose to his feet. He threw on his coat wordlessly, walking under the orc’s outstretched arm without needing to bow his head.

“How’s his temper.” Kili buttoned up to the neck as they both walked, turning the wings of his collar self-consciously over his chin. He was going to _scream_ at Ilzkhaal for his carelessness. But why should the boy have exercised caution? When did Kili ever tell him it was supposed to be secret? His hand froze on the coat, with a little frown. There was something else at his neck he had to set free. Cursing under his breath, Kili pulled open the fastenings and turned the collar back. He pulled the cord of the tooth out from under his shirt, the token plain against the dark leather.

“Short. Mautor’s had a dressing-down; he’ll be licking his wounds and feeling resentful.” Kili bit on the inside of his cheek. “He’s blaming everybody he can. And – ugh, there was some sort of mixup and the traitor’s body had already been dumped. That pit is thirty feet deep and crawling with flesh-maggots and the odd wild warg and spider looking for a choice meal. No one will go near it. Bolg is saying Mautor’s not fit to run a dirt hovel.” But there was a small relief in that. Kili held back the sigh. At least there was no attempt to mutilate Nazarg’s body. There was still a chance. “Mautor hissed a mouthful of instructions in my ear for you. Don’t look him in the eye. Don’t speak unless you’re spoken to. Don’t turn your back on him at any time, and be _polite_.”

“I don’t need his advice.” Kili narrowed his eyes as the pair crossed a long, narrow hallway. “I can handle Bolg just fine.”

“Kili-” A huge hand gripped him, just above the elbow. Kili stopped. “I’ve seen him, he’s _insane._ One of his generals warned Mautor’s closest guards. He’s only interested in one thing, and that is watching people suffer. He’s got a nasty habit of sticking people just for the hell of it. He’ll be itching to sink his teeth into you.” There was a genuine concern in his voice. “Don’t try him.”

Kili pulled his arm free, and ignored the warning. He heard the sigh behind him, heavy and regretful, and tried to calm the stirring of nerves in his gut. He could handle Azog in the end. He had the orc-king _convinced_ of his loyalty, his merciless cruelty, he held that trust in the palm of his hand and he crushed it. Kili remembered the blood gashing from Azog’s neck, the wild shock and fury in his eyes that faded into lifelessness. It emboldened him. He straightened the slight curve in his back and lifted his face.

There was a smokiness to the room that Kili hadn’t seen here before. Bolg and his handful of generals had been accompanied to a squat hall filled with game-tables, benches groaning with food, girls walking about with bare arms and legs with vast jugs of wine, and a few drummers and stringers in one corner. Mautor was trying to entertain them. Kili walked in with all the presence he could, his eyes raking the room and in a few moments picking Bolg out, his white limbs gleaming against the varying shades of brownish-grey. He wasn’t gaming, or drinking, or laughing with his arm around a girl’s waist. He stared with his arms crossed behind him, into the fire, with his face turned away from the crowd. He stewed silently.

He lifted his head when Kili entered the room. Maybe it was the sudden hush of quiet. Maybe it was the fresh, almost-forgotten smell of dwarf. Bolg knew in an instant and turned away from the fire with a deep, heavy snarl. “ _You.”_ It made the music fall silent, the hairs stand up on the back of Kili’s neck. He swallowed, the movement of his Adam’s apple almost imperceptible beneath the scrubby hair on his throat. The crowd automatically made way for the newly-crowned king, Kili maintaining a quiet eye contact. Bolg was automatically more brutal and mutilated than Azog, with the metal plating holding his skull together, his left eye blind. The tooth was a little sharper, a little thicker at Bolg’s neck, but there was no doubt that it was a brother to his own. Kili played with the inside of his bottom lip between his teeth with a still, almost serene look on his face.

“This is the dwarf.” Bolg leaned down with a sneer, his hands on his knees as he faced Kili, their eyes level. “The simpering little worm my father kept as a pet.” He was unimpressed and dismissive, looking Kili up and down.

A muscle tightened in Kili’s jaw. “I wasn’t a pet.” The hushed silence was pulled to a sudden intensity and Bolg’s remaining eye flashed. His monstrous white hand reached out, the fingers curled like the striking fangs of an animal. The orc seized a thick handful of dark tangles, lifting Kili onto his toes by his hair. He didn’t back down. “Azog respected me. He cared. He—”

“You lying _filth.”_ Bolg pushed Kili to the ground with ease. He fell, winded, and before he had a chance to move, the orc had him pinned under his massive boot, his footprint almost entirely covering Kili’s bony chest. “My father despised dwarves more than any other race and he hated the line of Durin most of all.” He applied a little more pressure to Kili’s chest, getting a low grunt of pain in response. “He swore to rid the world of your foul kind.” Kili couldn’t breathe. “Don’t try and fool me. I could crush you like a bug and nobody would lift a finger.” Bolg’s voice lowered as he leaned in. “Oh, it’s been _so_ long since I feasted on dwarf-flesh.” He drew the sword from his waist slowly, lazily, watching the firelight catch on the notched blade.

Kili’s hands wrapped around Bolg’s ankle and dug in. With a little smirk of his mutilated lips, the orc-king lifted his foot, just slightly, to let him speak. “If Azog wanted me dead,” Kili tried to keep his face still, “he would have done it himself.” Bolg didn’t seem to be listening. He nudged the point of his wide sword against Kili’s chest, just above the tip of his boot. With his eyes narrowed, Bolg dragged the blade upwards, until it caught the leather cord at Kili’s neck. At the sight of Azog’s tooth, Bolg’s hand slackened on the sword and he stepped back. With a rough gasp, Kili scrambled to his feet, painfully aware of the eyes fixed on this brief, heavy exchange.

Bolg was staring, his chest heaving and a dark scowl fixed on his lips. Hatred oozed out of every pore, rolling off him like a stench. He’d heard the rumour of course, but refused to believe it for a moment. Now it stared at him, _mocked_ him from the dwarf’s throat. Nobody else had teeth so long and sharp. Kili licked his lips. “He gave that to you.” The heavy breath in Bolg’s lungs quickened. It was so immediately obvious. The gesture struck Bolg deep beneath his ribs. Was it that Azog was so intent on manipulating and controlling Kili that he was willing to embarrass himself in front of his soldiers with this bond, or was Kili _right?_ He had refused to consider on any level that his father really cared for Kili. It seemed absurd. But now – with the proof before him, this ragged, beardless dwarf with a symbol of Azog’s protection standing straight-backed and unafraid, Bolg didn’t know what to believe in.

Kili made the first move. He stretched out his arms with the palms facing up in an orcish expression of fealty. “I have no love for my own people.” He locked eye with Bolg. It felt like a half-truth here, with the memory of Thorin’s cruel hypocrisy bleeding fresh, a healing wound that had been torn open from a brutal fight. “They do not consider me their own anymore.” He wondered if Thorin had gone all the way, struck Kili’s name from memory, done his best to erase his youngest nephew and make a new truth. Fili wouldn’t stand for it, he would fight for his brother’s name, but there was only so much he could do. He loved Thorin too much to ever speak a word against him. “I had loyalty only to one. To Azog. He is gone, but my devotion remains.” He blinked, eyes flashing with a hot sting. “I will follow you Bolg, without question. I swear. I will avenge his death and do everything I can to finish his will and wipe the Line of Durin from the earth.”

Bolg stared down at him, his good eye darting back and forth, tracing a hurried pattern of thought. He stood still for what seemed like an age, mulling it all over, trying to reconcile Kili’s story with those bloodstained memories of his father. Finally, he bent down, rested his huge hand on Kili’s shoulder, swamping the bone. “Well, then.” And he bared his teeth in a grin, but there was still a calculated mistrust in his sharp eye, a little twitch in his left cheek. Kili knew he walked on a pane of cracking glass, and he felt no relief at the orc’s fixed expression. “We will break them together.”

* * *

Dís slept fitfully through the night, her mind in stormclouds. As she opened her eyes in the steely grey of the morning, tense and restless, she rested a hand on her chest, as though in an effort to shift that heavy weight planted on her chest. The tent-door fluttered in a shuddering chill, and she could feel the canvas walls that enclosed her tremble in the breeze. Dís reached out and pressed her fingertips against the coarse fabric. Her eyes weren’t red or wet anymore. She just ached with a dull tiredness that had nothing physically to do with her restless, fragmented sleep.

She sat up, pushing aside the heavy furs and with a hiss of air between her clenched teeth, dressed quickly. She had cast aside her dresses when she first stepped onto the worn road, changing her apron for a coat of mail, the moulting broom for her grandfather’s axe. Nobody had sneered at her when she first emerged with her breasts bound close and a heavy cloak over her shoulders. Nobody laughed. There was a muted respect in Fíak’s eyes when they first settled on her, the mother of his lost prince, shrouded in that well-worn hatred. Dain had sucked his teeth when he first saw her, promised that he would get her back in fine linens and pretty jewels that befitted her. He tried to wrestle her into a costume she hadn’t worn in almost eighty years and Dís refused obstinately. She pulled on the elbow-length tunic over her mail, reaching down to her knees, and in that grey dawn she felt as though she could never reduce herself to wearing a dress again.

The camp was divided in two. Dís straightened and stared for a moment, the interlaced metal still cold against her bed-warm skin. Although there was an obvious separation, a no-man’s land of distrust that stretched forty feet across the shallow, ragged valley, if Dís held up her hand and blocked that gap out, it looked almost as though there was nothing between them. It was the same canvas tents, the same tidy close-knit rows, the same small fires ringed in large stones. The only difference was the early risers that wandered towards the fire in search of food. On the left, they had dark locks of brown and black, the lightest the colour of shadowed bark, hair braided and mail gleaming beneath blue and black. On the smaller right, she saw wild dreadlocked tangles of sand and gold, leather in dark, earthy tones of dirt and rock and dried blood. They were as different as could be, Longbeards and Ironfists. Centuries of cold, distrustful silence stretched out between them, widening to an impassable gulf. Dís had tried to bridge it with her marriage, she had failed, and now Fili was suspended, pulled in both directions. No side had a complete claim on him.

She ate alongside Dain and his son, eyes downcast. Her stomach churned and it kept threatening to come up, but Dís knew she couldn’t afford to miss even a single meal and risk losing her strength. The heavy cake of ground meat and bread was greasy and left her mouth slick. Another image of Kili flashed across her mind and Dís paused, squeezing her eyes shut and waiting for the racing of her heart, the burning in her throat, to pass over her like a fit and leave her armpits damp and tongue dry. She wasn’t going to have another public breakdown.

The raven came afterwards, when Dís was hunched over a thin folding table with her cousin. She traced her finger over the worn map, arguing this shortcut through a narrow mountain pass would shave a day from their journey. Dain argued that it hadn’t been used in over a century, it could be covered in early snow or slips, or weathered away completely, and it wasn’t worth the risk. The whispered squabbling was interrupted with the arrival of Thorin’s letter, his name scrawled hastily across the back; there was no wax to stamp his seal upon the page.Dain spread the letter out and Dís dragged her stool closer, the two of them leaning shoulder-to-shoulder over the page. This was in Balin’s hand, with no formal pleasantries or greeting. The elderly dwarf’s usually small, neat writing, was a rushed scrawl. It looked as though his hands had been shaking, when he wrote.

_An irrevocable act of treachery has occurred in the dead of night. There is no softening this blow, and I can only hope that Dain, you will be able to comfort Dís with all your heart._

_Fili has been banished. He attempted to overthrow Thorin whilst he was sleeping in an effort to take control of the negotiations between us and Thranduil and acquiesce to Thranduil’s demands. Fili confessed to everything after he was apprehended, and his accomplices identified. He is no longer considered an heir to the throne, or to the line of Durin. In his passion, Thorin threw Fili out into the valley. He maintains that Fili will be friendless and unprotected, but I have a suspicion that he will attempt to forge some sort of alliance with Thranduil, in an effort to save himself from the Ironfists’ claim to him._

_This is not a plea for help. This is a warning, to you and Dís and to the Ironfists, of what is to come. Thorin remains sure and proud, if still in shock after what has happened. The threat of war looms, but we are assured now more than ever that we will remain standing. We will not allow the actions of a single dwarf to undo us._

_You may inform Fíak and his soldiers that they have a full, unbridled claim to Fili. They are free to track him down and bring him back to the East, and Thorin will not interfere in any way. He is theirs._

Dain pressed his palms to the table, breathing out heavily as he stared down at the page. After several endless moments, he finally turned his face to one side. Dís was as stiff as carved stone, her hands balled in her lap, knuckles as white as marble. Her face was still and unmoving, but the tears along the soft curve of her cheek gave it away. Slowly, one hand slid across the table and down into Dís’ lap. Dain’s big, broad hand closed around her fist, and he tried to lace their fingers together, but her iron grip refused to yield to him.

“Dís—” She rose very suddenly to her feet at his voice, and turned with a sharp abruptness, away from him. Dís marched out of the low tent, hissing as the chilly wind blew against the wet tracks on her face. She walked along in a dream, with the joints of her legs slow-moving and creaky, tremors wracked in her hands and arms. Dain’s voice followed her, thin and distant and breaking in the wind and she ignored him. Her legs gave out, and Dís fell heavily on her knees. She bent her head and held her hands over her mouth, as though she could take the sobs that threatened to spill out and push them back in. The numbness that had hardened over her head cracked and broke, and now she bled from the shards that cut into her. _How was this all happening?_

Dain slumped back inside the tent and stared down at the page, blankly. He stared for several moments before seizing the letter and tearing it in half, crossways. “Take this to Fíak in the Ironfist camp.” He held the bottom half out for one of his soldiers, stonefaced. “We will take the mountain pass, and arrive within three days.”

“Yes, my King.” Dain turned back to the map, the torn letter. He stood with his hands behind his back, alone in the tent. And he smiled.


	85. The Upper Hand

“Come now Fili, sit.” Gandalf smiled at the young dwarf as though he had just asked him to tea. Standing with the foggy sensation of Ori’s hand on his shoulder, Fili swallowed and stared vacantly into the dim tent. “Have a biscuit, you must be ravenous.”

“Sit down, Fili.” Ori was at his elbow, trying to coax him inside. “Tell them everything. Or I can, if you want.

“It doesn’t matter.” Fili responded dully, but he sat down with a hollow obedience, his legs crossed, chin propped up on his hands. He heaved a sigh, a long, long sigh, his eyes down at his shoes. “Nothing matters.”

“Mahal, what happened?” Nori looked at his brother as he got down on his knees. “Are we out?”

“Not exactly.” Ori chose his words carefully, shooting sidelong glances at Fili’s curved figure. “Thranduil made a deal.”

“Of course he did.” Gandalf chewed on the end of his pipe. “I suppose he offered to support you in a bid for the crown.” Fili’s head jerked up. “Ah-ha.”

“He’s insane. I’ll _never_ do it. I’ll never betray Thorin like that—”

“Oh, to hell with Thorin.” Nori snarled over him. “He _deserves_ to rot. He’s brought nothing but ruin – that whole damn family has, ever since Thror thought too much of himself and hoarded away enough gold to feed Middle-Earth. It’s time things were shaken up.”

Fili gritted his teeth. “I’m _not_ a traitor. I didn’t _want_ the crown, I just wanted to end the fighting. I wanted to help Thorin and remain at his side, not dethrone him Nori. I won’t be dishonourable.”

“Ha. Everyone else is.” Ori grabbed his elbow hard, shaking his head in a silent plea for Nori to shut up. “It is! Thranduil with his deals, Thorin throwing out his nephews, Dain eyeing up the throne, Dwalin ratting is out. Lies, everywhere we turn. This gold is turning everybody mad, it’s not just Thorin.”

Gandalf was sitting silently listening to the dwarf speak, the sagging pouches of his eyes looking more sunken Fili could remember in the dim light. Perhaps it had just been a long time since he had seen them. “I was afraid of this happening.” He spoke when Nori faded into a subdued silence. “I have been, since I first gave the key to Thorin Oakenshield and saw the gleam in his eye.” He pulled the pipe out of his mouth, and it disappeared inside a worn grey sleeve. “Elrond warned me as well, but I didn’t listen. Or, I suppose I did, but thought the benefit outweighed the risk. Perhaps I didn’t think things would go this far at all, and I knew Durin’s Folk had nothing left to lose.” He was looking at Fili now, with those clear blue eyes cutting into him, sharp and quick despite the aged tiredness that greyed and lined the wizard’s face.

“What do you think I should do?” Fili’s mouth was dry. “If you were me – what choice would you make.” Gandalf closed his eyes for several moment, heaving a long sigh.

“I would take Thranduil’s offer.” He didn’t look happy to say it. “Whatever you do Fili, you will have people begging for your head. It is part of being a king, popular or otherwise. If you work with Thranduil, you will be called a traitor. If you do nothing, and Thorin leads his people to ruin, you will be the prince who stood back and let his own sense of honour override his responsibility towards his people.”

“So I can’t win then.” Fili’s breath quickened. “No matter what – I’ll be a monster.”

“Everybody has detractors.” Gandalf tried to be diplomatic. “No king is truly loved by all. I’ve yet to see one.”

“I need to think.” He stood up abruptly with his fingertips on his temples. “ _No_ Ori.” He shot his friend a hard stare. Frozen in a half-crouch, Ori sank back down onto his knees, biting his lip. “I need to think. _Alone._ ”

The sun had risen fully, veiled behind the thick cloud. Fili trudged along the rock, dragging his boots as he stared off onto the distance. He didn’t have anywhere to go. The camp was perched between the sharp slope of a valley and the ice-cold river from inside the mountain. It was like a single vein bleeding out over the stone, pure and clear and freezing to the touch. Fili walked at the very edge with his hands in his pockets, kicking little stones into the water and occasionally getting his boots wet.

When the camp was finally out of earshot, below even a low hum on the edge of his mind, Fili sat down. He reached forward and ran his fingertips over the glossy surface of the water, his hand coming away red-fingered and freezing. It was as smooth as silk here. He dried his hands on his trousers and brought his legs up, knees crossed, leaning forward on his elbows. Erebor was a jagged peak that towered above him, wild and strange, the home he was destined for but only slept in for just a few short weeks. His journey was supposed to be at his end but instead Fili felt more lost and alone than he did beneath the eaves of Mirkwood, when Thorin was bound in an enchanted sleep and he had nobody to turn to.

Perhaps he should see this as a sort of lesson. _Don’t trust Thranduil._ Everybody had been screaming it at him, their voices growing louder and more desperate. He was a snake and a liar, concerned only with his own power and wealth. He didn’t give a fig for Fili, or for Erebor – he just wanted to strengthen his own borders. He was self-serving, with no real interest in peace and prosperity. Fili was a naive fool to think otherwise. He could hear Nori’s voice, Gandalf, Bilbo, Thorin and Dwalin too. Every warning against the elf-kind whispered back in his ears, growing to a shout.

The battle raged on. Fili tore at himself, turning the thought over and over in his head as he stared at the pale gleam of water before his folded legs. _What could he believe in?_ How could he save himself and Thorin and Erebor too? Was it even possible, or was it a foolish attempt to try and juggle three heavy weights when he only had two hands? What did _he_ want to do, right here and now in the clarity and stillness of this solitude?

Fili stared at the water, his face unmoving. He didn’t know – but there was someone who would.

* * *

The fire was swelling. Kili sat on a low stone bench with his feet just touching the floor, looking over the rim of his half-empty goblet at one of Bolg’s generals telling some boasting story about what he and his company did to a hunting party of elves in the summer past. Kili kept a look of mild interest on his face, and inside he just mused silently. He didn’t feel disgust, even as the orc mimicked with his hands and sneered. He just felt deadened to the whole thing.

When did that happen? The words blurred together, sounding garbled and sluggish. He didn’t even possess some sort of token indignation against what he heard. There was no secret rebellion inside of him. He was simply cold to the general, inside and out. Kili hid his face in his drink for a moment, breathing in the rich, heavy smell of expensive wine. He wondered where the orcs got it.

A hand on his elbow made him look up. “Come outside.” Mautor was standing behind him, whispering in his ear. Kili nodded without a word, waiting until a laugh erupted through the loose crowd of orcs before slipping away. He saw a flash of white and knew Bolg was watching him go. Kili drained his wine and left the empty goblet on a table, leaving the raucous room to find Mautor pacing back and forth the corridor. The guards had left. Kili leaned against the wall with arms folded, waiting.

“I told you to be polite.” He stopped very short, snarling at Kili. “I told you to keep your tongue in your head—”

“And let him think I’m somebody he can just step on?” Kili kicked himself off from the wall, matching the snarl with one of his own. “I’m not some wild beast for him to tame, Mautor. I’m not going to whine and grovel on my knees.”

“He is _dangerous._ ” Mautor leaned in to whisper. “He’s not like Azog. He’s not clever, Kili. Don’t toy with him.” His egg-white eyes darted to one side, out of habit. “He’s _nothing_ like his father.”

“You met Azog then?”

“Once, a long time ago.” His voice was still low. “I was under the old captain. He came looking for Thorin – this was thirty or forty years ago, before he knew that your people had settled in the western mountains. I knew right away that he wasn’t just another bloodthirsty chief with a grudge against dwarves. He was pure, calculating evil.” There was something new and sharp in Mautor’s eyes, something that pulled at Kili’s stomach. “Whatever you did to Azog, you can’t do it again. Don’t try to outsmart Bolg. All those generals around him, they’re not the tacticians that Azog commanded. They’re his flatterers and his handlers. He purged his father’s council and filled it with orcs like him. Only old Grishthak is left.”

“You’re afraid I can outsmart Bolg?” The snarl was turning upwards, into a smirk.

“No. I _know_ you could. I’m afraid that you’ll have the arrogance to try.” His nails were biting into Kili’s wrist, at the hem of his sleeve. “It will take nothing to turn him against you. Just a single look or word out of place and he’ll stick you like a pig. Azog’s word didn’t protect his generals. Don’t think it will protect you.”

“I know he’s just begging for the opportunity.” Kili’s eyes had lowered to the ground, with the little flickering that suggested a racing mind. “He wants to parade me, show what a disgrace I am. He thinks I’m just some freak, a product of Azog’s cruelty. He doesn’t _understand_.” He rested his fingertips against the firm grip on his right wrist, an unspoken _not like you do_ that he knew Mautor would fall for. “I won’t give him the satisfaction of thinking he’s right.”

“Get some sleep.” The orc-captain was placated for now. He rose his voice, stepping back as the shadow of another figure was cast against the wall. A guard was coming back. “It’s late. Tomorrow is the last day before we all ride and Bolg’s ordered a gathering of the generals and officers to plan his march and attack. I want you there.”

“I wouldn’t miss it.” Kili made to turn away, thinking the approaching guard was for Mautor, but the harsh, guttural sound of _wait_ made him stop.

“I was hoping to catch you.” Kili frowned. “That boy is back, asking for you. Has been half the night but Bolg won’t allow us regular gate-guards into any room with him and his own orcs are _rude_ , won’t pass on a single message. _Ishi_ I forgot his name, just that it was odd. Real small and bony, dark eyes—”

“ _Ilzkhaal_.” Kili gasped. He _forgot_. “Oh no.” He took off down the hall, furious. He _promised_ to go back at night, after leaving so rudely that morning. Damn damn damn. The guilt rushed inside of Kili as he ran, jumping down the stair too at a time and almost tripping. He made it to the front entranceway just in time, as the doors, broad, heavy planks of wood laced with iron, were groaning shut.

“Wait!” Kili’s voice made the two orcs pause. He dashed through the half-open doors and caught sight of Ilzkhaal’s retreating figure on the wide path that lead away from the tower, shoulders slumped and head bent in his defeat. “Ilz!” He stopped and Kili ran, his limbs feeling sluggish and heavy. He caught Ilzkhaal’s hand and dragged at his wrist. “C’mon.”

“Kili?” The stone-black eyes widened. Kili pulled him back, through the huge doors with the orcs shaking their heads and muttering _just in bloody time_ and _lucky little bastard_ , thinking Kili couldn’t hear them. “Where were you?” His voice was a self-conscious hiss. “You said you would come back.”

“I’m sorry.” Kili didn’t bother to keep quiet. “I’ll explain.” They both eyed the sealed door, knowing Ilzhaal wasn’t going home that night. “Just come, stay with me tonight and I’ll explain everything.”

It was a tense, quiet walk. Kili didn’t want to say anything as he walked along the halls, not knowing who could be lurking around corners or behind closed doors, listening. Ilzkhaal was too preoccupied with looking around, catching glimpses through open doorways and craning his neck so far the bones clicked. Of course – he never would have been inside this stone fortress before, he was just an untrained boy from the dirty, crowded part of town where the houses were built on a lean and were too close together. With his hand still around Ilzkhaal’s skinny wrist, Kili tightened his grip.

When they both stepped inside the warm room, Kili found he was holding his breath. Ilzkhaal walked in a tight circle, staring around with his hands in his pockets. He stopped when he saw Nardur stretched on the rug, breaking into a smile. “You have a warg?”

“He’s my best friend.” Kili knelt down beside the beast, scratching the top of his head, between his ears. “Aren’t you Nardur?” Kili looked up with his lip twitching. “Azog gave him to me. Thought it suited because he’s small like I am. I left him behind with-with Nazarg, and after he was... well after _that_ , they brought him down to the warg-pit but the handler didn’t even want him, said he was a runt. It’s lucky I came when I did, and they figured out that he was mine. Couldn’t carry an orc, could you boy? Their feet would drag on the ground.” Kili wound his fingers through the thick grey fur, his tight smile sagging. “I know he's there for me."

"Kili, what's going on?" Ilzkhaal sank to his knees beside the dwarf, his own heart beating faster. The downward turn of Kili’s lips was a locked door that he struggled to break open. "Why did you leave like that this morning? Why didn't you come?" His hand closed over Kili’s, bone-thin grey over thick, fleshy pink.

Kili gritted his teeth. “I made a mistake." He whispered, his head bent, eyes fixed on their locked hands. He wished there was some way to avoid all of this, some way they could wipe it clean and forget. He couldn’t lose Ilzkhaal’s innocent, judgeless love, and remain alone with these orcs demanding pieces of him, turning him into a tool and a puppet. He wished he could have stopped this fire before it burned out of control. The memories hadn't left him, they simmered away in the back of his mind, slowly growing hotter and hotter and now he was burning. "I shouldn't have done it."

Ilzkhaal swallowed. “Done what?" Kili screwed up his face at the sound of the orc’s voice, the tremor of fear that wobbled madly and threatened to spill over. He tried to pull his hand away but Ilzkhaal held fast. "Done _what_ Kili?"

“I shouldn't have slept with you." Kili’s face was turned away. He could feel the heat of the fire on his right cheek. “It was a mistake." The hand over his didn't pull away. "I just... fell into the moment. I forgot myself until it was too late."

"Twice?" Ilzkhaal’s voice was surprisingly sharp. It made Kili look up, two sets of dark eyes meeting. "You made the same mistake twice?"

"I didn't—"

"You liked it Kili, you told me so." Ilzkhaal’s bewilderment hurt in Kili’s chest. "Were you pretending the whole time?"

“No, I wasn’t.” Kili wished Ilzkhaal would let him go. “I want to spend time with you, but – just, just friends. I can’t do that again.”

The orc was shaking his head. “Why?”

“Because it’s wrong!” It tumbled out, louder and harsher than he meant it to. Ilzkhaal drew back as though Kili had insulted him, hands balled in his lap. Nardur lifted his head at the sudden motion, licking Kili’s wrist. Kili pushed him away, trying to scoot closer to his friend. “Not – _ishi_ , I’m not saying _you’re_ wrong, or what you do is wrong, but I can’t do it. I'm not-not _like_ you, Ilz. I like dams, ladies of my own people. I always have.”

“But – you’re not going to go back.” He was nervous. Ilzkhaal had his hands in one of the leather strips of his sleeveless shirt, twisting the soft hide around a finger. “ _Listen_ to how ridiculous you’re being. Are you going to be celibate for the rest of your life, then? Are you _really_ going to be alone? Never ever share your body with someone else, never fall in love, because you’re afraid?” Kili gasped. Nobody had dared to use that word in front of him for months, and he could feel the surge of offended anger at it.

“I’m not like you, why can’t you just listen to me Ilzkhaal? Us dwarves, we don’t _do_ what you do!” But the word stuck in his head, a piece of metal that through his skull. _Alone._ No – he didn’t want to be alone, he _couldn’t_ be alone, left lying night after night in a cold bed in isolation, with only his thoughts for company. He couldn’t spend his life like that and he _knew_ it. He didn’t want the smirking, cat-eyed girls who arched their brows. He remembered how they looked at him. Kili was a curiosity, a passing interest. They didn’t want him, and he didn’t want them either. Kili wanted someone who worshipped him. Someone who thought he was wonderful and hung on his every word, who trusted him, who would do _anything_ for him.

He wanted...

“So what?” Ilzkhaal shot back, terrified of losing him. Kili was staring down at his hands, looking very, very far away. “You’re not even a dwarf anymore, why do you care?” The moment it came out of his mouth, he knew he made a mistake. Kili’s head jerked up and he reeled as though he had been hit.

“I may be here, speaking your language and wearing your clothes, but I am _not_ an orc.” It all came rushing out, the grief and pain he’d been keeping in for far too long. He stood up, turning away from the orc and staring into the fire. “I haven’t forgotten the first seventy-seven years of my life, Ilzkhaal.” Kili didn’t know how else to make him understand just what felt so _wrong_ inside of him. “Everyone thinks that I’m this product of Azog’s design and nothing more, that there isn’t one single part of that he didn’t touch.” His chest was hurting and Kili was struggling to hold his nerve. “But there was something that even Azog couldn’t take away from me. _One_ thing that he never dared to corrupt but you—” Kili reeled forward, grasping the stone edge of the fireplace with his head bowed. It was difficult to breathe and he could feel the blood pulsing angrily through his temples. “Damn you.” He whispered, his voice barely audible over the fire. “ _Damn_ you!” The next words were a hoarse shout. He turned on his heel, expecting to still see Ilzkhaal crouched on the floor, terrified and repentant, but he wasn’t.

He was standing just before Kili, a head and a half taller, his hands tentatively held out. Kili didn’t move. He stood frozen and in that moment, Ilzkhaal took his chance. Kili could stick a knife into his side, punch him in the gut, or bring his knee up hard, or bite him, but he ignored the risk completely. With a little sigh, he closed the gap between them and wound his arms tight around the dwarf’s clumsy-feeling body. Ilzkhaal just held Kili wordlessly, trying to smooth out the shaking in his heavy limbs. He didn’t say a word. His arms were enough of an apology.

Kili swallowed, his hands still at his side as he endured the hug for several painful moments. He breathed in and smelled Ilzkhaal, felt the warmth of his body pressed close. “Damn you.” He whispered just once more. It wasn’t cold, or malicious, or angry. It was the broken whisper of someone who was afraid, exhausted, no longer sure of anything anymore. He pressed his face into that thin chest, his forehead against Ilzkhaal’s collarbone, arms slowly snaking up to wind loosely around his waist. Kili’s fingertips brushed one of the bony little lumps of Ilzkhaal’s spine and he felt the muscles tighten beneath his skin.

They stood for a long time, just listening to the sound of each other’s breathing and the low, slowing drumbeat of their hearts.

* * *

Dís walked along in a dream. She stared at the ground and let the voices wash over her, lying on a riverbed with her face beneath the water. She was deaf and mute and mind, her mind far away, hundreds of miles to the east, inside a little house that would be caked in dust, a fireplace blackened and cold.

She tried to remember the warmth and the light. Sitting on her chair with a piece of needlework on her hands. Fili and Kili drinking, swapping boasting, half-true stories, Thorin brooding quietly with the firelight reflected in his eyes. Yes there were tears and anger, but they seemed petty and meaningless to her now, drops of water on a scalding furnace, hissing into steam at the touch. Nothing could dim the brightness of those memories. Memories she now knew she would never relive. Thorin’s promise was broken and her sons were torn away.

What sort of world would she find at the end of this march? Where was her Fili? Where was Kili? How did Thorin fare, locked away in the heart of Erebor with only a few scattered followers around him? She gritted her teeth at the thought of her brother, feeling the anger surge. To hell with Thorin, and his arrogance, his pride, his lies. He took every promise, every oath she made him swear, and he dashed it to pieces. There was a deep regret in her trust of him. She never should have held faith in the one who had already broken his oath and killed the brother she loved best. The memories of Frerin rose out of the dusty recess of her mind. He loomed in her head, as they drew nearer and nearer to their childhood home. He was a cold reminder of what could have been.

The screech of the raven made her look up for a moment. The bird flew in low, swooping arcs, with grace and purpose. At the front of the march, Dain and Thorin stopped. Lagging a little behind them in her dazed tread, Dís continued walking until she overtook them, flat and disinterested.

“I bear a message for Dís, daughter of Thrain.” That made her stop. Dís looked over her shoulder with a little frown. “From Fili.”

“Fili?” And she was alive again, the blood rushed like a thawed mountain stream in the first morning of spring. “Fili – oh where is it?”

“Not on paper.” Dain stared at the raven perching on his extended arm. “And only Dís may hear it. This is my order.” The bird’s croaky Khuzdul drew a deep scowl from the elderly dwarf. “It is of the strongest urgency.”

Dain looked furious.

She found a little offshoot of the mountain pass, walking as far as she could with the raven on her shoulder. His talons were long and curved but through the mail it felt like the small fingers of a child. When she knew they were alone, Dís held out a crumbling piece of biscuit for the bird, mouth dry. “What does my son want to tell me in secret?” She whispered when the tension came too much, holding both hands over her mouth in a balled fist.

“Fili is safe and well, with Nori and Ori in Thranduil’s camp. He comes to you for advice.”

“Advice?” Her voice was muffled.

“Thranduil has offered Fili his support and the support of Esgaroth in the bid for Durin’s throne, in return for his unwavering loyalty and a share of the treasure.” Dís gasped. _That sneaky bastard._ She remembered Thranduil, with his high-boned features and sharp blue eyes, that little smirk that played on his mouth that turned downward so quickly, the obvious haughty jealousy that he managed to maintain under that smooth exterior. She remembered a greedy, selfish king. “He does not know what to do.”

“Oh Mahal.” She looked up at the sky, mouth half-open. _Fili._ She could see him now, in his torn agony. He had been nothing but loyal, faithful, honourable to his uncle, ever since he was a shy dwarrow of five, dozing on Thorin’s knee. Dís knew he never would have attempted this without the utmost necessity. She knew Fili and she knew Thorin, better than anyone in this world.

“Tell him this.” Realising that she had been staring into space for far too long, Dís broke into a low, hurried whisper. “He is not to do a _thing_ until I get there. He does not even speak a word to Thranduil. Nothing that could possibly give him away. He does not whisper this bargain to anyone who doesn’t already know about it. He is to do _nothing_ until I arrive. Do you understand?”

“As you wish.” The raven’s wings rose in flight, and with a short cry, he was gone. Dís remained kneeling on the stone, staring down at her hands. She didn’t wear her gloves on the march and her right sleeve was pushed back a little, the misshapen mark of her scar plain against her skin. Her mind raced and when the realisation that _she could do this_ finally struck, Dís pressed her hands over her mouth to mask the sounds that were bursting to come out, either as a sob or a scream or a high-pitched cry of laughter, she didn’t know.

When the rolling fire in her heart had ebbed and she knew she could breathe and speak without giving herself away, Dís rose to her feet. She was smiling. For the first time in her _entire life_ , she wasn't powerless.


	86. Wounded

When Kili’s breathing had slowed and that violent trembling in his chest had faded away, Ilzkhaal held one shoulder, running his other hand gently through his dark tangles of hair. He endured the touch in silence. Something had broken inside of Kili, but in a good way. He felt as though he had burst a sickly, infected wound, and although it hurt and he was bleeding, he could feel that poison leaking out of him.

“You’ll make sense of this, I promise.” It wasn’t an apology, and Ilzkhaal didn’t even pretend to be contrite about what he had done. He still thought there was some hope of salvaging something, still a way he could keep Kili. His brief flash of rage took the gloss off things. Kili seemed paler, dirtier after his strained confession, and Ilzkhaal was more aware than ever of the scar on his cheek, the shadows under his eyes, the downward slope of his mouth. It would have scared most orcs away, that glimpse of Kili bruised and broken, hating himself for what he had done. Most would have backed off, seeing Kili for the damaged, unstable creature he really was, but in a way it tightened that chain between them, pulling Kili a link or two closer, and now Ilzkhaal could finally brush his soul with the tips of his fingers.

“You can leave if you want.” Kili mumbled with half-lidded eyes, feeling tired. He expected the orc to leave. Kili would, if he were in Ilzkhaal’s shoes, if he had seen the one he admired and adored so broken-down and out of control. But Ilzkhaal simply bent down, touched Kili’s temple with his lips and wound both arms around his shoulders, loosely, as though Kili could crack under a tight hug.

Just in case he didn’t get it, he breathed in Kili’s ear. “I’m staying.” He didn’t make the promise under sort of guilt-ridden obligation to see the night through and make sure Kili was _all right_. He did it because he wanted to spend time with Kili, pure and simple. Something was set alight in Ilzkhaal’s chest at the side of Kili in his unfettered emotion, with that mask finally off, those secrets he had been keeping close for so long spilling out. He wanted more. “How about,” Ilzkhaal pulled back with a shy little smile. “You find us something to eat?”

Kili almost cried with relief.

They ate on crossed legs, reaching toward a broad plate laden with meat and coarse, greyish bread, with a half-full bottle of liquor disappearing inch by inch. Ilzkhaal was ravenous after that long, agonising wait, and Kili had only picked at the food in front of Bolg, too tense and self-conscious to really eat. They both tucked in now, making a mess and laughing at each other’s clumsiness. It was like playacting, children who pretended they were eating around a campfire in the wild, with the wind and the rain threatening to come and put them out. Kili threw Nardur the bones, made him jump for the treats, snapping his teeth.

It was like eating with his family. Kili found himself grinning at Ilzkhaal’s stupid jokes, shooting back the smart remarks. The orc was making an obvious attempt to get Kili to smile, to try and lighten the mood after he dragged it all down. The smile on his face stretched his lips almost painfully, as though he’d forgotten how to do it and he needed practice. There was a soft lull, warm and lazy on the rug. Kili pulled the soft, red-brown venison right from the shank-bone with his teeth, sending the blood coursing over his mouth and hand. He sucked the juice from his fingers, not realising at first that Ilzkhaal was watching him slackly until the hunk of bread dropped onto the carpet.

“Hey.” Kili nudged him with a little grin. He felt lighter than air. “Keep my rug clean, will you?” Ilzkhaal smirked and threw a crust of bread right at him, bouncing off his chest and scattering crumbs. “Hey!”

“You go all red when you’re mad.” Ilzkhaal kept breaking off little bits of bread and throwing them at him, laughing. Inside, he froze up, terrified that he’d gone too far again, overstepped that line, but Kili didn’t seem mad. He was laughing. “Like that, yes. I’ve never seen anything more adorable.”

“Stop it!” Kili threw handfuls of bread back at him, the blush deepening in his embarrassment.

The orc cocked his head. “Make me.” He threw one last piece, teasingly aiming for Kili’s face. He was _just_ off course and the bread stuck in Kili’s tangled hair. Kili gasped in half-feigned outrage and then he struck, knocking Ilzkhaal to the floor, laughing. Nardur jumped up with a little bark, resting on his haunches. Kili’s weight was enough to keep the skinny frame pinned on the rug, and with a wicked grin he pulled the bread from his hair and tried to force it into Ilzkhaal’s mouth.

“Ugh no – you haven’t washed your hair in weeks Kili it stinks – please – no – no all right I’m sorry just don’t!” He twisted about like a fish, gasping with laughter. With a burst of strength, he managed to weasel his way out of Kili’s grip and force him on his back, straddling his hips, suspecting the dwarf probably let him do it. With his grin widening, Ilzkhaal dug his fingers into Kili’s side, between the bone-stripes of his ribs.

“N-No!” Kili howled, arching his back. He was _very_ ticklish. “P-Please s-stop I c-c-can’t take it!” He was gasping and laughing too hard to move, hands pushing ineffectually at Ilzkhaal’s chest. “Nardur h-help me! G-Get him off!” But the warg could tell it was a game, and as the tears of laughter ran down his face, all Nardur did was lick at his cheeks, making his master wet and sticky as his tail wagged with bruising force.

“That’s it Nardur, get ‘im!” He pinned Kili by the shoulders, grinning as he tried to shy away from the warg’s huge slobbery tongue. “Get his hair too, it needs a washing.” Kili gave a muffled shriek and a cry of _ugh!_ as Nardur lapped at his open mouth. “Should I let you go?”

“Y-Yes!” Kili tried to bat the warg away but Nardur was too big and playful to obey him. “P-Please!” Ilzkhaal finally relented, releasing his hold and shoving Nardur’s face aside. Kili got up on one elbow and glared at him, his mouth half-open and heaving, hair plastered in drooly, sweaty tangles over his bright red face. He somehow never looked more beautiful and alive than he did at that moment. Ilzkhaal wanted to kiss him, hold him, pull at his clothes and get inside but instead he got off of the dwarf and tried to beat the rising heat down, wishing the room wasn’t so dim and stuffy.

“You’re horrible.” Kili sat up and punched him in the arm, but Ilzkhaal made no response. He stared, openly entranced and unable to do a thing about it. Kili saw him looking, knew why he looked that way, and uncomfortably cleared his throat, brushing the crumbs away with his eyes downcast. They settled back into their position by the fire, still panting a little bit, faces flushed red and black, and blood throbbing. Kili swallowed back his drink and ran his thumb over the rim of the little stone cup. “It’s not just _that_ , you know.” He didn’t need to explain what he was talking about. Of course it was going to come up again. Kili was just bringing forward that awkward skirting-around and hints that he knew Ilzkhaal would keep up all night if he could. “It’s a partnership until death. We have only one and no other. Coupling – it’s for children, families.”

“There are exceptions.” Ilzkhaal rejected those protestations for the simple half-hearted lies that they so obviously were. “Nobody is perfect Kili. What about that other boy, the one who liked you? I forgot his name.”

“Ori.” Kili’s stomach clenched around his very late dinner. “You know – the angriest I ever saw Thorin, _ever_ , wasn’t when I threatened him in Black Speech, or when he tried to intimidate me and I spat on him, or when he realised just how close I was with Azog. It was when he walked in on Ori hugging me. Just a hug, to try and comfort me. He knew that Ori was in love with me, and he tolerated it while he thought I was dead, but when I came back and everything changed, Ori was on eggshells. Thorin warned Ori not to touch me or be alone with me or even talk to me. It must have been awful for him.” Kili paused to brush the loose hair out of his eyes.

“But – it was my fault. I confessed that I wanted to go back with the orcs, I couldn’t stand being amongst dwarves again and it broke me to say it. Ori was just trying to be a friend and Thorin was out of control. He called Ori the most horrible names, he threw him about and kicked at him and cursed his name and banished him. Even after everything that _I_ did, all the killing and torture in Azog’s name, nothing disturbed Thorin more than thinking that Ori was trying to seduce me.” His face was set in hard lines of hatred. “He’s a soulless monster.”

“He sounds horrible.” Ilzkaal agreed, watching the shadows deepen on Kili’s face as he dipped his head.

“If he could see me now, you know, he would hate what I’ve done with you most of all. Even though I swore an oath to Bolg, if he knew that I slept with an orc – with a _boy_ orc...” Kili shook his head and for some reason the thought made him soften into a smile. “I almost want to see his face.”

“Is it really so set in stone?” Ilzkhaal was frowning. “No leniency – nothing?”

“Weren’t you listening? He banished Ori for a _hug_. Thorin Oakenshield is not a lenient person. Once you wrong him, he will never ever trust you again. They’re all like that, not willing to forgive and forget. Even if I wanted to – and I _don’t_ – I couldn’t ever go back. I would be clapped in irons and hung for treason, after what I’ve done.”

Both of them stared into the fire for a while, thinking, before Ilzkhaal spoke. Realising that the two were done, Nardur bent over the half-eaten plate of food, cracking at the bones and lapping noisily at the running juices. “But – it’s all about rank, isn’t it? High-born and low-born and that rot. Where was this Ori to your people?”

Kili ran his tongue over the jagged line of his lower teeth. “Low. Lowest of the low.” After a moment’s pause, he decided to simply come out and say it. “He was a bastard.”

Ilzkhaal choked on his sharp drink. “Really?” Kili nodded wordlessly, doling out more liquor for the both of them. “So they _do_ exist.” There was a smug wickedness in his tone.

“Ori and his two brothers, they were all fatherless.” His legs were cramping. Kili stretched out, his feet bare before the fire. “Their mother – Glori – she was a... she slept with people, for pay.” He stumbled, realising he didn’t know the word in Black Speech.

“A _kruf?”_ Izlkhaal leaned on one hand. “See, I told you there were exceptions.” He took another drink. “You made it sound as though everyone lived these perfect lives with a faithful mother and father who live absolute purity.” There was a smug wickedness to his voice. “I bet _nobody_ followed the rules. Go on then, how many were there really? The whores and thieves and fatherless sons, how many were there?”

“Fatherless.” He repeated, eyes on his outstretched leg. If he angled his foot, turned his toe in, he could touch Ilzkhaal in the side, just below the sharp bone of his hip hidden beneath the soft leather. “Well – you know about the marks, don’t you? It seems like the sort of thing you would laugh at.” The stare of confusion suggested he didn’t. “Well – it’s part of the binding ceremony. I know you put a piece of bone through your nose or ear and call it a token of coupling but it’s far more serious for dwarves. Lovers tattoo each other’s name on their wrists, so the claim is on them forever. Maybe it’s because our maids are so few, and they have to be labelled and protected, so nobody can harm them, not even us.” A frown played on his dark brow and his fingers brushed his own wrist for a self-conscious moment, a thoughtless reflex that he didn’t even realise he was doing until he felt the raised skin beneath his fingertips and he moved his hands away.

“Did he know?” Ilzkhaal was staring at the silver gleam of Azog’s mark on Kili’s wrist. Kili turned his wrist inward, so the scar was hidden and his face was turned away. So he was right then. “He must have. It’s a stupid place to put a brand, right over the vein. It could have got infected.”

“He knew.” There was a deep, heavy hatred in Kili’s snarl, one that made the orc draw back. Kili paused for a minute, closed his eyes and breathed in, tried to calm that quaver in his throat. “But – anyway. I had a point and I’ve almost forgotten it. My mother. She doesn’t have a mark. She just has a scar. Whatever the name was on her skin, she burned it away.” His mouth was slack, falling downwards.

“You don’t know your father.” Kili’s face remained still. The only indication he gave that the dwarf heard him at all was the slightest shake of his head. “So you’re—”

“I don’t know.” He cut Ilzkhaal off before he could say the word aloud. “I know my father was an Ironfist, and nothing else. I have no memory of him, or anyone talking about him.” Kili picked up his cup again, biting his lip. “Fili used to have nightmares when we were little. He would cry out in his sleep for his father to stop, although to stop what, I never knew. When I tried to talk to him about it, he would go all quiet and tense, he would said I was hearing things, or that he couldn’t remember what his dream was about.” Ilzkhaal leaned on one hand, listening intently. It wasn’t often Kili talked at length and he treasured every word, a shining gem he gathered to his chest. “So he was around, for a while. Long enough to hurt Fili, to cause me to exist.”

“My father died when I was just a baby.” He read the situation in an instant and knew the very last think Kili wanted was pity disguised as sympathy or compassion. He didn’t want Ilzkhaal fussing over him or murmuring that he was sorry. Ilzkhaal didn’t know what to say to him. He couldn’t begin to form the words. So he ploughed on with his own story, in a bid to make him understand. “He was a scout. It was in the eastern passes, near the beginning of winter. They were crossing a frozen lake because the snow had destroyed the bridge and as he walked, the ice broke and he fell through. The water carried him a little way – they tried to cut through the ice and save him, but they weren’t fast enough.” He drew a knee up to his chest, and rested his chin on it. “And... I know it sounds heartless to say, but I don’t miss him. When I was a kid, I used to have an imaginary _kra_ , you know, just pretend, and I made up all these stories about him.” He chuckled at his own ridiculousness. “But no, I don’t miss him. How can I miss somebody I never really met? I don’t wonder what could have been, or how different things would be if he were around. I have Ma and now I have Frûshkul too, and we’re happy just like this. I’ve got cousins and aunts and uncles, and old Gram is still knocking about.” His lip twitched in a smile. “I never needed him.”

“But you know. And I’m sure if it was something bad, if he attacked your mother and you came out at the end, or if he left her for somebody else, you would know that too. I don’t know anything.” Kili murmured, burning with jealousy at the thought of his own veiled family. “I just wish there was honesty. I didn’t realise how much people were lying to me, how many secrets were kept and truths hidden away. I did it too, you know. I lied for years to protect my brother – and he did the same to me. And I just – I went along with it, for my whole life. It wasn’t until I was ripped away from everything, that I realised how much was built on lies. You’re right, you know. We’re not nearly as perfect as we make out to be. I’ve known that for _months._ ” He shook his head with an odd, half-chuckle. “You must think I’m an ass.”

“I don’t think you’re an ass.” He lowered his leg and stretched an arm out, resting his hand on Kili’s straightened knee. “I think you’re confused and scared, and, don’t think I’m insulting you, but stubborn too.” Kili laughed. “You wouldn’t have come this far if you weren’t.” His own smile faded and Ilzkhaal leaned forward on his knees. “Look Kili, it’s not the same with us. We’re not bound for life like you are.” He licked his lips and rubbed one angular cheek with the back of his hands. “It’s normal, to wander when you’re young. Nobody knows what they want when they’re just kids. I didn’t – it took a rough, awful night for me to realise that.” Ilzkhaal gave a little self-deprecating shrug. “I know what it’s like. What I had with Frûshkul’s mother, it was awkward and drunk, and I knew right away that it was a mistake. But I know it wasn’t like that for you.”

“With everything that’s going to happen,” Kili whispered. “I can’t drag you into this. I could hurt you. I could bring you into danger, if the wrong people found out.”

“Mautor knows. All my friends know. Half the guards probably know now, and the rest will in the morning. Ma would have told all seven of her sisters by now so you can bet that everyone in my whole big family will know too. If someone was going to punish me for it, they would by now.” He stretched one hand out, finding Kili’s wrist, heart starting to quicken as he tried, just one more time. Kili limply let the orc hold his hand. “I’m not going to bring you flowers or write poetry and embarrass you like that Kili. You don’t need a lover. You need a friend.” His fingertips brushed Azog’s mark. “We have a word for it, you know. _Rûkugkaash_.” Riding-partner. Kili’s eyes flickered upwards. “Two people who are friends, who work and fight and drink together, no romance, who just happen to share a bed sometimes.” He ventured a fresh tentative smile. “I promise you, it’s horribly ordinary, especially on marches and hunting-parties, when you’re far away from home.”

Kili’s head was tilted to one side, thinking of what Ilzkhaal had said. It seemed to utterly alien to him, even more so than the entire concept of sleeping with another male. He thought back, just ten or twenty years ago when Fili had girls hanging off him, and he used to sneak out and come back with his clothes rumpled and hair in tangles. He never went all the way, he said. It was just kissing and touching, and he tried to look sorry about it even when he was still smiling. Kili had always been jealous when his brother shrugged and sat on the edge of his bed, taking off his boots with an arrogant swagger. It was his desperate grab at freedom while he still could, before he was chained to a dam that he didn’t choose and he had to _settle down_ and be _respectable._ His nose always crinkled when he said that.

“I’ll still be your friend.” Ilzkhaal broke the silence. “If... if you don’t want to. But I think you do. We both know you do, don’t we? Just – don’t think about what your people would say. They’re not here for you Kili but... I am.”

Kili bit his lip. He missed his brother so much. He missed _all_ of it, his room, his mother, his secret hidey-holes in the wandering maze of caves, the smell of the grass in high summer, the sizzling of bacon in the morning when somebody had a birthday, the dim, stuffy taverns and man-sized pints of ale. But it was all gone, and nothing could ever bring it back. Even if he found his way back to Ered Luin and lay in his old bed, it wouldn’t be the same. Everything had changed – Kili, most of all. And for the first time, that vague uncertainty that hovered before him like a thick, heavy mist began to shrink away. Since late-summer, Kili had been in a state of flux, not knowing if he was going to survive the week, the month, the year, and now winter was upon them, the year was ending, the first snowfalls dusted the grey stone with white, and Kili was still alive and he still had such a long way to go. He would kill Bolg, he was sure of that. He would save his brother’s life, protect him from the deadly onslaught that Bolg threatened to bring down on Erebor. He would pay that last debt that was owed to him, affect those ties of blood and bone one more time, and then sever them completely.

And then his sentence would be over, and Kili could _finally_ be truly free. If he died, he died, his story was over and all he could hope was that he was able to set everything right before he passed. And if he died, if these were the last precious nights, he didn’t want to spend them alone. He didn’t want to die unloved. Kili’s head was bowed. In his hand, he felt the muscles stiffen and then relax.

With a little sigh, Kili rubbed one thumb over Ilzkhal’s knuckle, feeling oddly far away. “You are.”

* * *

Kili dreamed that he walked across a frozen lake, entirely alone, the white ice stretching in every direction, disappearing into a hazy clouded sky. He walked and walked for what seemed forever, and nothing changed, no stone or marker, to suggest that he had moved an inch. He may as well have been standing still. There was a chill to the impossible white emptiness, going on and on, so bright that it hurt his eyes. Kili screwed up his face and squinted, shuffling on the ice in his big, heavy boots.

The breaking of the ice sounded like a whip-crack in his ears. Kili screamed voicelessly, a dry gasp that rasped in his throat and the ground was gone from under him. Just the unbearable, frozen cold. His limbs were stiff and he tried to kick out and thrash but his arms and legs were slow and jerky. His palms were pressed against the ice, and Kili tried to see through the water, but all he could make out was a vague, dark shape standing over him, staring without moving, hands at his sides. Kili beat his hands against the ice and screamed, choking on the water. He couldn’t _breathe_ —

He started into reality, hair plastered to his forehead and heart thudding violently in his chest. Kili had been lying on his stomach with his arms folded beneath the pillow, and now they were limp and dead. He pulled himself up and stared down at his lifeless arms, waiting for the blood to flow and the ragged gasps of air to fade.

The fire was dying down. Kili stared at the embers with half-lidded eyes, sitting up with his legs drawn in. Ilzkhaal slept soundly as he always did, facing the wall, the only movement a steady, slow rising and falling of his bony chest. He wiped at his face, pushing the sweaty tangles back, wincing at the scrape of his beard against the pins and needles on his palm. His heart was still thudding. It was one of those awful, confusing dreams where at the beginning he wasn’t quite sure if was awake or not. It seemed real enough, the wandering and the isolation. Hell, he’d done enough of that already.

Kili rested his cheek on one knee, listening to the orc breathe beside him. He was jealous. How long had it been since he’d had such a deep, unbroken sleep, free of dreams? Kili couldn’t even remember. He was used to being on his guard that he jerked awake at the tiniest sound, the hitch of breath or snap of a twig. He was his own watchman and keeper. Dark eyes flickered at the rustlingof the fire, as a piece of coal shifted and rolled away into the ashes to die alone.

When his eyes started to sting, Kili slowly lay down. It was hot with two bodies in the bed, and the blankets had been kicked away save for a small thin sheet. Kili wore his grey underthings and Ilzkhaal, complaining he couldn’t sleep in his leathers, had nothing on at all. He turned away from the fire, red and sleepless against his closed eyes, and tried to put everything else out of his head. He couldn’t think about Fili, about the rest of his family or Erebor or Ori. He couldn’t think about how deep he was falling with Ilzkhaal and there was no tearing apart from him, not now. All he could do was try and sleep, keep himself sharp for his last day inside this stone mountain. He had to make Bolg and his generals believe in his act. He had to find Nazarg and set him free. Kili pressed his face against the pillow in a rare fit of panic as the full scope of it began to finally settle on him. One more day, and they would be marching towards war. He couldn’t stop this from happening – he was only one person. Even if he killed Bolg somehow, there were still those awful generals to content with. There was still Mautor, wanting his twisted retribution for something that had happened long before any of them were born. He couldn’t do it here – it had to be out there, with Fili watching him, so they would all _know._ Kili ached for that moment of redemption, that assurance that he really was on the right side, that he was doing what was good. He was nothing without that absolution.

Kili opened his eyes and stared at the sharp curve of Ilzkhaal’s back, the near-invisible lines of his ribs in the sinking light. He wasn’t starved – he could put food away faster than the burliest dwarves around the spit-roast. He was just lean and light, as frail and graceful as a bird. There was a lump in his throat, and Kili had to swallow hard for it to dissolve. These were the soldiers girded with iron and bone that were being sent to war.

He finally fell asleep after a long time, the chilling whisper growing soft in his ear.

* * *

“Kili!”

There was a thud at the door. Kili jerked up, wide-eyed. “Kili, c’mon, get up!” It took a moment for him to come back down, rubbing at his face. The knock on the door grew louder, urgent. “Now!”

“I’m up!” Kili stumbled out, wincing at the cold now the fire was out. He looked over his shoulder at Ilzkhaal, sleeping as soundly as ever, and staggered across the room, drawing the bolt and opening the door a crack, standing behind it so only his head and shoulders were showing. “What is it?”

“They’re waiting for you downstairs.” The guard grumbled. “Are you not even awake yet? Mautor’ll be spitting.” Kili’s mouth fell open. How late was it? “It’s going to take all day as it is, they can’t hold it.”

“Tell them I’ll be right down.” He shut the door and leaned against it for a moment, feeling rushed and disjointed. How could he _oversleep?_ It was such a basic, stupid mistake to make. But he was so warm and comfortable in that bed, with Ilzkhaal and the fire and a belly full of food. Kili’s eyes snapped open with a gasp. All day?

_Shit._

“Ilz you need to wake up.” Kili found his trousers on the floor, pulling them on one-legged, hopping about. On the floor, Nardur looked up, head cocked to one side. “C’mon, _please_.” He jumped on the bed, shaking the orc’s bony shoulder. “Please please please, I need you.”

“Mmm.” His voice was muffled. He turned deeper into the pillow. “Soon.”

“No – now!” Kili gently slapped the side of his face. “I have to go _now_ and I need you to do something for me. Please. I can’t trust anyone else.”

“Sure.” He lay on his back now, but his eyes were still closed. “Anything for you.”

“Oh you great lump, look at me.” He held Ilzkhaal’s face in both hands, shaking him. “Are you awake?”

“’M up.” He opened his eyes blearily. “Kili?” He was greeted with another rough shake on the shoulder. “What is it?”

“I need you to go into town for me.” Kili thrust his hand into his pocket. “I need you to buy food, clothes, a water-skin, blankets, flint – everything you need for a journey.” He emptied everything from his pocket into Ilzkhaal’s hand, closing his bony fingers around the silver and copper. “This won’t be enough, so take anything in this room you can sell for a few coins. I don’t care what it is, all right? Just make sure you get it. Oh, and a warg – haggle for an old bear if that’s all you have money for, as long as he’s got four legs, that’s all that matters.”

Ilzkhaal got up on one elbow, eyes finally focused. “Kili?”

“And a knife. You need a knife, a good one.” His mind raced, trying to think of what he could have forgotten. “A travel-cloak. Just – whatever you take when you go on a long, long, hunt.” Kili jumped down off the bed and found his shirt, stumbling over the fastening. “You _need_ to go this for me. I’ll meet you at the cave-mouth at sundown, you know, that little one that opens to the North. Nobody every goes around there. I can’t trust anyone else with this – it’s the only chance I have.” He stepped into his boots, not bothering with the straps at the moment, and found his coat. “You understand, don’t you?”

Ilzkhaal was sitting up now, a heavy frown on his face. “Yes, but—”

“Good.” Kili was already at the door. “Good. _Narnûlubat_.” His hand rested on the door. “Thank you so much.” And then he was gone, leaving Ilzkhaal with his hands full of money and mouth full of questions, running at breakneck pace along the halls.

He was almost at the main Hall before he realised that his dwarven hair-clasp would have been in Ilzkhaal’s hands too.


	87. Disappear Completely

There was no grandness to Nazarg’s awakening. No bright light, or hum in his ears, no rising or falling. He was simply – _there_ again. He was dead and then he was alive, he was cold and still, then warm and breathing, with the blood flowing in his limbs and a low, stubborn heartbeat and the sensation of what felt like branches against his skin.

It took a long, long time to come out. He woke from the deepest sleep imaginable, where all he remembered was a pair of small, strong arms around him, the crashing memories of his entire life flashing before his eyes, his gut burning and spreading outwards through his vein as the spider-poison stole the breath from his lungs. His arms and legs weren’t moving, he couldn’t feel his fingers and toes, and just a simple, ragged gasp of air made his chest flood with pain. It was though he had been crushed under a landslide and every bone in his body was broken. Something was pinning him, heavy but not unmoveable, trapping both legs and his good arm.

The first thing that struck him was the smell. Nazarg gagged, his empty stomach rocking and convulsing. He knew the stench of the dead, the putrid odour of flesh that rotted until it was peeling away from the bone. He must have been drowning in it here, part of some rubbish heap that had been left to decompose in the darkness. It was some effort, breathing through his mouth, bracing himself against the smell. He realised it wasn’t branches that were sticking into him. Sounds reached him, after a long time. His own breathing. The soft scurrying of rats, that sick, slimy oozing of something slithering near his ear, the drip-drip-dripping of slowly congealing blood. He opened his eye to complete and utter darkness. Nazarg bit back a gasp of surprise, of fear, and squeezed it shut again, a child hiding from night-time monsters.

When he couldn’t take it anymore, Nazarg pushed himself up on his elbow. He twisted and struggled, and with a soft cry, his other arm came free. He gripped hold of something sharp beneath him and dragged himself out in slow, painful inches. The air was freezing against his bare arms and feet and he shivered. On his hands and knees, he crawled, feeling ahead of him, carefully testing the uneven, shaky ground. It was dark and cold, and he had _no_ idea where he was, but from the sounds of things, there was no other soul around, and that was some blessing. They must have left him here to rot. Nobody would ever, ever come for him now. He was dead to the rest of the world.

It was a terrifying, overwhelming thought. _Dead_. Nazarg remembered that fleeting, timeless blackness with a cold clenching in his gut. He was dead, for hours or days, he didn’t know. But he was dead, and in that time, he didn’t see a thing. There was no After for him, only blackness. The thought gripped him, and he tried to push it away, tried to forge on ahead, climbing and crawling like a weak-limbed infant. He had to find _some_ way out of here, out of this rotting, writhing hell. Nazarg tried to tell himself he wasn’t scared.

 _Wherever you are, Kili_ , he curled his fingers around the sharp curve of animal-bone. _Please, please find me soon._

* * *

The table was a low, squat square. Bolg bent over it, bowed and low with his hands flat on the wood. Mautor stood with one hand in a balled fist under his chin, eyes narrowed. Five of Bolg’s generals stared down at the table with anticipative mutters, eyes gleaming. Kili was perfectly still, his hands at his side, face blank and impassive. Grishthak was reading aloud from a fragment of animal-skin, the bridge of his nose wrinkled in a snarl. He was old and weathered in this light, and Kili found himself staring at the sagging, greyish folds of skin over the bones in his neck and face and arms. He seemed deflated, but there was still a sharpness in his eyes, the curl of his lip. Of Bolg’s six generals, it was this ageing wolf that set Kili most on edge.

“The elf-scum’s forces are heavily armed and thick in numbers.” The old orc spat. “The crows estimate at least four thousand. There are perhaps a thousand men who survived the burning of Lake-Town, and Thranduil has given them swords and arrows in plenty.” At the mention of the elf-king’s name, Mautor let out an involuntary growl. “That’s not all.” Grishthak threw down the letter and traced his finger over the vast handrawn map spread out on the table. “It seems Thorin Oakenshield has mustered forces from the east.”

“Dain.” Kili’s lips barely moved. Grishthak grunted, looking up. “Dain Ironfoot. M– Thorin’s cousin.” He caught himself, but nobody missed the slip-up.

“Dain then, he has two thousand dwarves of his own. Reports claim they are three days solid march.”

“The dwarf-scum do not rest.” Bolg snarled. “Two, at the latest.” Kili’s throat was dry. “So seven thousand in all. We have five – Mautor, how many orcs have you managed to wring out of this miserable wreck.” Kili bit the inside of his cheek, watching Mautor fume in silent humiliation.

“Fifteen hundred.” He spoke slowly and deliberately, careful of every word. “As many guards as I can spare without the town descending into chaos, and every orc of the right age who can handle a weapon – hunters and smiths, mostly.”

“We need more.” Grishthuk started pacing back and forth, hands behind his back. “Dwarves are stout and firm and elves have centuries of cunning. It will take wave upon wave to bring them down.”

“This is a defensive outpost.” Mautor banged a fist on the table. “You are not taking artisans and farmers and putting swords in their hands.” He straightened up and glared at Bolg. “If you want a shield-body to protect your orcs Bolg, look elsewhere.”

“You will do as we command.” One of the other generals spoke up, a brutish, bulky creature that Kili regarded only with contempt. “Don’t forget who stands in this room. Bolg could crush this entire hovel like a bug under his boot—”

“ _Enough_ , Throquûrz.” Bolg snarled. He rounded on Mautor himself, leering six inches over the orc-captain with his good eye locked in place, the other milky-white, wide and gaping. “You don’t need to be threatened, do you?”

“Of course he doesn’t.” Grishthuk had stepped back to the table, staring across the huge map at the shriveling orc-captain. “I’m sure he understands the glory of such a victory far outweighs the loss of a few hundred servants and peasants.” There was a visible knot in Mautor’s throat and he nodded in complete silence.

“I do.” His voice was strained and he sounded lost. Kili’s nails were cutting into his palms and he opened up the healing wound on his palm, blood smeared on his fingertips.

* * *

“Well this is a fine surprise.” She struck as soon as Ilzkhaal closed the door gently behind him. Harna was stirring the blackened crockpot over the iron stove with the baby grizzling on her hip, reaching for the food with his chubby little fist. “You said you would be an hour at the _most_ Ilzkhaal, not traipsing about all night with that dwarf while I’ve been sitting alone.”

“I told you, I was with Akash—”

“No you weren’t, I can smell Kili all over you.” Still curled against the door, Ilzkhaal stared down at his feet. “Wash yourself, and wash your blankets too. The whole house stinks of dwarf, I’ll never get the smell out.”

“You said you liked Kili.” He sounded hurt. Harna paused in her stirring, staring down at the bubbling pottage with a frown wrinkling her brow. “Ma, they closed the gates on me, I couldn’t get out again. I waited for hours but he was busy all evening, it wasn’t his fault.”

“Busy.” She repeated flatly, disbelieving.

“Yes, with Bolg.” He walked towards her, hands stretched out. “Please don’t be angry with him. You’ve got it all wrong. E-Everybody’s got it wrong.” Even Frûshkul had gone silent, leaning against his grandmother’s chest, with the amber teething beads stuffed in his mouth. “Look, I’m here now. I have to go back out in a while but I’ll be home later and—”

“Oh, you’re not going anywhere.” She stormed across to her son, and with a huff, thrust the wooden spoon in his hand. Harna handled Frûshkul with a little more care, the baby gabbling, tiny fingers just brushing Ilzkhaal’s face. “I needed to meet Niinak at dawn to help her with the blindfish traps. You know I can’t take the _brogud_ with me and scare the creatures off.”

“Ma, I’m sorry.” He pleaded with her as she took down her weathered cape from a hook on the wall. “Please, just a little while—”

“The _zausru_ is almost done. Wash up and sweep out the floor. One of Frûshkul’s teeth is coming through, he barely slept. Use the cheap stuff under the bench when he starts crying, no more than a fingertip.” She stepped into her boots, fingers tight around the fastenings. “If you have to go out, take him with you. Please, _please_ be home by sundown.” Harna stared, the hard edges softening a little on her face, a twist in her mouth that threatened to tremble. “Spend your last night with me.”

The stubborn, indignant frustration dissolved. Ilzkhaal tried to swallow and found there was a lump in his throat. His mother was afraid, more afraid than he had ever seen her. His voice was lost and he only nodded silently. Harna paused to wrap an arm briefly across his shoulder. Her chin met his temple, and they were both reminded yet again just how short and wiry he was. “You little fool.” She whispered in his ear. “I love you so much.” Ilzkhaal mumbled wordlessly, and nodded again. “Get back to the food before it sticks.”

“Yes Ma.” He finally choked out a shaky smile, shuffling the soft body in his arm and turning to the stove as she left, the steam hot and damp against his face. “I’m sorry.” Ilzkhaal whispered again, even though his mother was gone and she couldn’t hear him.

When the breakfast cooked and he’d managed to get a bowl inside himself and half-a-dozen spoonfuls down Frûshkul’s throat, Ilzkhaal sat down and pulled the little satchel close to him. He’d nicked it from Kili’s room, filling it with anything that he could sell, just like Kili said. He upended it, and picked through it – a jar of leather-cream, some tobacco, a few candles, a bone bracelet, a comb that he knew never touched Kili’s hair, a little carved figurine of stone, among others. There were the scattered coins as well, and he stacked it all up, counting the value. His fingers brushed the silver hair-clasp, and he turned it over and over in his hands, biting his lip.

He stared at the interlocking geometric designs. It was clearly one of Kili’s things, a personal possession that he had held onto, all this time. And he just dumped it into Ilzkhaal’s hands, carelessly, as though it meant nothing to him. There were still a few strands of hair caught in the fixture of the clasp, black against the silver. Ilzkhaal pulled a strand free and wound it around a finger, thinking. Eventually, he slipped into his pocket. Everything else went back in the satchel, to be traded and sold and bartered for food and clothes, but the clasp remained a secret, cold as ice against the soft leather.

* * *

Kili kept to the shadows, the lantern dangling from one hand, a thick coil of rope over his left shoulder. Beside him, Nardur trudged along obediently. The air down here was wet and stale, he had to breathe twice as much, it seemed, just to get enough air in his lungs. He heard the occasional flutter of bats disturbed by the light. He tried to leave the anxiety and tension of that horrible meeting room behind him, tried to forget about what it held. They were taking more and more orcs away, innocent farmers and traders, people who had never held anything more dangerous than a scythe in their lives. Kili told himself that he didn’t care about them, they were just orcs, and this was a natural casualty of war, but his stomach was tight and sick.

It was the helplessness that hurt most of all. There was nothing Kili could do to stop this war from happening. He looked at those generals and he knew, even if he somehow killed Bolg with his own hands here, it wouldn’t stop the war. Not with Mautor wanting blood, even if he blanched at the cost. Those generals would easily take over. They didn’t need to be particularly clever. They just needed to be cruel. The soldiers could do the rest. It was endless, self-perpetuating. If it weren’t for people like Ilzkhaal and Nazarg, who opened up to him, showed him that side of their humanity that was kind and brave, showed him that there was love there, he would have felt entirely lost. But he had that hope, he held on to it. It was a life-raft against the despair that threatened to drown him.

The smell hit him like the rolling heat of a white-hot furnace. Kili stopped and gagged, one hand over his mouth and the sweat already beading against his temples. He fought the sick wave in his stomach and walked with his head down, the smell rising. At least he knew he was in the right direction. At his right, Nardur whimpered. “I know buddy.” He scratched the warg’s ears. “Reeks, doesn’t it?” He turned up his collar and sank his mouth and nose down into the stiff leather. “I just hope he’s alive.”

Kili stopped at the edge of the pit, his toes just about touching the edge. He held out the lantern and peered over the edge, trying to make out the edges and shapes in the darkness. “Nazarg?” He didn’t know why he was whispering – nobody was down here. Nobody would come down here at all if they could help it. He was safe. “Nazarg, are you there? Are you all right?” Kili crouched, one hand on Nardur’s muzzle in a wordless command for silence. “Can you hear me?”

He waited and listened, strained, every fibre of his body pulled almost to a breaking point. Kili screwed up his eyes as though the darkness could help him listen. Then, he heard it – a hoarse, rasping whisper, on the edge of his earshot. “Kili?”

“ _Nazarg!”_ He gasped, gripping the edge of the stone. “Where are you? Can you see the light?” His hands fumbled with the rope over his shoulder. He tied the lantern and began to slowly lower the orb of light over the edge. “Can you see this?”

“It’s so cold.” The pale voice grated against Kili’s heart. “I-I can’t move my legs properly.”

“Move towards the light.” Kili screwed up his eyes. “Tie the rope around your waist and I’ll lift you up. I can’t climb down and get you out, there’s nothing to tie it to.”

“I’m not far – just let me – _ugh_ – I can’t – almost...” Nazarg was coughing. Kili lowered the rope until he felt the pressure slacken. He thought he could hear the sound of Nazarg crawling, the shift of bone and flesh. Kili hoped it was him. He remembered what the orcs said about wargs and spiders coming down here to feast and his stomach curdled.

“Hurry up.” Kili said urgently. “I have to get you out of here soon. You need to be gone in the sunset, so by the morning you’ll have vanished without a trace and nobody can find you. Have you got the rope yet?”

“A-Almost.” Nazarg gasped. “I’m just about to... y-yes I’ve got it.” The rope pulled in Kili’s hands. “Get me out of here Kili.” Hand over hand, with the friction burning through the bandage on his hand, Kili slowly hauled the orc to safety. Nardur barked at the grey hand that clung to the edge, and as Kili pulled him up by the arms, he tried to get his nose in and sniff at the lost, familiar smell.

“Oh, go away.” Kili pushed at the stupid beast and tried to set Nazarg right, get him sitting up. The orc stared at him blearily through his single eye, the lantern dangling from his bad hand, and with a little gasp, he threw himself into Kili’s arms, breath in choked half-sobs. It was indescribable, the joy of feeling another body that was warm, where the blood pulsed and the lungs filled with air, after the endless hell-hole of rotting bones.

“It’s all right.” Kili whispered. Nazarg was folded up like a spider, bare limbs shaking. He _hated_ himself like this, terrified, clinging to this little scrap of a dwarf who was as small as a child against him. He knew he was free, he felt the air on his skin but that carcass still seemed on top of him, keeping him trapped and although he twisted and struggled there was no way out. “I’ve got you, it’s going to be all right now. You’re not dead.”

Nazarg clung to the collar of Kili’s heavy coat. “Yes I am.”

* * *

Nadur waited with his head down on his paws, gazing idly into the half-light of the narrow, disused passageway. The fading sunlight behind him was the size of a thumbnail. His tail swished slowly from side to side, in patient, thoughtless waiting.

He lifted his head at the sound of approaching footsteps, quick and light with a slow, four-legged plodding in tow. The warg got up, resting on his haunches as his nose carefully tested the air. He smelled the lingering scent of Kili, on someone else’s skin, and the wagging of his tail grew. When Ilzkhaal grew close enough to make out Nardur’s ragged outline, he gave a single bark, and disappeared into a little cleft in the stone.

“What – Kili, where are you?” Ilzkhaal hissed as loud as he dared, a heavy bundle over one shoulder, the leash of a greying warg wrapped around one wrist, and Frûshkyl draped in a sling across his chest. He felt exhausted under the weight of everything. “Where did you disappear to?” He slipped through, dragging the bony beast along behind him. “Kili?”

“In here.” The dwarf’s voice was soft. Ilzkhaal blinked, stepping into a small, shallow cave that stung of smoke. Kili stood before a small fire, teeth white in his face as he grinned. Nardur gave a small bark, and settled down against the wall, beside a low figure hunched on the ground, as close to the fire as he dared with Kili’s coat over his shoulders. “Oh, _good._ ” He clapped his hands together and clenched his fingers tight. “There’s so much stuff here – this is great Ilz thank you _so_ much. Oh you’ve even brought Frûshkul. I didn’t interrupt anything did I?” The orc shook his head. Kili took the bundle from Ilzkhaal’s shoulder, rootling through with a growing smile. “You got everything.” He pulled out the clothes and made his way back to the strange figure with that brimming, hopeful smile. “Here, put these on.” Kili pulled off his coat and threaded the orc’s arms through a soft leather tunic. He lifted his head, and Ilzkhaal caught a glimpse of a scarred, mutilated face, one eye missing. His throat tightened and he took a step back, his free hand protectively cupping the back of Frûshul’s tiny head.

“Kili,” he whispered, “who – who is that?” With one hand around the orc’s ankle, getting him into a pair of stout boots that almost fitted, Kili looked over his shoulder. His face darkened, the shadows in deepening as his eyes drifted down to the floor. His grip tightened around the coarse leash on instinct and realisation slowly hit Ilzkhaal in a long, slow wave that crashed from his toes to his fingertips. _The one who killed Azog._

“I’ll get you some food.” Kili whispered to Nazarg, reaching in the pack. He found a lump of coarse, lumpy biscuit wrapped in a thin coating of clay. He cracked it with a small rock and broke it in half, storing the rest for later. Nazarg fell to ravenously, smearing his face and taking big, wolfish gasps of air. Ilzkhaal stood there like a gaping fish, dumbstruck and Kili could just see the gears working in his head, like one of those big iron machines they had down in the coal-fires. He just hoped that Ilz couldn’t put all the pieces together. “Are you feeling warmer?”

“Much.” Nazarg stopped to wipe at his mouth. It still seemed like a dream, being wrenched to freedom and carefully led here. They stopped long enough to scrub at the smell in a freezing river with a lump of soap Kili had in his pocket, and a whispered promise that a friend would bring him everything he needed. He didn’t know Kili had any other friends here.

“Ilz,” Standing back up again, Kili laid his hand on the orc’s wrist, with that softness that made him melt. “I know there’s no keeping this from you – I’m sorry I dragged you into this. I didn’t know what else to do – setting him free without any food or supplies – I’d be better off leaving him for dead underground.”

“How is this happening.” He gasped, his own hand finding Kili’s elbow. Frûshkul stirred restlessly, reaching out and grabbing a handful of soft leather. Kili managed a weak, watery smile. “Kili how the hell did you do this?”

“Partly skill, mostly luck. Who’s this old boy?” Kili turned to the warg at the end of the leash. “A bit grey but he’s still got all his teeth.”

“Golnauk.” Ilzkhaal breathed. “He’s the best I could get, they’re mustering all the good beasts up for the march. Kili you have to explain this—”

“I will.” There was a sharp edge of desperation in Kili’s voice, pleading with Ilzkhaal to let it go, even though he knew he wouldn’t. How could he, when he stared right at a ghost? “Right now, I have to get him out of here.” He sank to his knees, putting everything back in the pack. “This is heavy Nazarg but you’ll have to manage.” The mutilated orc was standing up slowly, one hand pressed against the stone to maintain his shaky balance. He fiddled with the clasp on the oilskin, pulling the hood on over his had to hide those awful twisted features, shouldering the pack on his bowed back.

“I’ll be all right.” His eye was fixed on the old warg, sitting before the little fire a mistrustful glint in his eye. “I got here didn’t I?” Kili looked away at that, raking his hands through his hair. The food had set a fire in Nazarg’s stomach, and with the feeling of warm clothes over him, the stench of death washed from his skin, he felt for just a moment that he could _really do this._

“Ilzkhaal won’t tell anyone about this.” Kili’s hand was still on the skinny orc’s wrist. “I trust him. You two are the only people I still trust.” The other two looked at each other, both sizing the other up. Ilzkhaal was small and wide-eyed, a gaping child with a child. Nazarg looked like something out of a nightmare now, scarred and marked, with bits of him missing. “You’re the only friends I have in the whole world.” Ilzkhaal swallowed, felt the bones in his throat move. He felt too afraid to speak. Why was Kili friends with Azog’s killer? How could he, with his loyalty so open, dare to do this? Why would he risk his own life for the sake of a murderer and a criminal?

And then he remembered the darkness in Kili’s eyes when he mentioned the scar on his wrist, that flash of white-hot hatred that burned for a long time before fading away. He remembered that first glimpse he ever saw of Kili, dirty and ragged, lunging for Ilzkhaal with nothing but cold desperation. People thought he was stupid a lot of the time, because he was fond of the drink when he went out and he didn’t talk much and he was painfully naive, but Ilzkhaal was smarter than a lot of people realised. He was smart enough to put the pieces together now, holding up both reflections of Kili, the outward armour and the inward heart, the fantasy and the reality, and with all those pieces stacked up and stitched together, he realised the impossible truth.

_Kili was the one who killed Azog._

Perhaps he didn’t do it directly. Perhaps he was merely complicit, or he agreed to it and had Nazarg deliver the death-blow. Perhaps they did it together, swearing secrecy, for each of them to take the blame and spare the other. Or perhaps it really was Kili who did everything, and Nazarg who clung to a lie in order to save him. His voice was stuck in his throat and for that he was glad. If he was to open his mouth, he couldn’t trust what words could come out. What would Kili say to him, if he knew? Bring him into this conspiracy, threaten to hurt him, slit his throat then and there so he would keep quiet? No, no – he _wouldn’t_. They were friends, they shared everything, their pasts, their fears, their bodies – was it a real stretch for Kili to expose his secrets too, if he truly trusted Ilzkhaal?

Was he brave enough to find out?

They walked quietly, with Kili holding the baby while Ilzkhaal ran on ahead, making sure it was all clear. There were a few little holes in the side of the mountains, where half-a-dozen goatherders lived. If Nazarg left in the twilight he just might slip by unseen. The pair of them walked in silence at first, Frûshkul gabbling around his teething beads. But eventually, the orc spoke. “I hope you really can trust that boy. You’ve come too far to let this all fall apart.”

Kili smiled. “I can trust him.” He sounded brave and confident. “He won’t ever betray me.”

“How do you know?”

He looked at the gloomy shape at his side. “He’s in love with me.” There was a sputter of surprise and it made the smile grow on Kili’s face.

“Do... well, do you..?”

“I...” Kili bit his lip. “I don’t know.” He eventually spoke, his voice very soft. The answer surprised him. Two days ago, he would have would have hit Nazarg for asking the question, would have loudly protested that he liked dams and nothing else and all of it was a broken, awful mistake that went too far. But he couldn’t say that now. Something held him back from saying it. “That’s... messy at the moment.”

“Please tell me you know what you’re doing down here Kili.” His good hand found the dwarf’s shoulder and squeezed it. He ached with pity. “Don’t waste this.”

“I have everything planned out.” Kili shifted the tiny body against his hip. “Well – almost. After this, I’m going to head east with Bolg’s army. I’ll keep obeying him and listening to his commands.”

“And then?”

“I’ll murder him, I’m sure of that.” Kili whispered. “It will have to be on the battlefield. That’s when the army will be most fragile.” There was a sharp intake of breath.

“They’ll kill you Kili. He won’t be alone, he’ll have his guards around him. If you manage to do it, they’ll tear you to pieces.”

Kili swallowed. “I know.” His voice shook for a moment, and he had to pause, wait for the tremble to fade. “I killed Azog twice. The poison wasn’t enough, he must have been too big. He came after me and we fought. I tried to slash his throat and he tried to choke me and I won. But even watching him die, having the blood all over my hands, it just wasn’t enough. I have to do this. I have to end him. It’s the most awful feeling, bloodlust, it keeps me awake at night. After everything that Azog did to me, I have to make him suffer Nazarg. His own death isn’t enough. I have to make him hurt even more. I need peace.” He pressed his lips against the soft little nest of downy hair, sniffing. “I’ll die happy if I stop this sick anger from swallowing me whole. It’s all I want.” But it was such a distant possibility. Kili knew it would take more than killing Bolg. It would take everything he had, maybe even more, to cleanse himself. Nothing could wash off that stain.

“You don’t need to die for this.” They were close enough now, that light brushed Kili’s face, the tiny smudges of a child’s finger. “Don’t turn to that sort of raw revenge, Kili. It’s just letting Azog drag you down to his level, and win.”

“Cowardice is what lets Azog win.” There was a scowl on Kili’s face. “I’m not afraid of him. I’m not afraid of anything anymore.” Nazarg sighed, sadly. It was what he was scared of hearing, but he kept those fears quiet.

“It’s clear.” Ilzkhaal breathed from the mouth of the cave. “Hurry, the light’s almost gone.” Kili hurried along, only looking back once before he stepped out into the twilight. “Follow the path to your right.” He remembered that Kili’s eyes weren’t as sharp as his in the bad light. Kili never told him, it was just something that he must have picked up along the way, watching Kili stumble along in the dark.

Nazarg arched his neck, staring up at the velvet blue sky as he sucked breath after icy breath into his lungs. Air that was fresh and clean and pure, that didn’t have the taste of blood and metal, that didn’t reek of filth and rot. He couldn’t get enough of it, just breathing that wonderful air in and looking up at the emerging stars.

Kili went first, taking old Galnauk and keeping one arm carefully under the infant, holding him close. It was a steep, winding path and he stepped carefully, squinting at the vague shapes and shadows beneath his feet. There was a cry behind him, the sound of slipping rocks. He whirled around, jolting the baby, seeing the crumpled form of Nazarg about eight feet above him, black against the rocks.

“Nazarg!” Kili hissed. “Are you all right—” He made to climb back up, but Ilzkhaal was already flitting past him, as light and nimble as a goat. The moon was rising, shining silver-white on his grey skin.

“I’ll help him, just get down.” Ilzkhaal crouched down before sprawled figure, trying to regain his breath, holding out his arm. “Come on, up.” Nazarg mumbled a thanks and gripped the young orc’s wrist with his mutilated claw of a hand. He staggered forward a step or two, lurching and almost falling again. “Just hold on, I’ll walk you down.” Ilzkhaal tugged of the pack, shouldering it himself, and took his good arm, taking slow, deliberate, shallow steps in a guideline for the other orc to follow him. He got another look at the hollow, sagging socket of his missing eye and swallowed back a hot, sour burst in his throat. Curiosity won out over propriety. “I have to ask – why were you in Azog’s army? You don’t look much like a soldier.”

There was a low rumble in his throat. “I wasn’t.” Nazarg muttered. “I was a healer in the Misty Mountains when Azog showed up. He’d beaten Kili within an inch of his life, and Azog forced me to join him and keep Kili alive.” He gave a little shake of his head. “The poor kid was a wreck. I didn’t think he would last the week.” Ilzkhaal looked down at Kili, near bottom of the steep slope. He’d seen those scars beneath his clothes, and he believed it.

“Just a little bit more.” He spoke up after a short, pensive quietness. The moon was shining now, and Kili sat down on a broad rock at the bottom, holding Frûshkul in his lap so the baby faced him. “And you’ll be free.”

“Wait—” Nazarg’s hand tightened on his arm and he pulled, trying to draw Ilzkhaal in. Those black-stone eyes stared, wide and curious. “Just – help Kili.” He licked his dry lips, nails driving into the bare skin. “Protect him.”

Ilzkhaal started. “How? I’ve never seen Bolg before but I heard he’s terrifying—”

“No.” He shook his head. “Not Bolg. Himself. Protect Kili from himself.” Ilzkhaal looked over at his shoulder again. Kili was playing a little peek-a-boo game with Frûshkul while he waited, bubbling laughter rolling up the jagged face of the slope. But they both knew how quickly Kili could snap, if he were angry or scared or thought he was in danger. “Azog left a deeper mark than he’ll ever admit.”

It was hard to breathe. He wanted to protest that he didn’t mean for _any_ of this, that Kili was just a good-looking curiosity and Ilzkhaal only wanted to see how far things could go. He never could have predicted the secrets that lay beneath the surface. He never would have done it, if he’d known. This all went beyond him, the lies and the conspiracies and the blood, and at the very heart of it, a frightened, solitary creature that was on the verge of breaking. Kili was grinning in the moonlight now, hair half-falling over his face and getting into his eyes, and Ilzkhaal’s heart was beating painfully fast at the sight of it.

That flash of Kili as he wanted him to be, smiling and beautiful and caring, steadied Ilzkhaal. He placed his left hand over Nazarg’s, fingertips over cold knuckles. “I will.” He promised in a whisper to someone who had given everything they could to save Kili, life and body and freedom, and it still wasn’t enough at the end.

“I thought you’d never get down.” Kili stood up when the pair finally reached solid, secure ground. He handed the baby over to Ilzkhaal, who shrugged off the heavy pack and set it on the grass. “Are you all right?” He spoke to Nazarg now, who nodded with a faded, wan expression. He put the burden back on his back, pausing to scratch Nardur behind the ears before turning to Kili.

“I was locked in a tiny cell for weeks and then left for dead, I expected to be a little clumsy.” He flexed his fingers. “I promise I’ll be all right.” He clapped Kili on the shoulder, trying to be cheery, and only half-successful at it. “The worst of it is over.”

“You need to go north.” Kili rubbed at his mouth with the back of his hand before speaking. “There’s a few settlements up there, just small ones, but they’ll shelter you throughout the winter. Use a fake name and say that it was men who did this to you, and nobody will be the wiser. They’re – fifty miles, would you say Ilz? Or a more?”

“I would say closer to a hundred.” The orc stared off into the black horizon, looking thoughtful. “Traders walk there, spent two nights resting, and get back in almost three weeks on foot. It’s not all that far, you can make it.”

“Just follow this,” Kili pointed up to the sky, “do you see it? Three stars in a line, quite close together, and a two at the head of it. It looks like a sword at the right angle.”

“Yes... Yes I see it.” He squinted with his single eye, pointing himself. “There.”

“Good. Just follow that, if you’re ever lost. It points north, so you’ll stay on course.” At his side, Nazarg nodded.

“It’ll be fine.” He spoke firmly, sounding as though he believed in himself. He did, he really did. Nazarg was just tired, and cold. He wanted to rest his head and sleep, for hours and days and weeks. He wanted to come back from the dead. “I’ll find my way.”

Kili held a hand over his mouth for a moment, and with a little breaking gasp, threw his arms around Nazarg’s neck, standing on the tips of his toes to do it, stumbling a little clumsily. “I’m so sorry.” He mumbled, desperately aware that this was the very, very the last time the pair of them would ever meet. “Undo all of this. Have another life.”

“I will. I will.” Nazarg only allowed the hug to go on for a brief moments before disentangling himself from Kili, unwinding his arms slowly and stepping back, both hands on his shoulders. “You have another life too, Kili. Don’t let this kill you.”

Kili didn’t speak, he merely bowed his head. “Goodbye, Nazarg.” He whispered one final time. Nazarg simply gripped his arm and squeezed once, turned away, leaping astride the bony old warg. He fixed his gaze on Ilzkhaal for just a moment. His silent plea hung in the air. _Protect him_. Looking gaunt in the moonlight, the young orc nodded without a word, eyes drifting down to his shoes.

And then he was gone. Kili stood and watched him, hands balled at his sides, trying to tell himself that the stinging in his eyes was from the chilly breeze. After some time, Ilzkhaal slowly approached him with a soft tap on the shoulder. “I have to go.” His voice dripped with regret. “I’m so sorry – I told my mother I would be home at sundown and it’s already dark. She’s furious about last night and I don’t want to make it w—”

“Go.” Kili silenced his gabbling apology. He turned to the side, and Ilzkhaal saw there wasn’t malice or anger in his face. “Go home to your family.”

He shifted Frûshkul’s sleepy figure against his lean hip. “You can come with me. Ma likes you, although she grumbles about it. I know you like my place much more than that awful tower.” Kili’s lips twitched in the shadow of a smile and he shook his head.

“I think at the moment,” he sighed, “I want to be alone.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” Ilzkhaal promised. “Before the march, I’ll find you, or you’ll find me, and we can go together, all right?” Kili’s smile had faded and his eyes were half-lidded.

“I would like that.” Tentatively, the orc leaned in, pressed his lips to Kili’s temple and wound one arm around his broad little shoulders. Kili’s arms remained at his side. “Tomorrow then.”

When he was alone, Kili sank down to the ground, before that same rock he’d been playing on with the baby. He drew his knees up and rested his forehead on folded arms, staring out at the jagged landscape of rock and naked dust, gleaming silver. Nardur whined, sitting up beside Kili with his chin on the stone, ears twitching.

“We’ll go in soon, boy.” With his heavy coat, Kili wasn’t cold. He sighed and looked up at the stars, constellations he could vaguely remember but not name with any confidence, in a sky that had darkened to an inky blackness. He just wanted this still quietness to go on forever. There was no tormenting voice screaming at him, no bustling questions or what-if’s or paranoid delusions. Just silence.

Another person had gone. Kili’s entire life felt like a series of comings and goings, people entering and then leaving again. His old instructor Aldin, his mother, Thorin, Dwalin, Fili, Ori, Azog, Nazarg, Ilzkhaal... people who got under his skin and into his heart, leaving a little thumbprint behind. Different stories and truths, secrets and lies that traded back and forth. Different versions of Kili, a child, a warrior, a prince, a monster, a liar, a lover. Of everyone who had seen those different parts, Nazarg was the one that had the fullest picture, who saw him as he used to be, guided him through the transformation and witnessed what came out at the other end, and yet still had hope in him.

At end of it all, Kili didn’t even know who he was supposed to be anymore. He kept shifting, never taking root and solidifying. He wondered if he would ever settle down and just become something honest and whole, or if he would be like this for ever, treading on a knife-edge, masking his heart with a snarl and a curse. Perhaps it was just better to always be guarded. People that got too close just seemed to get hurt, one way or another.

But Kili ached _desperately_ for the day when he could finally live without secrets.


	88. Armed

Erebor towered above them. Still half a mile away, Dain stopped briefly to take it all in, standing at the run of a jagged cliff with his head held high. His son stood beside him, at his right hand, and Dís lingered behind, arms crossed. There was no joy at seeing her birth-home. The memories of the gold and jewels, the silks and treasures, the crowds of people who jostled to see her, the feast-hall in which she would sing, as light and melodic as a nightingale, left her feeling cold. It was all worthless.

She turned away, while Dain was still looking with that grim, greedy look in his eyes. The soldiers all parted way for her, their eyes lowered and heads bent out respect. Dís didn’t look at them. She kept her face forward, resolute and steady.

But a voice at her side made her stop. “Oh, you are in a hurry.” She pulled up short and turned very quickly to face the source of that strange, foreign tongue. His accent cut down to her bones and brought the horrible memories to the fore with every twisted word. With his dreadlocks as grey as ash and face lined at the mouth and eyes, Fíak was smiling at her. “In a rush to bid your son goodbye?”

He was testing her. Dís could feel the blood rising in her body, pooling in her cheeks and making her heart throb. There was no one that disgusted her more than this vile dwarf, who dragged her from her home, who spent months insulting her and her family, who tried to kill her. “You’re not laying a filthy finger on him.” She spat the words out with all the venom and hatred she could muster. “He will take his take his rightful place on Durin’s throne, I swear it.”

The smirk turned into a sneer. “No he won’t.” He pulled the fragment out of his pocket, bearing Balin’s unusually bulky, shaky handwriting. “Thorin doesn’t want him, Dís. He’s all ours and there’s no one in the world to defend him.” He had his guarantee, at long last. “Víli’s waited too long for this, Dís. If we have to send another army, and another, we will. His line won’t end.”

“Your people deserve to rot.” She stepped close. “You’re a race of murderers and monsters, and the sooner Middle-Earth is free from the blight of the Ironfist clan, the better we will all be. All you bring is blood and misery, everything you touch.”

“All we bring is blood.” Fíak repeated tonelessly. “This coming from a dam whose brother is tempting the destruction of his own people for the sake of mere gold.” He just shook his head. “I thought the exile would have done Thorin some good Dís. But nothing is more important to him than that treasure, is it?”

She didn’t have anything to say to that.

When they reached the lip of the valley, Dain stopped and waited for Fíak to approach him. Dís stood patiently with her hands clasped. The old grey-beard paced back and forth, one hand on the hilt of his sword when he arrived, clearly anticipating some sort of speech from Dain, a bargain, a promise.

He got none of it. “I will keep this simple. We are not allies.” Dain clearly wanted to be as removed from the Ironfists as possible. “We will not approach Thranduil’s camp as allies. We will no longer have anything to do with one another. Take Fili and _leave us alone,_ and we can pretend that this horrible union never tarnished either of our houses.” So Dís’ life had been ruined for nothing then. She tried to push the hatred and fury out before it swallowed her whole again. Her marriage and children were just a mistake, a snag in the fabric, a dropped stitch. She meant nothing to him.

Dís’ eyes grew very wide. With a little strangled sound in her throat, she stepped forward. Dain watched her out of the corner of his eyes, waiting, ready to strike. He was ready to end her. “I’m going with them Dain. I need to speak to Fili—”

“No.” Her heart stopped at the cold tone. “No more involvement. Thorin has passed his judgement Dís. Neither of us have any claim on him now. He’s no son of Durin.”

“I’m seeing him.” She tried to take another step forward, when a heavy hand grasped her tightly by the elbow. “ _Dain!”_ Another dwarf took her left arm. “ _Let me see my son!”_

“There are enough traitors in this family, Dís. Don’t make another.” She screamed, her voice rising high in the air like the stretched death-cry of a tiny bird. He saw right through her. He _knew_ she wanted to help her son and try and become another force and he was ruling her out. He wanted Fili gone. He was a rotten tooth, a thorn in his side and now Dain finally had a way to get rid of everything that stood between him and the throne without igniting civil war. He’d been waiting for _decades_ for this.

“I thank you, Dain son of Nain.” Through gritted teeth, Fíak drained the last of his grace. “You have shown us much hospitality, and we are very grateful for it.”

“You slimy _pig_ how _could you!_ You’ve been planning this haven’t you! Scheming and lying for _years_ you filthy piece of _shit!”_ Dís howled and tried to strike out, but the arms that held her were girt with leather and mail, as strong as dragon’s scales. They wrestled her to the ground, trying to pin her hands behind her back.

“She’s hysterical.” Dain’s voice was dripping with condescending, feigned pity. “Overcome with grief, poor thing, but she’ll be all right. It’s hard on her, losing both children. Mothers always feel it the worst.” Fíak was smiling.

“ _You won’t get away with this!”_ Dís bucked and writhed, kicking at the dwarves that imprisoned her. “No – Let me _go!”_ She was on her knees, the axe ripped from her back and hands firmly held behind her. Dain crouched down slowly, so they were almost eye level. “You monster.” She spat in his face, hatred set in every tense muscle. “You slippery _coward_.”

“Don’t play the innocent victim, Dís.” He muttered. “I know you were concocting some scheme of your own. Do you think I’m going to let you run off and strike a deal with Thranduil? Surely you know me better than that.”

“Thorin won’t stand for this, chaining me up.” She snarled. “He _won’t_!”

“Thorin? Thorin is in the throes of madness.” His voice dropped even lower, so only Dís could hear. “He is no longer sane or rational. Your son made sure of that.” Over his shoulder, Fíak was smiling broadly at Dís’ downfall. “Be a dear Dís. Stand back and let the lads handle this, hm?”

“ _Fuck you!_ ” Her breath was heaving. Dain visibly started at the curse and drew back, eyes wide in shock as he realised just how far he had pushed her. “This isn’t over. I’ll set Fili free, you’ll see—”

“I would advise you to stop speaking, Dís daughter of Thrain.” His voice rose with his back, until he was calling out in the cold wind, wanting everybody to hear it. “Unless you want to admit your treason to a dozen witnesses.”

“If anyone is guilty of treason Dain, it’s _you.”_ She shouted back. “Planning to overthrow Thorin, getting rid of Fili and I like this – people will realise that this is all a plot. They won’t stand for it!” The lines deepened on Dain’s face, his expression dark and heavy.

“Get rid of her.” He said simply, his voice as full and flat as stone.

* * *

The armoury was dim and smoky. He’d been told to come here the night before, first thing in the morning as everyone made ready for the march. There was something for him. It must have been some sort of armour; they had measured him briefly a few days before, just in the waist and length of his legs, muttering that he was a bony wee thing and it wouldn’t take much iron at all. Kili kept his guard up, walking carefully and deliberately as he passed through the cluster of bodies fighting over swords and breastplates and helms, stepping back with a little gasp as the a particularly bulky orc fell to the ground, bleeding from the mouth and groaning, another crowing and holding a nice-looking spear aloft. It was a madhouse that Kili slipped through, the frown deepening on his brow.

“Kili – _there_ you are.” Someone grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him out of the thick of it. “C’mere, we got something you’ll like.”

“Thought I’d have to come and find you.” It was Gozad. Kili’s throat tightened in brief remembrance of his night of lies, but he bit it back and flashed a brief grin. “This was made up for you, finished it last night.”

Kili lost his breath. The pieces of armour were in a pile, a jumble of leather straps and black, beaten iron and the yellow-white flash of bone. He lifted out the two-piece breastplate, front and back tied together with loose strips of hide. Kili ran his fingers over the shoulder-guards. The metal had been set with jagged stripes of broken ribs. He eyed the weight of the bones, the thickness and knew in an instant that they were too heavy to belong to elves and men, and orcs never wore the bones of their own people as an outwards shield.

“I’m honoured.” He murmured. Kili really, really was. He fingered one of the metal plates made for his legs. The iron was sound. “Can – can you help me get it on?”

“’course.” Gozad’s uneven teeth flashed. He passed the breastplate over Kili’s head and laced up the sides, giving the iron a sharp rap with his knuckles when he was done. Kili held the armguards, staring. There was more bone-work on this one, braced against the metal. It looked like the naked skeleton of a twisted, ugly monster. “It’s good stuff.” Gozad spoke in admiration. “I know they were saving the dwarf-bones for a pretty set.”

“It’s fitting.” Kili replied dully, holding his hair up so the orc could get the little tie at the back of his neck, fixing the iron-bone shoulders steady. He didn’t know if he meant the artwork or the armour itself. Gozad chuckled, motioning for Kili to hold out his arms.

“More solid than most of the stuff in here.” Gozad’s deft fingers brushed against Kili’s forearm as he tied the brace tight. This one was backed in soft leather, like one of his old vambraces from back home, although they weren’t shod with iron and studded with the broken bones of his own people. “You’ll look a sight, no doubt about that.”

Kili’s lip twisted. “I think that’s the point.” The orc stepped back and Kili pressed his fingers together. The leather came all the way up to his hands, opening in fingerless gloves. Piece by piece, he was tied down and strapped in, girded in iron parts that worked with his joints, more easy and fluid than a solid suit of traditional dwarvish armour. Kili knew it was a gift, a mark of respect and grace to be given something this nice. It meant that he was worth protecting.

When it had all come together and Kili stood there, feeling twenty pounds heavier, Gozad turned and gave him one last gift. “Got to be armed too, of course.” A bow, the shortest they could find which must have been for a goblin traveller, a quiver bristling with arrows, and a sharp blade, jagged as a saw on one side with a slight curve, the hilt made of carved bone wrapped in strong hide. Kili unsheathed the sword, enough for the metal to catch the light, eyeing the blade critically, before driving the hilt home with a little nod of approval. He slung the bow over his back, carefully over the protruding edges of bones, and buckled the sword at his side. _Now_ he felt heavy. Kili wished he could see himself right now, with the armour and weapons covering more and more of his body until there was almost nothing left.

Gozad was staring. Not some leering, mocking sneer at him, but looking genuinely surprised, and maybe even a little _afraid_ at the monster that stood before him. Kili lifted his head and squared his shoulders, allowing himself to feel proud. Of _course_ he should feel proud of this. This was everything he had been building up for, what the pain and blood and death all amounted to. Kili had managed to fool _everybody_ and lure them into this trust. Nobody suspected that he might be hiding a secret. He was doing so well, carrying himself like this, cursing and snarling and threatening. Almost like a real...

His eyes fell on the open fireplace against the black wall, the brazier filled with ash and fragments of red-hot coal. And he smiled.

* * *

Fili lay on his mess of furs and blankets, hands folded behind his head. It was quiet, almost lonely inside the little tent. Even Ori had left him alone. The last two days had been solitary and completely still, and Fili needed that. He only left for a few minutes at dawn and dusk, walking around, washing his face and hands at the icy river, sitting and staring at the jagged peak that broke against the skies. Thranduil seemed to leave him alone, withdrawing and leaving Fili to his thoughts. Ori brought him food and drink all the time, sat with him for hours and pointedly talked about anything else except the horrible decision that stared Fili in the face.

He weighed everything up. He tried to be cold and heartless. He tried to be cynical. He tried to be greedy. He rationalised Thranduil’s offer from every possible angle, put himself in a hundred different pairs of shoes and yet he was no closer to reaching any sort of conclusion on his own. Fili knew that it was best for his people, for himself, for Thorin in the end, for Fili to take the throne. It was the ‘right’ thing, by any sane means of judgement. _But he couldn’t do it._ It was so shockingly against everything that Fili stood for; his loyalty, his honour, those lifelong virtues that had been instilled in him since he was an infant, he couldn’t just throw it all away.

The longer he thought about it, the more Fili regretted what he did. He regretted trying to get Dwalin’s help. He regretted trying something so brash. He regretted even thinking about overthrowing Thorin at all. Fili sat in agony, like a widow in mourning, pining for the life he had lost, that could never return. All of it had gone _so_ wrong. He didn’t want any of this. He didn’t want the crown without Thorin’s blessing. He couldn’t live with himself, knowing he was a traitor, a usurper who had snatched the throne out from his uncle. No circumstance could excuse destroying such an inviolable oath. He wouldn’t be a true king if he took Thranduil’s twisted offer. He would be a pretender.  

He dreaded his mother’s coming. Fili was terrified of what she would say to him about all of this, about Kili, about the mess he had landed himself in. He wasn’t a little dwarrow anymore, to be scolded and smacked and sent to bed without supper. The idea of his mother being angry at him, truly furious, it twisted like a snake under his skin and left the hairs standing up on the back of his neck. He didn’t even want to bring her into it at first. He was too afraid. It was Ori who slowly persuaded him that there was nobody else he could depend on, so completely and unconditionally. She would help them without question, he was sure of that. It was a battle, getting Fili to agree with him, but Ori was stubborn when he needed to be, and he won in the end.

He heard the horn on the edge of his consciousness at about mid-morning. He jerked up, the snakes writhing in his stomach bit down and released a venom that send a violent cramp flooding his gut and running down his legs. He felt as though he’d been doused in cold water, skin damp and shaking.

They were here.

It was an elf who eventually came for him, peering through the tent with a slightly bemused look on his face, as though he were in on some sort of joke. “Come.” Fili got up silently and followed the elf, biting down on his lip running a self-conscious hand through the wild curls in his hair.

“Where are you taking me.” Curiosity won out in the end. He wondered why Ori didn’t try and find him. What had happened to them? “Where are my friends?”

“With Gandalf. They’re quite safe.” There was a smile in the elf’s voice, on Fili didn’t like. “They aren’t the ones hanging in the balance.”

“No.” Fili breathed. Not in quite the same. When he saw Thranduil’s grand tent, the bottom absolutely fell out of his stomach. Outside were three Ironfists, armed to the teeth and talking amongst themselves. When one caught sight of Fili, he stopped talking and turned. Then they all did. Fili didn’t like this, any of this.

Led inside, Fili went very cold with shock. There were just two people. Thranduil, on his chair again and drinking from a solid silver goblet, looking mildly interested at the grey-haired dwarf before him. His dreadlocks shifted as he turned. Fiak smiled as he laid eyes on Fili for the first time in sixty years, but his blue gaze was as cold as a fish. He narrowed his eyes with the curl of his lip, and the cramps doubled. Fili remembered the reverent look in Fiak’s eyes when they first met. There’s none of that now. He looked Fili up and down, and when he smiled, it was with stretched lips and gritted teeth.

“Fili.” His name sounded so strange on that foreign, inflected voice. Fili would never get used to it. “My prince.”

 _I’m not yours._ Fili screamed the words inwardly. Instead he kept his face very still. “Where’s my mother.” Over the rim of his goblet, Thranduil stared. “I’m not saying or doing anything until I see her.”

“Well, then you’re waiting a very long time.” Fíak’s sick little smile widened. “She’s not coming Fili. Dain’s sorted that out quite nicely.”

His blood turned to ice. “What do you mean?” He breathed and his voice was shaking. “Where is she?” Thranduil was frowning. “What did he do to her?”

“She was a fool.” He shook his head, but there was that same glee on his face. “Oh she’s alive,” Fili groaned with relief, “but she’s not going anywhere. Dain’s got her wrapped up nice and tight.”

“He’s imprisoned her?” Fili gasped. Did he do this? He thought he was being discreet. _How could Dain know?_

“Oh, she’s not chained up yet. Just... kept quiet.” He was clearly loving this. “She has a nasty habit of interfering, that dam. Dain’s not taking chances after the stunts she’s pulled in the past.” Fili held a hand over his mouth, almost deaf but for a violent rushing in his ears. No no no no _no_ he _needed_ his mother. He couldn’t do this, couldn’t go with these monsters, he _wouldn’t_. _Amad_ was going to make everything better for him, but now Fili was trapped, backed up against the edge of a cliff, staring down a violent beast ready to tear him to pieces.

“No – please.” Fili breathed through his fingers. “Dain’s not – he wouldn’t let this happen, he’s always been proud of me!” It was pathetic and weak, and everyone in the tent knew it wasn’t true. Dain never made his ambitions secret.

“Oh, he couldn’t have been more accommodating.” Fíak pulled the torn letter out of his pocket. “He passed this on to us, just as Thorin ordered.” He held it out to Fili, who took it in a shaking hand. “He signed it himself Fili. You’re ours now. The Longbeards don’t want anything more to do with you.” Fili stared, disbelieving, at Balin’s lopsided, grief-stricken handwriting. He knew it was coming, but it was _here_ , it was happening and Fili was trapped and alone, frozen with terror. “King Thranduil has graciously given us amnesty to come and claim you, and be on our way without any violence.”

“How kind of him.” Fili turned his gaze to the elf-king now. With his legs crossed, Thranuil drank from the goblet, eyes locked with the blonde. “And what of Dain? H-Has he shown his hand or is he lurking on the edge of the valley?”

“Dain has already sent a messenger.” Thranduil swallowed his wine. “I’ve given him free access to Erebor in an effort to lure Thorin away from his hoard. Tomorrow at dawn, we will have negotiations before the Front Gate.”

“Did Thorin agree to this?” But he saw Thranduil’s face, and Fili knew that Thorin had no idea this was happening at all. Dain was taking control of everything. He was using the exact same rationale that Fili did – that Thorin was unfit for this, that someone else had to step in and help him. The only difference was, Fili had only the best intentions for his people, for Erebor and Thorin, while Dain only cared about himself.

Fili couldn’t breathe. He looked wildly from one to the other, his hands shaking uncontrollably. The letter slipped from his fingers and fluttered to the floor, abandoned. “This is all plots, and traps, and lies.” He stopped, to try and suck in a gulp of air. “And you – you’re just _encouraging_ this!” His blue stare turned towards Thranduil, voice edged with rage. “It’s backstabbing and scheming and you’re letting it happen. You don’t care about anybody, do you? You just want a show, you want us to destroy ourselves so you’ll have nobody to fight!”

“And I must say, they’re all doing a wonderful job.” Fíak sounded so _smug_ and self-satisfied. It left Fili boiling with hatred. “I’m surprised you haven’t thrown your hat in, Fili. Everybody else has.”

“He claims to have too much honour.” Thranduil spoke slowly and deliberately, rolling the words about on his tongue like a rich wine. “Fili does not believe in backroom negotiations.”

“I don’t believe in any of this.” Fili balled his hands into fists. “This isn’t how it works – _why_ is everybody doing this? Am I seriously the only person left in the world with a shred of decency? Am I the only one who’s still honest?”

“I’m afraid it seems so.” Thranduil drew circles in the air with one foot, the now-empty goblet dangling from his hand. He was clearly getting a lot of joy out of this. If he were a young boy, he would be jumping about, crowing _I told you so_ and sneering in Fili’s face. “And look where it’s landed you. If you wanted to play the game Fili, you should have been a little more willing to get your hands dirty.”


	89. Laid Bare

“Thorin?” Balin knocked gently on the door, as early as he could bring himself to, forcing a watery in smile, preparing for his entrance. “Are you awake?”

“Yes.” His heart constricted at the flat, empty voice. With a little swallow, Balin opened the door and stepped inside. Thorin sat in the exact same position as he did when Balin had left him the night before, leaning against the wall with his legs stretched out. Fili’s necklace was in his hands, the broken cord wrapped around his fingers.

“Oh,” He hovered for a moment, aching in his pity before crossing the room, sinking to his knees beside his king. Balin gently touched his shoulder. “Did you get any sleep?” Thorin shook his head. “Did you eat anything?” He shook his head again. “Did you want me to get you something to drink?”

“I don’t need _fussing.”_ Thorin’s voice was a tetchy growl. Balin drew back. “I just – want to be alone. Leave me. Please.”

All right. Defeated, Balin rose to his feet. “If you need anything—”

“I won’t.” Balin turned away and left, closing the door behind him. Thorin sighed heavily and drew his knees up to his chest, a frightened little boy. He still held on to the necklace, feeling the mithril slip in his sweaty fingers. When he was sure that Balin was gone, Thorin bowed his head, hands hidden in the curl of his folded body. He pressed his lips to the warm metal for just a moment, feeling the lines and curves of Durin’s device against his skin.

Thorin only did this at night. By day, he was a proper king, well, as best he could be. He filled his time, overseeing developments, making plans with Balin and Dwalin, giving little talks to his remaining subjects, pacing the Front Gate with his eyes scouring the east. He threw himself into his work as best he could, but nobody, Thorin included, could deny that he was distant and distract. He sank, often mid-sentence, into a deep, brooding silence that lasted for several minutes, and it took a long time for him to come back from it proper. The sons of Fundin did their best to hold their king together, but they couldn’t repair the damage. Thorin didn’t expect them to.

He could feel it coming again. The swelling in his chest, his throat, unfolding like a water-lily and choking him. It burned and stung, and when Thorin opened his mouth to breathe only a choked sob managed to spill out. He gritted his teeth and drove his forehead very hard into his knees, screwing up his eyes and willing the rushing burning sting away. Usually, Thorin made it through unscathed. He was able to close his eyes, forces himself to think of something else and in the end it passed, a brief flash of heartburn that cooled and faded inside of him. Sometimes, a few little gasps managed to burst out when the pressure grew too much, and his eyes leaked, but never for long, and he was always able to compose himself in the end, feeling just a little bit more broken-down and tired than he did before. He only had one collapse, on the first night when the wound was still fresh and bleeding. He went back to his chamber after sending Fili and Bilbo away, tore it all to pieces; the charred furniture, the bedclothes, the cups and lanterns, and then in the middle of the mess, Thorin sank to his knees and cried and cried and cried.

It was hard to think about his boys without the grief rushing in his gut, and yet Thorin couldn’t tear his mind away from them. He closed his eyes and they were _there_ , his Fili and Kili clear as day, as though he could reach out and touch them. He tried to remember them before all of this had happened, when they were both still smiling, innocent and indestructible. When they still call him _uncle_ in hushed whispers because they had to keep it a secret from the orcs, and cracked jokes that made him frown with disapproval. Those balmy summer nights Kili got tired and leaned against his shoulder and Fili tried to pinch his tobacco when Thorin wasn’t looking. Those precious moments were irretrievably lost and it _hurt_ more than words could ever express. He told himself that this was entirely their own doing, that Kili was lost to him almost six months ago, and what existed now wasn’t Kili at all but a bad copy, painted over in angry strokes of black and red, stained and corrupted. And Fili – Fili _deserved_ this. He was a _traitor_ , he took the Arkenstone, hid it from Thorin and tried to take the crown and throne away too. He stood there in this very room and screamed at Thorin, said he only did this for gold and nothing else ever mattered to him. His fingers flexed at the memory now, purpling from the leather cord bound tight around them.

And Bilbo. _Bilbo._ He hated himself for that with a different, more piercing kind of pain. That was entirely his mistake. He never should have brought an outsider in. He never should have _trusted_ someone who sought their worth by stealing and sneaking about in the shadows. The Halfling was nothing but one long, ugly mistake that had cost Thorin almost everything. He hoped he would never see them again, any of them. All five of them, traitors and thieves and liars, they destroyed Thorin. They turned him into this wreck.

Thorin leaned his head against the stone, arching his neck. He combed through the twisting, fraying threads in his mind, tried to gather some sense of order. And in his head, he wondered if there was anything he could have done different. Better. Could he have been kinder with Kili, more forgiving and open? Of course he could. He accused Kili, interrupted him when he tried to pour his heart out and thrown everything back in Kili’s face. His stomach boiled in bitterness and remorse. Oh, if he could take anything back, it would be that night. The more he sat there and picked it all apart in this dark loneliness, the more Thorin slowly realised that he was cold and cruel to his nephew, driving him away when he should have been offering his hand.

But Kili was gone – he could be a hundred miles away by now, if he’d managed to find a mount. He could be halfway through Mirkwood, or beyond the Grey Mountains, or Mahal knew where else. Nobody was able to find him, and Thorin knew that nobody ever would now. Kili had vanished. He had another flash of a memory, lying beside Dís in her inn-bed with Fili nestled between them and Kili, barely an hour old, just bones and pale skin and a fuzz of dark hair, and Thorin swore he would protect the both of them with his life. He swore it again to Dís, right before they left, that he would die for Kili without a thought. Promises and oaths that now may as well have been lies.

Thorin couldn’t bear to be alone with his thoughts for another moment. He pulled the necklace free, thrust it roughly in his pocket and stood up. The coat and cloak he left abandoned on the floor, pushing his way into the hall with arms bare to the elbow. Thorin shivered in the winter breeze.

He turned the corner in the hall to see Balin rushing towards him, his face bright red. “Thorin!” He stopped and panted, pointing behind him. “Thorin – Dain’s here. He’s in the valley and – Mahal, come. Quickly.”

Balin turned on his heel and came back the way he came, Thorin following slowly. So this was it then – Dain had arrived, most likely with his bratty son in tow. The thought of the both of the made Thorin tired. They would be smiles and promises, but their eyes would dart into corners, assessing, weighing, planning future developments. With no heirs, Erebor was as good as Dain’s and Thorin _knew_ his cousin would exercise every right he could and step unashamedly on his toes. Dís would be there too, and that thought sent a chill down Thorin’s spine. There was no hiding from his memories now, not when she would tear into them, bring everything to the surface and demand every single detail. Dís wouldn’t rest until she had answers. He didn’t know how he was going to deal with her. She was armed with the grief of her children, weapons aimed right at Thorin’s heart and he had nothing to defend himself. She wouldn’t accept _any_ justification for the loss of Fili and Kili. He didn’t expect her to.

So he approached the Front Gate in a low, shuffled tread, with the cheer and energy of a convicted criminal heading towards the execution block.

* * *

They let Fili go back to his tent and collect his things. Two Ironfists flanked his side and Fíak walked on behind, the three of them like a net, ensnaring him. Fili kept his hands in his pockets, trying to hide the violent trembling of his hands. Something – something had to happen, someone had to help him. Someone had to pull him back from the edge. It _couldn’t_ go like this.

The others waited outside. Fili entered the tent and after a split-second of confusion, held a hand over his mouth to muffle the gasp of shock. Ori crouched, hands on his knees and his mouth set in a hard line. Fili lowered his hand when he thought he could speak discretely. “Ori.” He flew at the dwarf, grabbed his shoulders. “It’s done – you need to go, with your brother, quickly. The Ironfists are here and there’s nothing I can do—”

“I know they’re here.” Ori lifted his dark gaze. “I heard everything. Thorin and Dain have given you up without a fight and there’s nobody to stick up for you. You’re alone.” If Ori was trying to comfort Fili, it didn’t work. The cramps were back, tight and painful as ever and Fili dipped his head, his teeth gritted tight. “I can’t help you. Nobody can.”

“I hate them, all of them.” Fili hissed. “Those devious, scheming liars – how can they? It’s filthy Ori, all of this, the backstabbing and dealing, I-I can’t stand it. This isn’t how things are supposed to go. Thorin raised me be to be _better_ than this.”

“Whatever you do, don’t look to Thorin for guidance.” Ori’s voice was hard. It dragged Fili’s head up in surprise, a frown wrinkling his golden brow. “He’s a weak-hearted fool and his ideals are killing him. He’s not noble or honourable, Fili. He’s stubborn and ignorant. Don’t tie yourself down to him.”

“It’s too late.” Fili curled his broad hands around those bony shoulders. “Ori – I’ve _ruined_ everything for myself. I can’t trust Thranduil – look what happened in Mirkwood and I know nothing’s changed. He just sat there and _smiled_ while Fíak talked about destroying me. He’s a vile snake. Dain wants me gone, and Thorin will never speak to me again. _Amad_ is being locked up so she can’t help me and Fíak and the Ironfists just want to send me like a calf to slaughter.” His voice rushed until it was breaking. “You’re right. Nobody can help me. I’ve got nothing in my favour.”

“Yes you do.” Ori took Fili’s hands, pushing back the sleeves and pressing his fingers against the grey-blue arteries. “Fili, this is in your blood. You were born to be a king and you can’t let them rip it all away from you because you’re afraid. Meet Dain head-on. Fight him. Fight Thorin. Fight the Ironfists. Fight _everyone_ until you’ve won.” His eyes were alert and alive, cheeks growing flushed as he spoke. “You can still be the best king Erebor has ever seen and make everything _right_ for once. I know it’s hard – Thorin is so far inside your head that even now he won’t leave you alone. You’ve betrayed him and he hates you but he still has a hold on you. Let Thorin go Fili. _Please_ , don’t just fade away. I know you’re better than all of that.”

Fili stared back, swallowing hard. He studied Ori’s face for several seconds, the bright eyes, the red face and hard line of his mouth. Everything churned inside of him – Thorin’s words, Ori, Dain, Thranduil, his mother. It wasn’t _fair,_ he had done everything right. Fili did whatever he could to be the crown prince Thorin wanted at the expense of his _everything_ and this was what he got in return. Eighty years of loyalty and honour and he was thoughtlessly thrown to the wolves for a single, completely justifiable action. He resisted the urge to tear at his hair and scream, his tongue rasping against the roof of his mouth.

“What’s taking so long in there?”

“Stall them.” Fíak’s strangely accented voice was like a hot wire pressing against the base of his skull.Fili’s breath trembled. Ori’s words repeated in his head, a whispered mantra. _Let Thorin go._ Fili _knew_ he couldn’t do that, but he had to try and save himself, and Ori, and Nori too, from this inevitability. Nobody, not _Amad_ or Thorin or Dwalin or Kili, was coming to help him out. Fili had never been alone before. Not like this. Yes, he had Ori and Fili was forever grateful to have the intelligent little scribe at his right hand, looking after him, soothing him with speeches and giving suggestions, but he didn’t have the _power_ that Thorin or Dwalin had. He couldn’t rely on Ori to stand up for him. It was like trying to walk with a broken leg with a crutch made of matchsticks.

But _this wasn’t ending now._ “Keep them here. You’re smart – think of something.” Scrabbling, Fili crawled to the back of the tent, tearing the pegs from the stony ground. “I’ll fix this. I don’t know how but I’ll fix this.” Fili wriggled through the little gap, getting dust on his elbows and belly. He got up and crouched, holding his breath as he listened.

“Just a moment – Fili’s trying to fit everything into his pack – _oof –_ it’s a little tricky.” He even made the sounds of shifting cloth and little grunts of exertion. Good old Ori. Fili really would be sunk without him. He crept as quietly as he could, doubled over with his hands almost on his knees until he rounded a corner. Then Fili ran. He ran straight to Thranduil’s grand tent without stopping, pushing through a cluster of men who swore in his direction, and burst in without pausing for the guard’s permission.

Thranduil and Bard were standing over Thranduil’s breakfast-table. A large map was unravelled, marked in red and black ink. It was mainly for Bard’s benefit; Thranduil didn’t need the well-travelled landscape displayed before him. He knew these lands inside and out, could picture every rock and twig effortlessly. “Fili.” Thranduil’s thoughtful frowned deepened in confusion. “What on earth brings you back here?”

Fili opened his mouth, the words stalling in his throat. _You heartless, scheming bastard._ That was what he really wanted to say. It was _arrogant_ of him to offer Fili a deal and expect he would take it after what happened in his own Halls. Fili had already innocently, naively laid himself and his motives bare before Thranduil once and he was very, very cautious of making the mistake again, but there was nobody else he could turn to. Fili didn’t have to like this deal. He just had to make it.

“Fili?” Thranduil crossed his arms, looking as though he, just perhaps, anticipated what Fili was going to say. “Is there something that you wanted to say?”

He took the plunge. “I’ll do it.” Fili staggered to the table and gripped the edge, staring Thranduil in the eye. “I’ll sign a treaty with you and promise a share of the gold. I’ll do whatever you want Thranduil – just _Mahal,_ don’t let those monsters take me away.”

Thranduil drew back, his eyes very wide as he digested everything that Fili said. With one finger tapping slowly against his lip, he stared back. After a dozen painful heartbeats had passed the elf-king lowered his hand. “This is _awfully_ late Fili. What if I’ve already changed my mind?”

“You don’t want Thorin or Dain.” Bard took a step back, watching the exchange in silence. “You want someone young, someone who you can trust. You want me, not some arrogant old fool who will stab you in the back the moment you look away.” Thranduil’s eyes narrowed, just a little, carefully picking over Fili’s offer. Several moments passed. Fili panicked, thinking he was losing. “I’ll fight for you. I’ll go into service – I’ll do anything, you name your price and I’ll pay it.”

“Fili, you are by far the worst negotiator I have ever had the pleasure to meet.” Thranduil stepped away from the table and found his chair, reclining with his legs crossed at the ankle. “Why not just offer me the whole crown and be done with it, hm?” His lip twitched. “You want me to name my price? Fine. Twenty-five percent of the gold, and I will consider.”

Fili panted and his head swam. “Ten.”

“Twenty-five.”

“Fifteen.”

“Twenty-five.”

“That’s a bigger share than anyone in the Company Thranduil.” Fili pushed back his hair. “We were promised a thirteenth each – by the time it’s all divided—”

“Well then, I can always see if Dain will give me a better deal.” Thranduil smiled. “I’m sure he won’t quibble over a measly ten percent of such a vast hoard.”

“Twenty.” Fili screwed up his eyes for a moment, stomach crippled with self-loathing. His hands were trembling and he knew that Thranduil could see it. He shoved them in his pockets but it felt worse like that, as though he were a rude, sulking child, and he took his hands out, trying to still them. “I can’t go a penny below that, I’ll bankrupt the kingdom.” Thranduil stared coolly at the dwarf. “It’s still more gold than you’ve ever seen in your life I promise you.”

Thranuil raised an eyebrow. “I’ve had a very long life.”

“This is a very big hoard.” Fili swallowed, throat dry. He knew it wouldn’t be long before Fíak realised and put it all together and came looking for Fili. He needed affirmation _now._ “Twenty percent and a peace treaty.” He approached the chair and held out his shaking hand.

Thranduil stood up very slowly and walked half a step towards the dwarf who held out his hand, his broad shoulders squared and head held high, trying to be brave but so obviously close to falling apart. “Is Bard witness enough for you?” Fili nodded wordlessly. Thranduil’s impossibly blue eyes stared at Fili’s thick fingers, the little frown still on his face. “What changed your mind, Fili?” He asked after a pause. “Fear? Exasperation?”

Fili shook his head. Bard was watching the whole thing with a balled fist in front of his mouth, his frown growing deeper and deeper. Thranduil’s tack with Fili was completely different. He didn’t come to Fili and try to convince him. He didn’t _need_ to. He toyed with Fili, teased him while the dwarf’s life hung in the balance. It set something off down the back of Bard’s neck, niggling and unpleasant. “I had a friend convince me that I shouldn’t try to be like Thorin anymore.” He let out a slow breath. “I’m better than that.”

The frown smoothed. Thranduil took Fili’s hand and shook it three times, his slender fingers wrapping easily around Fili’s palm. “That you are, Fili.” But his eyes remained cold and calculating, picking over every hole in Fili’s defences. “I’m glad you finally came to your senses.” Their hands were still clasped when a short, familiar figure approached the open flap of the tent.

“Sorry to disturb Your Majesty, but—” Fíak stopped as soon as he took a step inside the tent, stiff and rigid. He stared at Fili and Thranduil, and as his eyes landed on their clasped hands, the colour drained from his face and he took in a ragged gasp, as though he were about to vomit. “Oh _fuck.”_

“It seems plans are changing.” Thranduil released Fili’s hand and stood deliberately before him, like a human shield. “Fili has finally come to his senses and realised the best thing for him is to seek an alliance to help regain his crown. I would advise you and your soldiers leave. _Now._ ” The smile was gone, replaced with a sneer. “Before I am compelled to use force.”

“You cowardly little _shit_.” Fíak spat. “This isn’t over. We _will_ have our king, Fili.” Behind Thranduil with his face hidden, Fili clapped a hand over his mouth. His head was spinning.

“Get. _Out.”_ Fíak was gone then, and as Thranduil turned back to him, Fili lowered his hand, tried to look all right. But his shoulders were still bowed, head bent.

“He’ll tell Dain and Thorin.” Fili breathed. “They’ll all know that I made a deal with you.”

“Indeed they will.” Thranduil breezed back to his table. “Their outrage will feel all the sweeter when we win Fili. Trust me.”

_Trust him._

Fili worried. He started pacing back and forth, hands balled into fists as his wired brain raced through the last few minutes. He still felt dizzy. It didn’t seem _real_ , what he’d just done. Only a few words, a handshake, and now he was partnered with the most powerful figure between Mirkwood and the sea of Rhûn. But at what cost? A fifth of the treasure – he could stand to lose that, almost. He would have Kili’s share and probably Ori’s and Nori’s, as well as his own. As long as he was canny with whatever gold was left over, he could just afford it. Fili didn’t even consider withdrawing any claims the Company had to Erebor’s gold, when the war was over. It was unthinkable.

But that wasn’t the true cost. Fili was more concerned with that rising self-hatred in his chest, the voice that screamed in his ear that he was a fraud and a traitor. He had betrayed his own heart, his name, to save his freedom, and what sort of dwarf would ever consider something so material and base over his sense of honour and pride? No true hero would ever throw away his own name with the cowardice that Fili just had.

Because no matter what he said, to Ori or Fíak or Thranduil, Fili could never shake that iron grip around his heart. Thorin still squeezed him tight – he always would, until the day the both of them were gone. Fili lived and died under his uncle’s influence, and no oath or bargaining or negotiation would ever ever change that. This was only a compromise. He didn’t trust Thranduil – he never would. He looked at the elf-king now, smiling to himself and looking as though the war was already won. Fili was nervous. It was the only way out for him – he had _no_ other option. Was this what his mother would say, if she were here? Was this what she wanted? Fíak spoke of her supposed treachery – it _must_ have been. She must have wanted this.

Still, it didn’t make him feel any less lonely, in that grand tent.

* * *

“ _Ugh_ I am done with this.” Ilzkhaal was silent as his cousin threw his pack on the ground and slumped bonelessly beside the bundle of leather. Akash kicked off his boots and winced, rubbing the blisters on his heel. “It’s only been two days and look. My feet are _ruined_ Ilz. How are you still standing?”

“I’m used to running around all day.” But still, he let out a little sigh of relief as he sat down, shrugging off his bow and quiver and leaning against his pack. All around, hundreds and hundreds of orcs were taking root in the naked dirt, sitting in little rings, muttering and rifling around for food and passing flasks of liquor back and forth. These weren’t Ilzkhaal’s people – he was supposed to be with Tarbaam and the other lean, lightweight archers, but somewhere along the line on the first day, he fell into step with his cousin, who already grumbled and complained about his aching back and his empty belly, and with a protective little thrum in his stomach, he knew he couldn’t leave Akash’s side. It would be all right for now, he rationalised to Tarbaam that night. They had almost a week of marching, and Ilzkhaal wasn’t defecting. He just wanted to protect his cousin, who looked tall and strong but was soft as a baby, really, who got jelly-legs after walking a mile uphill and had blisters the size of a thumbnail into just a few hours of the heavy march.

There were eight of them in a group, mostly Ilzkhaal’s friends and acquaintances from the mountains, who mainly worked as labourers and apprentices, too young to have any real honed skill. Ilzkhaal was only as good as he was because his mother had bullied Tarbaam into taking him so early, after she lost her job at the foundry and couldn’t find another with enough pay. He thought briefly about her now, with her hair out and the ratty old shawl over her shoulders on the morning he left, holding him so so so tight that he thought she would crack his ribs. It hurt. But it hurt more to think about it now, wonder if he would ever see her and his little boy again or if everything would end in just a few days, with an arrow or an axe or a sword. The panic swelled and Ilzkhaal closed his eyes very tightly and swallowed it all back, trying to think of something, anything else.

“Oi, drink?” Kasaak nudged his arm. “Quick, while Shapog isn’t looking.” Ilzkhaal snapped blearily out of his deep funk, and without a second thought, swallowed a deep mouthful of the start liquor. “Tastes like piss but it keeps the cold out, eh?” Ilzkhaal nodded wordlessly. Kasaak kept trying to talk and chatter, but he only got muttered one-word answers in return, and eventually the orc gave up, turning to his friend at his other side. With a long, long sigh, Ilzkhaal’s head sank into his hands.

It would be better if Kili was here. He hadn’t even _seen_ him yet – not even a glimpse, since that moonlit parting at the bottom of the slope. Four days and three nights had passed and still there was nothing. He kept that little hair-clasp in his pocket, sorting through every memory he had of Kili. The more he thought about it, the more sure Ilzkhaal was that Kili had ended Azog’s life. The other story, that Nazarg had done it and sent Kili towards his family, a helpless accomplice in the brutal murder of someone he deeply honoured and trusted – it just didn’t _fit_. He knew Kili was better than that. He knew Kili would have stopped Nazarg, or killed him in revenge if that was the true story. No, Kili killed Azog, and almost certainly the rest of his soldiers too. There was no doubt in Ilzkhaal’s mind about that.

But then – why did he go back to his family, and how could he go from that to this, if he had gone willingly? Why would he kill Azog for their sakes and then abandon them all over again? He only had scattered fragments of the story and they didn’t fit together. There were gaps and holes in and all Ilzkhaal could do was guess. He had to sort out the truth from the lies, like grasping for eels in the thick weeds at the bottom of a murky pond. Everything slipped through his fingers and he wasn’t sure just what he touched. Even though Ilzkhaal knew he was the closest to the entire truth, he felt lost. One question burned in his mind and he couldn’t shake the heavy fear that seemed to lie right on his bones – _whose side was Kili really on?_

Once the thought started to plague him, the paranoia set in and Ilzkhaal was questioning everything. He was a liar, a spy, a fraud, he was probably sent here by Thorin himself and he would run away once they were close enough and spill Bolg’s plans to his uncle. He was a lone wolf who wanted to tear through the orcs and the dwarves too and leave both sides drowning in blood. Or he really, really did want to see his family dead, wanted to murder them himself and watch the life leave them to be sure they were really gone. Perhaps Kili was only _using_ him as some sort of unwitting accomplice, the ignorant kind who couldn’t break under torture if he were caught, and now that Kili was nestled so close to Bolg, he didn’t need Ilzkhaal anymore. That hurt to consider, a _lot._ The first night, he screamed at himself in his head that it wasn’t true, it was impossible to consider someone as bright and warm as Kili to be capable of something so heartless. But time wore on and he never saw a glimpse of Kili’s short little figure and he began to wonder. Ilzkhaal was learning very rapidly that anything was possible with Kili involved.

If he were braver, he would march right up to Kili himself, to that grand back camp where they could smell roasted meat and plenty to drink and even _tents_ , demand to see him and refuse to leave until he could, and then look him in the eye and demand to know the truth. But he wasn’t. He was a coward and so he sat alone, surrounded by his muttering friends who cast dark glares towards Erebor in the east, waiting for the sky to blacken so they could get some sleep and pull themselves together for another day.

Ilzkhaal was nodding off when he felt Akash kicking at his foot. He jerked up with a start, eyes snapping open with a gasp at the familiar silhouette approaching him in the dying light, but the edges heavier and jagged. He got up almost immediately to his feet mouth dry as ash and a little prickle rising on the back of his neck. But – _what?_ He opened his mouth in a greeting, but when Kili was close enough for that shadowy outline to solidify and fill with colour, Ilzkhaal’s throat closed.

He had been dressed in armour of black iron inlaid with bone, down to his hands and knees. Kili’s hair had been pulled away from his face and tied at the back of his skull, but it was still wild and refused to obey command. His tattered bangs strayed down to his eyes, and a few loose tendrils had escaped, framing his face. His _face._ The light was fading and the sun gone, but he could see that Kili’s cheeks, usually pink-red and brimming with life was as faded and grey as dust.

Finally, a sound came out. His voice was a hoarse creak. “Kili?”

“I need to see you.” The rest of the little knot had gone quiet, craning their necks up at the dwarf, elbows digging into rips and eyes growing wide. Ilzkhaal nodded dumbly, everything else, every _one_ else vanishing away, fleeting as a dry leaf in a bonfire. Kili turned away without another word, walking with his head down and Ilzkhaal had to stumble into a half-jog to catch up with him. He followed Kili, an obedient puppy without thought. There was nothing else around him, only smoke and vapour and shadows, and Kili’s lifeless, dust-grey face.

“I thought you weren’t ever coming back.” Kili was walking deliberately back, towards, Ilzkhaal realised, the fires and tents where the upper ranks slept. “You said you would find me—”

“I know I did.” Kili’s voice cut across his, low and sharp. “I was held back Ilz, I’m sorry.” He swallowed, audibly, and Ilzkhaal believed that he really was remorseful for what he’d done. His chest was flooded with warmth and relief, that paranoid, niggling fear was banished to a very small place in the back of his head. “I tried to get a message but – I didn’t want anyone else to see it.”

“See what?” His hands were loose at his sides. Kili didn’t speak. His fingers found Ilzkhaal’s and he squeezed tightly for a moment, then let go before anyone could see.

“You know.” And he left it at that, with Ilzkhaal finding the icy winter air too hot all of a sudden and the blood running up to his face.

They walked in silence. It was strained and taut, and as they made their way through the rows and knots and clusters, Ilzkhaal just _knew_ that everyone was looking at the both of them. Everyone knew who Kili was, and they were walking too close together for Ilzkhaal to be just an acquaintance or servant, and he was dressed too poorly, too lean and stunted and young to be anyone important. In Ilzkhaal’s mind, everyone was putting the pieces together and realising. They _had_ to.

“I-I like your armour.” He spoke up after a long time. As soon as Ilzkhaal had said it, he winced in regret. It sounded stupid, clumsy and childish. He immediately wished he could take it back. Kili stopped quite suddenly, and grabbed at Ilzkhaal’s arm, pulling him in close.

“Look,” Kili’s voice was very, very low. Ilzkhaal’s heart thumped and he wondered if Kili was going to yell at him for what he said. “You’re going to walk right past Bolg and his generals, and Mautor too.” Ilzkhaal blinked and realised that Kili hadn’t even heard him at all. He must have been lost inside his head. “I think some of them know that I’m um, well, _with_ someone,” his nails were biting hard into the orc’s skin. “I know Mautor does, and I’m sure he’s sent some spies around to check you out.” Ilzkhaal made a small noise in the base of his throat at that. “Just – keep your head down, stay close to me, and whatever you do, don’t say a word to anyone. Don’t look in their direction, don’t smile or nod, don’t do _anything_ , all right?” Kili’s eyes looked black. “I don’t trust them. They’ll find some way to ruin it, I know.” The sky had faded to an inky bluish-black and the stars were coming out. They were close enough for the glimmer of fire to occasionally brush his face.

“Of course.” Ilzkhaal forced a smile, tried to ignore the writhing in his guts. Kili nodded and wrapped one set of broad fingers tight around the orc’s skinny little wrist. They walked together towards the roaring fire, Kili’s back straight and proud, his grey face facing forward. There wasn’t a trace of anything resembling uncertainty and fear. He looked perfect. Ilzkhaal kept his gaze obediently lowered, his shoulders bowed and didn’t shift his black eyes from the shadowy ground. They passed the burly guard with no trouble; he looked Ilzkhaal up and down and grunted, waving them through with the point of his sharp spear. Ilzkhal’s mouth watered at the rising smell of meat, and he swore he heard it sizzling on the spit. He glanced fleetingly, out of the corner of his eye as Kili pulled on his hand, coaxing him to slip along the shadowy side.

They passed an important-looking orc who threw a leer at Kili. “Off for a good night, I see?” His gaze raked over Ilzkhaal, at their clasped hands. The change in Kili was immediate. He went stiff as stone, a growl rumbling in his throat. With a heavy snarl, Kili wrapped his arm around Ilzkhaal’s waist.

“Eat shit, Throquûrz.” He spat the words out, sharp and clear and it made the ugly leer deepen on the orc’s face. Kili dragged on Ilzkhaal’s waist, trying to hurry away without really showing it. “I hate him.” Kili whispered as soon as the other was gone. “I don’t know he crawled his way up to being a general. Throquûrz thinks he’s all that just because he hasn’t been stuck with Bolg’s blade yet, but he’s as thick as a brick really. He keeps trying to rile me up but it’s not going to work.” That was an obvious lie; he could feel Kili’s hands digging in painful-tight to his side and Ilzkhaal _swore_ he could smell Kili’s blood rushing.

“Are they all bad?” Kili looked back at him, and in the shadows, his face was almost invisible. He rolled his eyes and gave a little nod, not wanting to say any more out here. It was awful. A week ago, Ilzkhaal wouldn’t be able to keep his hands away if he saw Kili like this, spitting insults and talking down Bolg’s closest confidantes and walking around with that arrogant leer on his grey face. But knowing what he knew now, with a few secrets uncovered and so many left below the surface, it left a bad taste in his mouth. He hated how this made him feel. Kili made a beeline for the cluster of low tents. They were low things, pegged close to the ground and really made only for sleeping. Ilzkhaal wasn’t sure he could sit up in one without his head brushing the ceiling.

“Leave your boots outside.” Kili was already crouching in the dirt, pulling at his before clambering in. “There’s no room in there for all of us.”

“All?” Ilzhaal kicked off his boots and crawled inside on his hands and knees, where Kili already waited with a lantern on, short enough to sit cross-legged, resting is chin on a balled fist. Nardur lay stretched along one side, snoring lightly. It was a tiny wee tent, built obviously for a single large orc, but there was enough room for Kili and his warg to lie down and stretch out, and sleep without disturbing each other. He thought about his own sleeping-space, a few chilly feet packed in tight with boots in his shoulders, elbows in his side, the sound of snoring rising like a chorus in the night air, and now he burned with jealousy. He got the fastenings on the little tent-flap and crawled on his elbows and knees, stretching out beside Kili on one side.

“I’m sorry.” Kili whispered after a few seconds of staring. “I did mean to see you—”

“It’s all right.” He laid a hand on Kili’s knee. “I’m not even slightly mad. I just... What is this?” He gestured at Kili’s face and neck, the space in the hollows of his elbows, his fingers. “You’ve made yourself all grey.”

“Not the first time.” There was a little twist of his mouth. “I did this before, with – Azog. Just felt... right, I s’pose. And it felt right to do it again.” He stared the old warg-skin he slept on, seeming very far away. “Mautor and Bolg both _loved_ it when they saw. Said it suited me, ‘specially with the armour. Bolg said if you only saw me from a bit of a distance you couldn’t even tell I was a dwarf at all. And – he’s right, isn’t he?” There wasn’t that same smirk on his face now. In this quietness and privacy, a soft cocoon that protected the both of them from the outside world, Kili looked very small and lonely. It tore right into Ilzkhaal’s gut.

His hand was in his pocket before he even realised what he was doing. “No he’s not. You’ll always be a dwarf Kili.” Three fingers brushed cold silver and with his bottom lip between his teeth, Ilzkhaal brought Kili’s hair-clasp out. “I know you gave this to me – but I couldn’t sell it on. If you don’t want it I can—”

“Oh _Ilzkhaal.”_ There was that sweetness he had so sorely missed. Kili flung himself against the orc, arms tight enough to choke him and the breath wet in his ear. “I thought it was gone forever.” Kili buried his nose in the crook of his neck in a breathtaking embrace that disturbed a sleeping Nardur and made the beast sniff at the both of them. Kili’s armour stuck into him, sharp as warg-teeth and he bit back a wince of pain. “Thank you thank you _thank you._ I don’t know what I would do without you.” Slowly, he extracted himself, taking the clasp from Ilzkhaal’s hands and pressing his lips hard against the silver. “I owe you.”

Ilzkhaal got up on his elbows. Rather than glowing at what Kili had said, he was starting to feel awfully sick. All those questions and what-if’s were screaming at him now, and he knew that he would never get honesty anywhere else, with Kili looking over his shoulder and keeping a constant hand on the hilt of his sword. Always tense, ready, on guard, and never trusting another soul. He _needed to know._ Ilzkhaal swallowed hard and when Kili looked down at him with a grin and he saw that flash of cheeky familiarity inside something so cold and alien, the sickness softened, crumbled at the edges and he could feel himself melting all over again. Kili was still there, of _course_ he was. It would take a lot more than this for his soul to die and leave his empty body behind. It was those awful orcs he was with now, picking and poking, dragging that mean streak out and keeping Kili on edge. He could see now why Nazarg was _so_ insistent on Ilzkhaal promising to be there for him. Was this what it was like with Azog, all those months ago?

He opened his mouth to speak and he must have had a look on his face, or maybe his breathing got quicker and gave away the airs of someone on the brink of wanting a serious talk. Kili leaned down, pressing a finger against his lips with a little shake of his head. “Later.” He sounded pleading almost, as though he could anticipate what Ilzkhaal was about to say. He thought for a moment about protest, but before his muscles could move, Kili had a hand on him, palm over the sharp bone of his hip, the other still pressed against his mouth. “You can’t stay here all night, we’re leaving before dawn and you have to find your people. We can only do two of the three and I really need some sleep.” Oh. So that was why he _really_ wanted privacy. Kili wanted something close and intimate. He wanted to _feel_ something. Ilzkhaal was almost indignant – but then Kili shifted his hand and everything went all sharp and bright with white-hot flashes behind his eyes. It was hard to bear a grudge in paradise.


	90. Somebody's Child

One of four around the fire, Kili ate with his legs stretched out before him in the greyish light. Nardur politely sat beside him and waited for the bones, the bits of stringy meat and gristle that his master didn’t deign to eat. Grey, greasy juice dripped onto the ground, mixing with the ash on his fingertips. Kili had forgotten how hot and sweaty it was to have the stuff smeared all over his skin, leaving smudges of grey behind. He stared into the remnants of the fire now, shifting his feet so he could feel the fading warmth of the embers on his face.

“There’s a few of you up.” Ghaashka stomped into the light with a grunt. This was Bolg’s inner circle. Four of Bolg’s generals, Kili, Mautor, and one of his own lieutenants sat in sleepy huddles, slowly eating. They all looked tired. Kili hadn’t really slept, in the end. He couldn’t. After they were done, he just lay awake, staring up at the dim, low ceiling, feeling his heart beat, deep and slow. He knew how Ilzkhaal breathed when he slept – the low snoring, the heavy in and out. All he heard beside him was panicked, shallow gasps of air and he knew the orc couldn’t sleep either.

Somebody stronger would have rolled on his side, pretended to ignore it all, but not Kili. He leaned over, touched his shoulder, asked in a whisper what was wrong. Ilzkhaal gasped and tried to sit up, but never told him. He just held on tight and sniffed in the crook of Kili’s neck, grabbing handfuls of the bare, marked skin on his back. He fell asleep then, his air-light body draped over Kili’s frame while Kili lay awake, listening to the soft murmur of the others through the shifting cloth walls. He had an hour or so of unsteady, fragmented sleep, that left him feeling wrecked and tired before the gleam of the fire showed through a hole in the coarse canvas, indicating that the rest were waking up.

A little way away, Ilzkhaal was finally dragging himself out of a deep slumber. He groaned, reached out across in search of skin for a quickly early-morning embrace, but the bed was empty. Up on his elbows, Ilzkaal rubbed at his eyes, peering in the near-blackness, seeing nothing but the rumpled furs and blanket.

“Cold.” Mautor’s lieutenant Kroth mumbled in a strong broth. “Not all of us have our own tents.”

“Hey, I share.” Ghaashka remarked. “Mautor, Grishthak and Bolg are the only ones with a tent to themselves.”

“And Kili.”

“Oh, Kili’s sharing.” The orc smirked. Kili looked up from his food, a muscle twitching in his throat. “You’re not quiet, you and your bedfellow.”

Kili squared his shoulders inside the black-bone armour as a hot wave flushed up under his skin. “So?” He said the word with a harsh, throat-clearing cough, keeping his gaze level, grateful that no one could see his darkening cheeks underneath the coat of ash. “Not against any rules.”

Dressed and booted, Ilzkhaal walked towards the fire when he heard talking, saw the dull reddish light. He stayed in the shadows, and nobody saw him. He caught the edge of Ghaashka’s sentence and stopped short in his walk, staring at the silhouettes of Kili and the orcs, their backs to him. It was difficult to hear their soft talk over the wild thudding of his heart. He held his breath.

“I was just... surprised.” The orc tried to put the words delicately. “I thought dwarves who did that sort of thing were dragged by their _ghru_ behind a horse until they bled out.” Kili bit on the inside of his cheek, thinking it better to say nothing.

Across the fire, he heard a chuckle. “Still hanging around with that peasant boy?” Kroth sucked on his fingers. “Mautor thought you’d have gone off him by now.”

“Why would I?” Ilzkhaal smiled, listening in the shadows. “I don’t need to put my foot on his neck to keep him in line.” As quick as it came, the smile died. Kili pushed back his hair, with that self-confident, arrogant swagger creeping into his voice. “He’s a good _snaga_ like that, don’t even need to threaten him.”

Kroth chuckled. “But he just loves _you_ to pieces.” Kili stared down at the black ridges of his nails, unwilling to say anymore, terrified that he would give himself away. It didn’t make it easier, _talking_ like that in front of these orcs. He hated lying. “You’re a cruel bastard, you know that?”

“What, it’s not as though I _like_ the brat.” Kili leaned back on his hands. In the shadows, Ilzkhaal was backing away, shaking his head. “But he’s a fun little plaything when there’s nothing better to do.”

If there was more, Ilzkhaal didn’t hear it. He backed away, further and further until he was sure he could run without the sound of his footsteps breaking the silent pre-dawn air. He ran and ran, down the low slope with the air tearing in his lungs, eyes stinging from what he told himself was the freezing wind in his face. He stopped when the burning grew too much, doubled over on his hands. Humiliation writhed in his gut. Ilzkhaal knew it wasn’t true in a heartbeat – he could read Kili’s tells, the way he turned his face to one side and dipped his head a little, that he was trying to hide at least part of his face, lest he give himself away, overcompensating with his arrogant tone. It was so obvious, to those who knew what to look for.

But why would he say that at _all?_ Why would Kili bring him in on these stupid power-games he insisted on playing, dirtying his name and talking him down? Ilzkhaal tried to tell himself that it didn’t matter what others thought – he had Kili, the _real_ Kili in his arms and heart and that was something that nobody could ever take away from him – but listening to him talk, it _hurt_. That was what they would think of him now, that he was just some hanger-on, a desperate lovesick lapdog that Kili dragged along for a bit of fun. He made Ilzkhaal sound worthless.

It was getting too much. He looked back now, the tiny glow of the fire the size of a fingernail. The air was lightening, turning grey with the anticipation of dawn. He was angry at Kili, of course, but he knew better than to ever utter a word about it. Ilzkhaal rubbed at his hands and shivered. He needed to find his cousin, just talk to him. He didn’t want any of _this_ , the tip-toeing around, the two-faced lying. He just wanted that sweet, smiling dwarf who held his son without being asked, who got along with his mother better than half his cousins, who was strong and fearless and _interesting._ Ilzkhaal wasn’t cut from the same cloth as those generals, battle-scarred and bloodstained, bragging about their depravity. Although, the more Ilzkhaal thought about it, the more he realised that Kili seemed to belong to that blackened world. He fit that profile. He was trying with everything he had, but it was harder and harder to pull Kili away, to save him from himself, as he'd promised he would. Ilzkhaal was starting to get afraid.

The conversation shifted after a few cracking jokes. Kili sipped idly from a cracked wooden cup, staring into the fire. His skin still crawled in the disgust of what he had said. He felt like a playacting idiot in makeup and costume. Insulting Ilzkhaal had struck a nerve and he felt raw and open from it. Making up an excuse, Kili left as the sky rose to a steely grey, crouching inside the tent, expecting to see that familiar bony body draped out on his back, snoring and sighing without a care in the world. But it was abandoned. Kili dragged his hand through the blankets, feeling the residual warmth against his fingers. Not long empty. He settled back on his folded legs frowning at the jumbled shapes of messy furs. Kili felt strangely empty then, too.

* * *

They found a ladder from one of the mines. Gloin and Dori held it steady, peering over the edge and staring at the busy camp that already settled down, pitching tents and lighting fires. Dain went first, clambering grim-faced in his full armour. Thorin followed, staring with that quiet, conniving look that he always seemed to wear. Three guards were next, then Dís, then another. They untied her hands for it, but her axe and daggers were still kept well away.

Dwalin held his breath when he saw her. She looked haggard and broken-down, staring at the stone with cold defeat written into her face. There was a pale winter sun shining behind them, illuminating Dís’ raven-black braids. He caught threads of grey in them. _Grey._ She wasn’t old enough for that yet. Their eyes met for a single, fatal moment. Dís just stared at him with those big blue eyes and her mouth trembling. He wanted to rush in and hold her, in front of _everyone_ and he didn’t care who looked. He had seen Dís in the finest silks and gems, the most worn-down rags, but to see her like this, draped in mail with the heavy boots and gloves of a dwarven warrior, it set him alight.

“Dearest cousin.” It was Balin who burst in with all the pleasantries, greeting Dain and shaking his hand commenting that my, Thorin _had_ grown and he was looking well. He kissed Dís, who remained stiff and cold and unsmiling beneath his touch. Dwalin wondered if he could get away with kissing her too, if he could keep appearances. “Come, Thorin is anxious to see you.” Dís walked past Dwalin with her face set forward, the wavering line of her mouth hardening. She was freezing him out, he realised with a dropping of his stomach. Dís ignored them.

Eleven walked in a row. Dain and Thorin, with Balin behind them, then Dís, then the guards from the Iron Hills, then Dori and Gloin, with Dwalin at the rear. He lingered back, afraid. The tension grew with very footstep, echoing back on them in the impossible large halls. Dain and Thorin stared unashamedly, trying to whisper discreetly and doing an awful job of it. The guards looked about too, elbowed each other and stopped more than once, staring at the sheer magnitude of the carved halls. Dís didn’t look. Dwalin knew it was already mapped out in her head and she didn’t need to see it all again.

They lit as many candles as they could in the throne room to try and combat the winter grey from the high slits cut into the dizzying heights of the mountain. Thorin sat on the throne, waiting, dressed in the best clothes he could find, dripping with gold and gems, a crown on his head. The other dwarves flanked him, the fabric of their cloaks over gleaming mail faded with age. The Arkenstone gleamed over Thorin’s head, almost too bright to look at.

Thorin stood up as they approached, head held high. It would be almost impossible to consider that just an hour ago he was panicking, second-guessing every move he had ever made and awaiting this moment with dread. Now, he was smiling. The line of dwarves stopped, Dain sinking down to one knee in a well-worn sign of respect. Sanity or not, Thorin was a king inside his castle and Dain had to show only respect. The others followed suit, even Bofur and the rest beside the throne. Everyone – except Dís. She remained straight-backed, hands at her sides, staring blankly out.

She marched forward. Kneeling in his bow, Dain didn’t realise until he heard her footsteps on the stone. Dís walked past Dain, past his son and past Balin until she was standing before Thorin with her hands balled into fists.

Thorin was very pale. He held his hands out. “Dís—”

She struck him _hard_. The force of the blow knocked Thorin to the floor, sprawling on one side, dazed. His crown fell off and clattered loudly on the stone. Dís didn’t give him an open-handed slap which made noise but no damage. She punched him square in the jaw, with every ounce of strength she could muster from the coiled muscles in her arm. Dain and cousin Thorin reacted immediately, springing forward and seizing her arms. She stared coldly at her brother three feet from her, blood dripping from his mouth, staring blearily up at her. Bofur and Oin were already at his side, trying to help him up. Dís sucked in a deep breath and spat, catching the hem of Thorin’s fur-lined cloak. Her face was set in a deep, heavy snarl. Even Dwalin recoiled in horror at her.

The whole violent tussle was remarkably short. Just a few seconds after Dís stood alone, refusing to kneel to her brother, Dain and Thorin had her tight, dragging her back. It was hard. Dís didn’t fight, but she refused to move. Everyone was in a stunned, breathless silence. Balin stared as though she was a stranger to him. “Get her out.” His voice trembled and Thorin looked up with his big blue eyes, trying to stop the bleeding with the corner of his cloak. In a big, groaning heave, Bofur and Oin set their king on his feet and replaced his crown, Thorin staggering, reeling blindly. They held his arms, shooting each other looks of deep concern over his bent head. “Go and – find a room or _something_ , just get her out of here.”

Dain and Thorin handed her over to the guards. Dís came to life then, with a huge, crippled sob that quaked in her bound ribs. “What did you _do_ to them!?” She screamed at the top of her lungs, fingers crooked and reaching out like the claws of a wild beast.

“Dís—”

“ _Where are my children!”_ Thorin held the rag over his mouth, eyes sagging pouches in his face. He felt numb to her even as the taste of blood spread over his tongue. Her face crumpled in a hopeless, dying howl and her knees weakened. Thorin could take her blows. He would _prefer_ that to this. She held it all together just long enough to hit him, to stand on her feet and refuse to kneel. Now she was deteriorating, a brilliant tower of marble that had stood for two hundred years, weathered every possible storm, but the keystone had been ripped out of the grandest arch, and it slowly collapsed inward, crumbling to dust and rubble.

“I’m sorry Dís.” He whispered the words, thin and stretched on the very edge of her eardrums. “I am so sorry.”

“ _You did this!”_ Balin was gesturing wildly for the guards to get her away before she could do any more damage. “They were innocent Thorin _this was you!”_ Dís staggered backwards without the full use of her legs, dragging her heels. “ _You killed my sons!”_

Thorin’s blood raced with fire. “They were not innocent.” Dís fell silent, wide-eyed. The guards even stopped, the heavy thud of their iron-shod boots still. He was sorry for what had happened but Thorin would _never_ take all the blame. “Kili was an orc-friend – he killed and tortured in the name of those beasts and utterly abandoned us! There was _nothing_ left for me to protect Dís!” She stared at him, her mouth slightly open, looking as though he had struck her back. “And Fili – Fili is a _traitor_. He tried to overthrow me – he deserved a far greater punishment than what I gave him!”

“He _should_ have overthrown you.” Dís spat. “You greedy, heartless, lying _bastard_ Thorin. You swore on your life you would keep Kili safe and you left him to _die._ You’re going to let us all die and for what? A pile of gold.” She didn’t scream at him anymore. Her voice was low and deadly, seething with venom. Dís didn’t need to be loud to hurt him. “I hope it comforts you after the last of those who loved you have left.”

“Mahal would you get her _out_ of here!” Balin cracked. Thorin sat down on the edge of the throne with his eyes closed. He didn’t sit grandly, with his arms on the rests and back straight. He was hunched over, his head bent and cloth pressed tight to hide his trembling mouth. When he could hold his face together long enough, Thorin looked up to see her almost gone, with Dwalin looking as though he wanted to go after her. He took several steps before he was stopped by his brother, Balin gripping his arm with a little shake of his head. And he _stayed._ Thorin lowered his hands. Dwalin still stayed, even now, even with _Dís_ threatening to shake him, the one that he had loved so passionately, ever since she was a growing dwarrow of twenty, singing in this very hall. He still stayed.

“Everyone out except my cousins.” Thorin murmured the words down at his knees. Dain’s remaining guard and half of the remaining company walked slowly, trying to whisper among themselves and not be heard. Dain, his son, Balin and Dwalin remained, standing in a semi-circle around the throne, heads bent and hands clasped behind them. These were his advisors now. He saw Dain, the greedy glint in his eye. He saw his cousin Thorin, looking smug and stupid and unable to control his glee at jumping ahead two places in line to the throne. They would take this throne and shape their own legacy, and Thorin would be forgotten.

His jaw still throbbed. Thorin sucked on a loose tooth, eyes on the bloodied edge of his cloak, looking black against the rich blue. She knocked the crown from his head and made him bleed. Any lesser dwarf would have their hand cut off for that. Dís was disrespecting him publicly, her hatred and blind fury a spectacle for all to see. He had lost her. Would she ever see him again? Would she look in his direction, lock eyes with him, speak another word in his presence, or was he dead to her? Dead like her children, her second brother, her father and grandfather. If he could have kept one for her, one son to bear the loss of the other, perhaps he could have salvaged this. But an orc-friend and a usurper – what was he to _do?_

“She’s upset.” Dain tried to placate him. “No one would expect her to be rational, given the circumstances. Those boys were her everything.” Yes, because Thorin had taken the rest away from her. He stared down at his grandfather’s ring, heart beating in his throat. No – _no_ he couldn’t break down now. Thror didn’t raise him to be weak like this. He was a son of Durin – a _king_ – and he wasn’t going to fail.

“What’s done is done.” Balin rested his hand on Thorins shoulder. “We need to look forward. We’re not licked yet, Thranduil or not. There’s still enough of us to give him a good thumping if we can’t hammer anything out.”

“There’s nothing to hammer out.” Thorin stood up. “I’m not moving an inch until he leaves and takes his army away from my doorstep. It hasn’t _changed_ , Balin.” Even though he felt as though he was caving in, Thorin knew the last thing he could ever, ever do was back down from this. If he crumbled now, then Thorin was a dishonourable coward who wavered at the might of a mere few thousand men _and he could not let that happen._ “Tell your soldiers to pitch camp Dain, right outside the Gate. The ravens will be our eyes and before Thranduil has time to lift a finger, we’ll hear about it.” His eyes were bright again. Thorin seemed to come alive for a few fleeting moments, as the thought of war raced through him. With all of that in his head, he was _just_ able to block Dís out, for a little while. “I have waited for this for over a hundred years. I’m not going to give it all up now.”

* * *

“That little _shit!”_ Fíak was ranting, pacing back and forth with his hands balled into fists. “That devious, slimy coward – betraying his people for _elves!”_ His three best dwarves stood patiently with their hands behind their backs. “I – _fuck_ , I _need_ him.” He stopped, breathing shallow. “We’re too close to a civil war as it is. _Mahal_ if Vili just boned up and had a few bastards we could have avoided this.” He kicked at a rock. “The only faithful king we’ve had in centuries and it’s undoing us.” Sharp blue eyes stared directly at the point of Thranduil’s tent, higher than the rest.

“Fíak.” Tauriel’s voice made the elderly dwarf whirl around. The four were standing in a little cluster on the edge of the camp, knowing they weren’t allowed to stay but not willing to leave. “Thranduil has commanded me to escort you back to your people.” She referred to the hundred waiting figures half a mile north in the valley.

“Thranduil.” Fíak spat. “That lying snake can take a running jump. He has _no_ right to interfere in our affairs.” Her fine brow was wrinkling. “Fili was mine by right – he’s had throne waiting for him for eighty years. You’re not taking him from us!”

Her face was oddly serene. She must have picked it up from that rat of a king. “Fili is old enough to make his own decisions, Fíak. He’s made his choice of alliance clear.” Her stare darkened. “And from what I’ve heard about the Ironfist clan, I don’t blame him one bit.”

“ _You._ ” They both knew what she was getting at. Fíak took a heavy step towards her, snarling. “I’ve had enough of your type, sticking your nose in where you don’t belong.” She thought he meant elves until he stared with deep hatred at her chest, the soft curves of her waist. Tauriel drew back, eyes growing very wide. She drew the short sword from her waist in a swift, fluid motion, pressing the sharp point against his throat. His three guards start, hands resting unsure on their weapons.

“Come now, Tauriel.” A weathered hand lay on her arm. Where the hell did he come from? A low growl sounded in her throat as Gunnar lowered his touch, closing his fingers around her leatherbound wrist. “Let’s not get into blows over this.”

“Get your hand off me.” She snarled. Tauriel had never liked the lying, sneaky captain of the guard. It relieved her to see that he had fallen the way he had. She took a genuine pleasure from his new powerless.

“Let me escort them.” Gunnar smiled, looking more like a leer. She stopped and stared at him, arm lowering. What was his game? Fíak was still glaring at her with that sharp hate and anger. The stories were rekindled her head and with a scowl, she thrust the sword back into its sheath.

“I don’t care what you do.” She drew back. What was the point? Neither of them had any real clout anymore. Thranduil had successfully disposed of them. Let the pair scheme and plot if they wished. “Just get that filth out of my camp.” Tauriel repressed a shudder and turned away from them all, nails cutting sharp red marks into her palms.

“Odious thing.” Gunnar watched her leave out the corner of his eye. “Too hot-headed. Then, most are, aren’t they?” Again, he wasn’t talking about elves.

Fíak snickered, despite himself. “What do they call you?”

“Gunnar.” He started walking away from the camp, looking over his shoulder. “I’m nobody.” There was a sharp edge of bitterness on his voice, one that wasn’t missed.

“I will be too, if I don’t get that brat home.” Fíak muttered. “Tricky little worm, sneaking around under my nose.”

“They all are.” Gunnar’s voice was acidic at the memories of Lake-Town. “The words of Durin’s Folk aren’t worth the breath wasted to speak them. Thorin is a flattering liar and Fili a coward.” An intuitive rumble sounded in his throat. “Kili though, he was the worst.”

Fíak turned to look at him. “The bastard boy?” Gunnar cocked an eyebrow, on the side that the dwarf couldn’t see. Bastard? Oh, _that_ was interesting. “Haven’t heard a thing, just that he went missing.”

“Killed four of my guards before he did it.” The ex-captain’s blood boiled, just thinking about him. “The orcs made him wild.”

“Orcs?”

“You _must_ have heard that.” But he hadn’t. Fíak’s brow was heavily creased. Dís and Dain would have hidden that from him. His stomach tightened at the thought of the little bastard, the one his former prince wrote about in the filthiest language possible in his unsigned letter, almost seventy years before. He had almost nothing else to go by – Dís let slip only the barest facts, snarling them at him through gritted teeth. “He went missing months ago, the dwarves thought orcs killed him, but he turned up some time just before they approached Lake-Town. They kept him, treated him like one of their own and he’d gone feral. Thorin tried to lock him up but it wasn’t long before it all came out. Unfortunately he shed a lot of blood before getting away.”

“Where is he now?

Gunnar shrugged. “Gone. We searched for weeks but he’d vanished without a trace. Hopefully the little shit fell down a cliff and bled out on broken bones. If I _ever_ see him again, I’ll rip his arms off. He’s made a lot of enemies. He wasn’t just violent Fíak. He was cunning. He tricked his way out of his cell and slipped away without anyone seeing him. Fili and Thorin are easy to get a handle on – but Kili, he’s something different.”

“Wouldn’t expect anything different from a Longbeard.” He replied. “They play at being honourable and wise, but they’re a heartless, greedy people inside. All they care for is gold.” He waved his hand at the mountain to prove his point. The marriage that locked their people together was over gold, a paltry sum from a desperate, selfish king. At least, it was on the Longbeard’s side. Their prince had demanded to have her at any price, twenty years too young to wed. But he was keen to wait. Just what had possessed Vili’s son to go for that homeless raven-haired beauty? It was something Fíak had puzzled over before, many times.

He remembered her from a century before, when she was soft and round and young. Fíak didn’t think much, just saw a wide-eyed orphan too far from home, but _he_ was besotted with her, sighing and laughing like a child, showering her with gifts and waiting on her hand and foot. Too young, Vili had grumbled. It shouldn’t have been indulged, that childhood infatuation. They could only hope he would come right and be more of a _proper_ Ironfist prince in time. Vili was right – when his son got older and hardened up, he acted the way a husband should, keeping Dís in her rightful place, under his thumb and boot. She became meek and demure, the way a good wife ought to be, but Fíak saw the disobedience in her eyes.

Later, Vili sighed and said it would have been better if his son had killer her the night she fled, rather than just beating and humiliating her. It would have incurred Thorin’s ineffectual wrath, a half-hearted murmur of discontent from the western dwarves, but it would have spared their people from this painful, drawn-out disgrace. There wouldn’t be this bastard to contend with, Dís wouldn’t be around to muddy the waters, and they wouldn’t be wrestling their rightful heir away from Thranduil’s iron grip.

“A question,” Gunnar posed after fifty or so feet of pensive silence. “Who told you Kili was a bastard?”

“Oh, everybody knows.” Fíak remarked. “He’s only seventy-four, and _she_ left nearly eighty years ago now. Nobody’s ever pretended otherwise.” Gunnar nodded silently, a thoughtful frown on his face, unnoticed by the dwarf. Somebody was either lying or ill-informed. Keeping it quietly to himself, an arrow stowed away in his quiver until the naked heart was exposed for a death-shot, Gunnar patiently, silently speculated who.


	91. One of Seven

Bolg lay silently in his tent, listening to the sound of the fire, the low stream of chatter that rose in the air, the occasional chuckle of chilly laughter. Over and over in his fingers he turned the heavy silvered ring, attached to a long thin cord that he wore around his neck at all times and thrust into his armour, keeping it hidden from view, not even taking it off to sleep.

It seemed to reignite in the dark. Something had been stirring for days and days, ever since he first laid eyes on the dwarf. He’d always managed to put it away, but as Bolg awoke with a sharp, poking niggle in the back of his head, as though something at the base of his skull itched, but no matter how many times he raked his claws across his scalp, there was no relief. He realised it was the ring when he shifted in his mess of furs and blankets and realised that the token was cold as ice against his chest, despite being close to his hot skin for so long. Perhaps the ring could somehow sense his thoughts. Perhaps the smell of Kili rose in the night, and some connection there was finally made. Perhaps it was really all in his head, the idea that had entered his mind some days ago growing and growing, and now he couldn’t leave it alone in his sick fascination and curiosity.

With his thumb pressed against the sharp, geometric carving of the thick band, Bolg sat up at the sound of Kili’s voice drifting on the air. The ring seemed to burn hot just for a moment – or was he only imagining that too? He held it up to his eye, looking through the black circle with a growing smile on his face.

Resolution seized him and Bolg sprang out of his tent, barefoot on the naked dirt and stones. The steely grey sky hung over them, not light enough to wash out the orange-yellow of the fire on a dozen faces. “Oi, all of you shove off!” The orcs jumped at his voice, Kili looking up with a piece of cold venison halfway to his mouth. Bolg stood at Kili’s shoulder, sneering. “Leave us for a moment.”

Kili kept his eyes on his food as Bolg took a seat next to him on the falling log. He chewed and swallowed slowly, both waiting for the rest to scatter. A low, impatient growl rumbled in his throat but Kili kept his face still. It was strange – he wasn’t afraid of Bolg the way he was afraid of his father. Azog struck a deep, cold fear into Kili’s heart, but Bolg did nothing for him, even when he was pinned beneath his massive boot. He felt nothing. Kili supposed that it must have been the death-wish that did it. He _knew_ he was going to kill Bolg, and that seemed so suck all the danger out of the orc-king. Kili saw the creature for what he was – insane with blood-lust, cruel, not particularly cunning or calculating, and prone to unprovoked violence. He could handle that. It was the orcs like Azog, who had things ticking away in the back of his mind, who kept everything hidden and never showed his hand, that made Kili nervous and unsure.

Even so, he wondered what Bolg wanted now, in this private conversation. He sucked his fingers and wiped them on his trousers, turning to the orc at his leisure. “What brought on this special visit?” The words were borderline rude, but Kili kept his tone respectful, his face calm and expressionless. It was a fine line, like walking on a stick-thin beam of wood, trying to balance respect with arrogance, showing that you knew you were beneath somebody, yet all the time reminding them that you were a force to be reckoned with. Inviting them to underestimate you, while at the same time suggesting that you don’t. Kili thought he had it close to perfect now, and as he saw Bolg’s face in the gloom, he knew he had this orc-king more fooled than he could ever have hoped to fool Azog.

“Tell me.” Bolg’s one-eyed stare was fixed on him. “What do you know about your grandfather?” Kili was taken a little aback at that and his eyes showed it. He bit the inside of his lower lip in a brief flash of thought.

“Only a little.” He picked carefully over every word. “He went missing at the battle of Azanulbizar, long before I was born.” Bolg’s face twitched at the euphemism. “Beyond that, not much more. Thorin didn’t like to speak of him much.”

“Missing.” He repeated. “Oh, he was found. We found him, all right.” Kili found a knot forming in his stomach as the orc tempted him with a revelation that his family had been craving for a century. “He was alive, the last I heard, you know.”

“O-Oh?” Kili’s voice faltered, and he curled his toes with anger at himself, the brief show of weakness. Bolg’s smile widened. “So you had him then.”

“Dol Guldur did.” He clarified. “Thrain roamed for a long time, before the Necromancer’s forces found him. I was in Dol Guldur before my father’s quest summoned me north.” The smile turned into a snarl. “I was captain and keeper of the fortress, doing what the ghost of the Dark One could not. When I heard that Azog was pursuing Thorin Oakenshield, I knew it was time to reveal the truth.” His hand was inside his armour, finding the piece of ice-cold metal. “We needed some token, something to show we had his father. A finger or lock of hair would have done excellently. But he was so aged, his body withered and clothes worn down to rags, we had only one thing that could identify Thrain, son of Thror.” Bolg extracted his closed fist, breaking the leather cord.

Kili wasn’t surprised to hear that his grandfather had been captured, that Bolg was behind it. Azog had mentioned once that his son had the honour of taking care of Dol Guldur while he had Moria. Kili could see him now, some sort of servant and keeper whose only job was to keep the miserable inhabitants of that dark tower as downtrodden as possible. His spine prickled at the visions dancing in his head. He lifted his eyes as the orc’s fist slowly unfolded, the ancient, heavy ring gleaming in the light.

“Pretty, little thing, no?” Bolg’s tone was soft, almost reverent. The thick silver band was carved with interlocking devices, set with a single brilliant sapphire. Kili was utterly silent, mouth dry as he stared at the ancient ring.

“How old is it?” Kili was too afraid to touch it. His gaze flicked briefly up to Bolg’s face, tracing the smile that had returned to his lips.

“First Age.” He held it between thumb and forefinger now, rolling it slowly. “It was crafted for Durin III.” Bolg thought it prudent to not mention who had made it, or that there were six others lost to dragon’s flame and forces of darkness. “Your family held on to it for thousands of years, until Thrain was captured. It will be older than any carved trinket within the halls of Erebor.” He lowered his hand and looked Kili in the eye. “Give me your hand.”

Kili held his breath. Doing his best to keep his fingers steady, he stretched his left hand out slowly, watching as Bolg took his wrist with one hand, slipping the ring on his middle finger. His grip remained on Kili’s hand, the pair of them marvelling at it. The orc licked his lips, eye gleaming. “I want you to wear this when you cut off Thorin Oakenshield’s head.”

Kili’s head darted up, brow wrinkled. “I thought – you would be the one...”

“And pass up the chance to watch Thorin to die at the hands of his own kin?” He sneered. “Miss the shock and pain on his face when he realises it is his nephew that will end his life?” Bolg chuckled. “I can’t think of a more fitting end to the line of Durin, watching it burn from the inside out and destroy itself.”

Kili pressed one finger over the blue stone. It was warm to the touch. Something throbbed beneath his finger, a seed-sized pulse that didn’t feel quite like his own heart. Balin had been so _sure_ when he said the line of Durin wouldn’t be so easily broken. He had swelled when he heard the words, his wounded pride restored. It was all so close now – _frighteningly_ close. He would be lying if he said he wasn’t afraid – of _course_ he was afraid. He was afraid that he wouldn’t protect Fili. He was afraid of failing. And on some deep, primal level, yes, he was afraid to die. Kili had been so close before, on his knees with that knife at his throat, and then with Azog choking him, squeezing the life out of him in a last desperate bid for revenge. He knew what that stab of overwhelming horror felt like, the cold rush that flooded his soul, filled him up. He accepted it could happen – shit, the way things looked like they were going, it seemed almost inevitable at this point – but it didn’t make him any less afraid.

Returning to the outside world, Kili curled his hand into a fist, staring down at the heavy, ancient ring. That pride was blossoming inside of him again, for all the wrong reasons. He wondered why Bolg did it – was it an attempt to flatter Kili, to keep him on side, to manipulate him? Was it a genuine token of Bolg’s affection? Or was it simply a tool, a way for him to hurt Thorin deeper, to show him in the most heartless way that his father had died? Kili swallowed. “I can’t think of a more fitting end, either.” There was an odd, high-pitched ringing in his ears. “Nothing would make me happier than staining Thrain’s ring with his son’s blood.”

* * *

In the mid-morning, a message came bearing the details of Fili’s treachery. Fíak wasn’t allowed in, of course, but he passed it on to one of Dain’s guards, who passed it on to Balin, who now stood before Thorin, standing in the gold-stuffed treasure chamber with his composure almost intact. It was best that a friend break this to him. If it was some nameless messenger, Thorin could quite possibly kill them in a fit of violent passion. His spine prickled at the uncomfortable memory of Thorin’s earlier anger, the screaming at his nephew, casting the Arkenstone away in the darkness as though it was a lump of coal.

“We have a problem.” Balin spoke simply. Thorin and Dain talked closely, their heads together, breaking apart at the sound. “Fíak has just returned from Thranduil’s camp,” he paused. “Empty-handed.”

Thorin’s arms were crossed, a deep scowl already etched on his face. Even Dain looked worried. “What do you mean.” His voice was already stretched to a near-breaking point, loud and anxious.

“It seems our Fili made a deal with Thranduil.” Two pairs of sharp blue eyes stared in horror. “The pair of them are working together. I don’t know the finer details, but I presume Fili has offered a share of the treasure in exchange for Thranduil’s protection and support for the crown.”

“Oh, shit.”

“That _brat!”_ Thorin’s reaction was far more explosive than his cunning cousin. “Has he no _shred_ of decency!” He roared, kicking out at a loose golden cup as the rage overwhelmed him. “Striking a deal with that _scum_ Thranduil – with the worst of the elves!” Balin stood silent. “He may as well spit on my grandfather’s grave and be done with it!”

“His claim isn’t unfounded.” Dain looked as though he had stumbled upon something rotten and long-dead. His nose was wrinkled and face set in disgust. “Even as an exiled half-breed, he’s still Thror’s great-grandson.” A growl rumbled in his throat. This was a _huge_ blow to his plans. The three of them knew that Thranduil could quite possibly defeat them in battle, that if Fili took the throne, he might just be able to hold on to it. “You should have marked him when you had the chance. He’s as slippery as his mother, Thorin. You can’t give either of them an inch.”

“I don’t _need_ advice on how to deal with my nephew.” Thorin spat. “This was not my failing – I did _everything_ right with him. He was perfect – for eighty years, he was perfect!” He rounded on Dain. “You said so yourself – you said he was brilliant and he would be a fantastic king.”

Dain nodded. “I did.” And he meant it to.

“Kili did this.” Thorin snarled, trying to untangle his racing mind. “Ever since we lost him – Fili’s been slipping up.” He placed a hand on his chest at the memory, recalling the explosive encounter with his nephew beneath the eaves of Mirkwood. “And in Lake-Town, he was downright rebellious. I tried to sort him out. I thought _this,_ ” he waved his hand at the impossible pile of gold, “would set him on the right path. I thought that finally, he’d forgotten about his brother and we could finally move on.” He shook his head. “This isn’t my doing. This is him – all him.”

“Bad blood.” Thorin’s hands tightened into fists at the accusation. “It was always touch and go Thorin – we all knew there was a risk. You did your best, but he was doomed from the start, they both were. You did right by those boys Thorin. _They_ failed _you.”_

“I raised them to be better than this.” Thorin whispered, feeling broken. “Forming alliances with orcs and elves – they were _better than this!”_ Anger was ripping at him, deep in his gut and he could feel the bitter bile filling his stomach. His blood pulsed, too hot, too fast and his hands were shaking. Fili and Thranduil, side by side – how could his nephew _humiliate_ himself, Thorin, his name, his entire _people_ with such a brazen, indefensible act?

“He’s being manipulated.” Balin finally suggested, his voice soft and tentative. “He’s an impressionable lad, we know that. He would have been afraid – Thranduil tricked and tempted him into this.” He tried to ignore Dain’s molten stare. “He doesn’t have the cunning to devise all of this himself.”

“It doesn’t matter who did it.” Dain’s voice was tighter when he spoke again. “It’s done. He is an enemy of our people and we need to act swiftly. Put a price on his head Thorin, refuse to work with Thranduil until he’s thrown out. We can settle this quietly, if we act with grace—”

“Grace.” Thorin snarled. “ _Nobody_ here has acted with an ounce of grace. I’m not about to begin now and let Thranduil crush me underfoot.” He turned away from the pair. “If there are any attempts at negotiation, send it all back. I’m not speaking a _word_ to that trickster, Fili or otherwise.”

“Where are you going?” Balin stared at his retreating figure. Thorin paused and looked over his shoulder, his jaw set and eyes bright and cold all at once.

“To speak with my sister.”

* * *

Grishthak didn’t see the ring until the morning sun was high enough to catch the light of that massive blue stone, shining plainly against Kili’s ash-grey skin as he flung his arms out in a long, back-arching stretch. He pulled his warg to a stop for a few moments, refusing to believe it as he disrupted the flow of the march. But it was - it _was_ , Azog had described it to him before the battle of Azanulbizar, told him to scour the kings and princes of Durin's Folk and cut of the hand that bore it.

He found Bolg right away, called a short break and hurried him off the path and making sure nobody else was around before speaking. “Tell me that isn’t what I think it is on Kili’s left hand.” His king stared cooly at him, lip twitching minutely like somebody who had a secret they couldn’t wait to share. “It _is_ , isn’t it? Bolg!”

“It was given to me to do as I pleased.” The orc-king snarled. “ _My_ reward for unwavering loyalty.”

“No, He _let_ you borrow it to torture Thorin Oakenshield. There is a difference. What possessed you to this?” His burnt-amber eyes scoured that scarred, cobbled-together face trying to pull a sense of reason from him. Bolg was smirking again, infuriating him.

“I wanted to see what would happen.” He jerked his head towards the dwarf’s figure, standing shoulder-to-elbow with Mautor and looking deep in conversation. “What use is a Ring of Power locked away in a tower Grishthak? Isn’t this better, letting it out on the world?”

“How long have you been planning this?” The old orc was frowning, very very heavily. “Have you... thought this through? Considered every angle?”

“Of course I have.” Bolg snapped, but Grishthak didn’t believe him for a second. Bolg didn’t have his father’s cold, detached cunning. He couldn’t think of things without emotion – he was too violent, too crazed with blood-lust and intent on his own goals and it led to stupid decisions like this, where he did something because he _wanted_ to, because he wanted to somebody to hurt and any consequences that could backfire were completely disregarded. “I know I’m right. He’s the _perfect_ bearer. He’s Thror’s great-grandson, he’s completely on our side, he’s already strong and quick – it’s a waste, to throw this chance away. No one living has seen what they do to healthy dwarves. Aren't you curious? It won't make a wraith out of him, but it must do something to his heart and mind - make him stronger, darker.” Bolg licked his lips in anticipation.

"Does he know what it is?" He eyed Bolg, the mutilated orc shaking his head. That was at least was some relief. “I thought you were going to kill him.” Grishthak muttered “Azog’s will or not, you said he was too much trouble to keep around and as soon as the battle was through you would slit his throat.”

“I know I did.” Bolg’s arms were folded. “I changed my mind when I realised what a hardy little bastard he is. _I_ won’t keep him – I’m thinking I’ll send him southwards, after I’m through cleaning the dwarf-scum from these lands. A little... gift, for Him. He’s a _perfect_ example of how dwarves really can break.” The expression deepened on his face, turning ugly. “Remember Grishthak, this is _my_ ring, my choice, and my dwarf. Not yours.”

With his eyes fixed on Kili, the tiny little gleam on his left hand, Grishthak nodded slowly. He couldn’t question Bolg on this – he’d seen closer orcs to his king lose their hands and tongues and lives for much less. All he could do was keep his mouth shut, eyes and ears open. But he didn’t have to like it.

* * *

They took Dís to the only room that still had a working door that wasn’t an obvious dungeon. Her mother’s old chambers, coated in dust and foggy with distant memories. Perhaps they thought it would be a home comfort. Dís leaned against the closed door with her stomach in knots, feeling oddly dazed at the stared at the gloomy shadows of a room she barely knew. The faded silks were still draped across the brocade couch, the hat-stand and the screen in the corner, set with gems and painted in gold leaf. _Amad’s_ bottles of scents and oils and creams were still on the dressing-table, cases stuffed with brooches, necklaces, earrings, hair-clasps crusted with gems, all throned by the mirror coated in a layer of dust. Dís’ reflection was a vague, blurry and formless, a creature stepping out of a child’s nightmare.

She approached the dresser slowly. With her heart pounding in her throat, Dís reached out for a little portrait, veiled in dust but still recognisable as her mother. She had been pretty, without a doubt. She had a haughtiness about her, visible in the way she held her head, looked side-eyed out of the picture, her neck and shoulders bare. Dís wiped at the thick layer of dust on the mirror, the warbling shape taking focus. Her gaze shifted from the old picture to her own reflection, studying the shape of her brows, her jawline, nose, cheeks. She more looked like her father. That sardonic, angled curve of her mouth wasn’t there. Her mother had always been worried, Dís remembered, that she would grow up to look heavy like her brothers, with those masculine features. She could almost feel those fingers, dripping with emeralds and rubies, grasping her chin, angling her face up, sharp tongue clicking critically.

Dís touched her own face now, lined about the eyes, weather-beaten, a smudge of dirt on her cheek. What would _Amad_ say if she saw her little girl now? Would she be proud of the ferocious mother-wolf she had become? Or would she be cruel and cold, sniffing that Dís was a terrible princess and a worse wife? Her hand tightened around the picture, knowing deep in her heart that _Amad_ would have thought of her as a failure.

Footprints were left behind in the rich carpets, as Dís slowly made her way around the room, touching and remembering. She wound an old music-box to find that it was still working and the sound followed her as she made her way to the dusty bed, the covering spoiled. Somebody had already been sleeping here, breaking the sanctity of this locked tomb. Dís sat down on the edge of the bed, trailing her fingers over the silk as she looked up at the canopy woven with stars. It was a lifetime ago, a hundred and fifty years, when she last lay here. Fresh from her mother’s funeral, her face painted and body wrestled into fine silks, she lay here, Thorin in the middle, Dís and Frerin on either side, motherless dwarrows staring up at the diamonds sewn effortlessly into the midnight blue.

The door clicked. Dís jerked up onto her feet with a start, realising that the tinkling melody of the little silver box had faded. How long had she been sitting there with her face turned upwards, ticking over the years, decades, centuries in her mind? Her neck felt stiff and tight and she rubbed self-consciously at the swollen knots on the top of her spine.

Thorin’s entrance was humble and subdued. He’d taken off his crown and fine clothes, standing before her with his hands at his sides as the door rumbled shut. Dís took a step back, and another, until the dressing-table hit the back of her legs, face set in a snarl.

“Get out.” She spat. “I have _nothing_ to say to you.”

“You will want to listen to this.”A dark purplish bruise already spread along his jaw, almost hidden beneath his beard. The sagging, lined pouches of his dull blue eyes were on her. When he spoke, it was barely above a strained whisper. “Fili has allied himself with Thranduil. The pair are working together – fighting together, against us.”

Dís gripped the edge of the dressing-table, feeling a single, very loud and heavy beat of her heart. _No._ Her first thought was that it was impossible – Fili was too bound up in his own sense of honour to break that bond with his uncle even further. Dís _knew_ that he would never do such a thing unless he was pushed to the sharpest extreme. And it seemed he was.

Her snarl deepened. “Good.” Dís bared her teeth. “I hope he wins. It’s all you deserve, after the way you’ve acted.”

“The way I’ve–” Thorin broke off, swallowing heavily and trying very visibly to hold his composure. “He is the guilty one here.” The anger that consumed him before had burned out, in that long, long walk up to his mother’s long-dead chambers. Now terror lurked within the cold ashes. “Listen to me. I want to talk to you Dís, privately. No thrones, no gaping relatives, no crown. Just us.” He was begging with her, one hand outstretched. “Just let me speak.”

“You could speak for a thousand years Thorin,” There was a distant coldness in her heart when she looked at him. It was like staring at a shrunken, weathered corpse, dead for so very long that even the memories had faded. She almost _pitied_ him like this. He looked pathetic. “Make every excuse, every justification, you can think of, until your throat bleeds, and not a single word will have any meaning in it.” She ran her finger along the dressing-table, showing Thorin the grey index before rubbing thumb and forefinger together. “It’s just dust in the air.”

“I’ll apologise for Kili.” The words stumbled out. He tried to deflect her blows. “I could have done more. I was heartless Dís—”

“You’re _damn_ right you were.”

“And if I could undo it, I would.” He really, really meant it, deep down. But he adopted that sugar-sweet tone, the softness reserved for the emotionally fragile, the aged and very young, and it was turning Dís against him. “We’ll find him. We’ll send out messages, search parties – he’s smart, much smarter than we ever realised. He’ll be alive, I’ve no doubt in my mind. Wherever he is, he’s alive, and we’ll bring him home.”

“Do you think Kili will want to come back, after what you’ve done?” Her hands balled into fists, Dís took a step towards Thorin. The memory of her son ignited something deep within her and she grieved, painfully and openly. “He _ran away_ from you. If he ever wanted to see you again, it would be to end your life.”

“I didn’t do anything to provoke his ire.” But his eyes were wide, and the both of them knew he was lying.

“You spent _pages_ of that letter accusing him. You said he jeopardised the entire quest, that he deserved to be locked up and you were through with him!” Dís pulled the message out of her pocket now. “Look – here. _I don’t understand where I went wrong. I tried to talk to him, the night we arrived in Lake-Town. I explained the magnitude of what he had done and all he did was curse my name. I tried to prepare him for the shame that I knew would follow but he spat in my face.”_ She lowered her trembling hands. “Prepare him for the shame. You _blamed_ him, didn’t you?”

“No, I merely tried to help him comprehend—”

“Don’t lie to me, Thorin!” She cut over him, barely giving pause for air. “Did you blame him for what he was forced to do to survive?”

Thorin was ashen. “Thror would have—”

“Thror is _dead!_ ” Dís lost control then, stamping her foot as the worst of her fears were confirmed and her heart boiled with hate and anger. “Thror is dead, and Thrain and Frerin too because you all thought _just like this!”_ Her eyes were stinging, but Dís refused to give in to the gathering moisture. “Thror’s greed and so-called honour brought death upon our family, it ruined my life and yours too, can’t you see that?” She thrust the letter inside a deep pocket. “Is this more important to you?” Dís reached back seized one of the bottles of scent from the table. The perfume had discoloured, looking muddy and dark in the crystal vessel. The gold stopper, encrusted with pearls, gleamed at her through a coat of dust. “How much is this worth? Or this—” Dís snatched up a heavy necklace, strung with sapphires the size of a fingernail. “It’s a pretty string of jewels, I’ll grant you. How many lives it worth, Thorin?” She threw the necklace at his feet and slammed the ancient perfume down on the tabletop. “How can this mean more to you than my sons?”

Thorin opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out was a choked, strangled groan. He was about to say that it wasn’t true, that Kili had been the light of his life and he would have died for him, but all that seemed false and hollow. He couldn’t say it. For all his protestations, every time he shouted at the top of his lungs he was doing the right thing, the cold truth stared him in the face. In his heart, the anger still smouldered, the dull throb of betrayal, the disbelief that Kili could throw away seventy-seven years of love and light in the space of a few months. He didn’t speak. Instead, Thorin sat down the couch, a garish thing with overstuffed velvet cushioning and gold brocade. He stared at his hands, curling them into fists and watching the tendons pull and stretch. Dís watched him with folded arms, and waiting, waiting for an apology, a confession that the both of them knew Thorin was too proud to _ever_ give.

Dís paced back and forth, realising that she had him. He was silently apologetic, hoping that she could somehow read his mind and understand that he was truly sorry, even if his proud mouth could never form the words. He still felt dead to her, soft breathing was like the wind, whistling through the bleached bones of a skeleton. She could destroy him if she wanted, easily and effortlessly. But instead, Dís stood before the slumped figure of her surviving brother, hands loose at her sides. She tried to force the hardness in her voice, the flash of anger in her bright blue eyes, away. “Give Fili another chance.” Her voice made Thorin look up. There was still one child left, one she was desperate to save. “Let him apologise, do some token penance, put it down to stress, temporary insanity. Everybody is on edge Thorin, you could explain it all away.”

“I cannot forgive his attempt at high treason.” Thorin’s teeth were gritted. The mention of his first nephew, his wonderful golden-maned heir dragged out that shame and disloyalty in him, deep and ugly. Kili’s betrayal, wild and uncontrollable, but Fili’s treachery was a sharp, deliberate attack that had had no justification. This alliance with Thranduil was the last straw for him, plunging his nephew beyond the point of any possible return. She asked too much of him now. “There is no absolution for this. He threw it all away Dís. A lifetime of love and protection and he chooses to thank me by undermining my rule.” He watched the muscles tighten in her exposed throat. “There is nothing – _nothing_ so utterly unforgivable any dwarf could ever do. He’s abandoned his honour, his integrity, his _birthright_ by what he has done.” Dís stared back, eyes cold. “Surely even you must understand—”

“ _Even_ me?” She hissed, leaning down. “Do you think I’m some soft, simpering princess who’s spent the last century walking about with my eyes closed and fingers jammed in my ears? I’ve been screaming at you for years and you’ve never listened to me Thorin, not once.” Their faces were close enough to feel the breath on one another’s cheek. “I’ve loved you, for over a hundred years. I was loyal to you even after you killed Frerin.” Thorin blanched at that, turning his face away and screwing up his eyes. “But if you let Fili go, if you let this happen – I will make you suffer. I will do _everything_ I can to make you hurt.” Her voice was a low hiss in his ear. “I stopped being an obedient little puppet eighty years ago and I am _not_ about to start again.”

Thorin stared back at her, those thick brows knitted in a frown. He could feel his stomach boiling in frustration and anger at her, rising in his chest, rushing through his brain. It welled up and overflowed, leaving him burning. “You can’t threaten me.” He grabbed her wrist, fingers tight around the leather. Her words were blows on him, fierce knocks that he’d borne silently. But this low, hissing threats in his ear, that was a sharp knife that drove straight into her heart. This wasn’t the wild grief of a mother unable to bear the pain of losing her children. This was edged with blade-sharp anger, a hatred that bordered on the cruel. Thorin stood up, his hand still gripping her wrist. “I am your _king_ Dís!” She tried to back away from him and pull herself free, but Thorin gripped her elbow, keeping both arms pinned.

“A king of ashes,” She shot back at him, “ruling an empty kingdom of bones.” He felt the strain of her muscles beneath the sleeve of woven mail. “Don’t flatter yourself Thorin. You’re not a king. You were never a king.”

“You!” That tipped him over the edge. Thorin shoved her hard, the dam striking against the bedpost with a cry of pain. “I am doing the _best_ for my people. Perhaps if you weren’t so _poisonous_ , Fili would never have had the arrogance to do what he did!” With her free hand, Dís gripped the front of his shirt, trying to push him back, but Thorin held fast.

“It is not my fault that Fili fell to your heartless cruelty.” Dís struggled against him. “You blind, thoughtless _bastard_ Thorin – you can’t see what you’re doing!” Terror had seized her heart, as she realised that she was losing against him, just as she had been losing all her life. Thorin was a prince, and now a king, and all the while Dís had been nothing. A bride-price, a diplomatic tool, a womb. Her duties had been served and she failed in both of them. Her marriage was a catastrophic failure and her sons were traitors. The only thing she had left was Thorin’s love for her, and just like his love for Fili and Kili, it was smothered, choked and dying, crushed beneath the weight of that monumental gold-hoard, with the Arkenstone perched proudly on top.

“Will you be _quiet!”_ Thorin thundered, gripping her upper arms. “For once in your life will you keep your mouth _shut_ Dís!” He shook her, teeth rattling in her skull. “Do you even realise the shame you’ve brought on our house? You and Fili and Kili – you’ve corrupted Thror’s line, all of you! I am trying to do _right_ here, even if I am the only one left in this family who knows the sense of the word!” He kept her pushed against the ornate bedpost. “I have spent a century trying to convince Dain, the Firebeards and Broadbeams, the dwarves of the East, that I am worthy to sit upon this throne, and I find the strongest challenges to my rule don’t come from orcs or elves – but my _sister_ , my nephews – the ones I should trust the most are the ones who threaten to ruin me!” His voice was hoarse now. Dís stared with her mouth firmly closed, but eyes very, very wide.

And in that moment, they both knew that they were lost to each other. That bond between them, the one that bore through Frerin’s death, the loss of Thror and Thrain, Dís’ doomed marriage, the affair with Dwalin, the impending threat of the Ironfists, was irrevocably severed. Thorin’s grip loosened and he took a step backward, his eyes locked with hers. Oh _Mahal_ , the pair of them looked so similar. They both had Thror’s nose and jaw and eyes, the raven-black curls from his youth and his broad, unyielding shoulders. It was a mirror’s reflection, with only one minor detail changed.

“Go.” Dís whispered, and as she blinked, the tears finally fell. “Go sit upon your throne and leave me to rot in here.” The hairs were standing up on the back of her neck, but not from the cold. Thorin sucked in a sharp breath, eyes flashing, looking as though he wanted to speak. But he didn’t. He must have thought better of it. Without another word, he turned away from her, cracking the heavy door open and slipping through. The grinding shudder of iron roared in her ears, and as she was sealed inside this tomb of lost memories, Dís sank to the floor, shivering, limbs weak and face wet.

He was gone – they we were _all_ lost to her now, Fili and Kili, Thorin, Frerin, Thror and Thrain. One by one, like the toppling pieces of a child’s game, they fell. Dís wound her arms around her folded legs and tried to swallow down the burning in her throat, holding back the sobs that made her ache. After a lifetime of fighting, she felt exhausted. Perhaps this was it, this was the thing that would drive her to the inevitable concession of defeat, and after this she wouldn’t struggle and cry out, anymore. What was left to fight for?

A spasm of terror seized her heart. Her head jerked up and Dís gripped the edge of her mother’s old bed, staggering. _There was still something._ Snatching up the lantern that had been left for her, taking off her heavy gloves and stuffing them into her belt, she scaled her hand along the smooth walls of the stone, searching at the joints of the walls, behind moveable pieces of furniture, behind mouldy wall hangings. There just _had_ to be some sort of secret passage, a tunnel leading to the outside world. Her own chamber had one, hidden behind a rather sickly tapestry of young girl dancing about in a field of flowers. Frerin’s was low to the ground, underneath his massive bed. Every prince, princess, king and queen of Erebor had their own private escape.

In the long-cold fire, her hands brushed a mark. A shoulder-height little brick, just inside the corner of the fireplace bore a sharp rune, unmistakeable against her hypersensitive fingertips. Dís found her lips curling in a smile.

“I’m coming for you Fili.” She breathed on the very edge of a whisper, ducking inside the fireplace. “I’m going to help you through this.”


	92. The Hero

Thorin was eating with Dwalin and Dain when the guard came in to the little chamber, wringing his hands and looking very worried. The biscuit turned to ash in Thorin’s mouth as he stood up, the bottom gone in his stomach and earth reeling beneath his feet. He _knew._

The passages.

Enraged and humiliated, he searched the room himself – no, he tore it apart. Thorin smashed the mirror, tipped the dresser over and sent the rotten perfume spilling over the carpet and making it reek. He tore down the wall hangings and the draperies and the diamond-studded canopy too. The silk tore to ribbons in his hands, the tiny gems falling through his fingers and scattering thoughtlessly across the floor. His heart was ripping apart. He kicked over the spindly end-tale and threw the silvered music-box against a stone wall, twisted gears and pins clattering to the ground.

“Where _is_ it!” Thorin lunged at a pretty carved rack draped with the dusty, disintegrating remains of his mother’s silk gowns, left out one night to air and never brought back in again. The frail cloth fell to pieces in his shaking grip and he broke the wood over his knee, beating the splintered, broken wood against the stone. “That sneaking _bitch!_ ” His voice rasped, hoarse in his throat. “How can she _do_ this to me!” His mad eyes scoured the smooth walls of the torn room, searching for a clue. He sank to his knees where he saw a mark, scrabbling at with his nails, begging with his cracked voice for the stone to yield to him. “Open – _damn_ you will you _open!_ ”

“Thorin – _Thorin!”_ There was a pair of strong, broad hands on his shoulders. Dwalin’s voice rumbling in his ear. “Stop this now – come away—”

“Get _off_ me!” Thorin spat, struggling. “I have to find her – I have to _stop_ her before she gets to Fili – Mahal the both of them will _ruin_ me – she’ll help him win.” He panted on his knees, trying to unwind Dwalin’s arms from his shoulders. Thorin looked down and realised that three of his fingers were bleeding, the nails torn in his desperate pawing at the wall, knuckles on his right sliced up from going through the mirror. They didn’t even hurt. “She’ll ruin me.” He repeated in that harsh, ragged voice, pulse crashing against his skull – violent fists pounding against the bone, again and again and again and he was going deaf. “She’ll _ruin_ me.”

"Oh hell, _Balin_ where are you?!” The dwarf roared, trying to drag Thorin away. “Somebody find him!” Thorin’s head was in his hands now, and he was shaking, holding on to the last scrap of his sanity with his bloodied, broken nails.

“She’ll ruin me.” Thorin’s hands fell away from his face, and he stared out at the room, the chaos that he had caused. The memory of his mother was broken, torn, spilled over the carpet, rotten, coated in dust and disintegrating in the air. “Oh Mahal Dwalin what have I done.” He gasped, reaching out blindly, smearing blood on Dwalin’s hand. “Oh – Dwalin – w-what have I done to her?”

“It’s all right.” He tried to be soothing, misunderstanding his king. “We’ll find her and get her back.” But in his gut, Dwalin didn’t want Dís to be found. He saw her face and read it better than Dain or Balin or Thorin ever could. They didn’t _know_ her, nobody knew her the way that Dwalin did. They never took Dís seriously, when she got off on one of her violent rants, when she got sharp-tongued and vicious. They never saw her completely naked like he did – not just physically, but with every guard around her dropped away, her hopes and fears and dreams stretched out before him, hopelessly independent and bigger than Thorin would ever let her be. She lived through those boys, ever since it became clear that Thorin wouldn’t give her what she deserved. Dís had been quietly relying on Fili to get her what she needed but Thorin had threatened to take that all away, and after that point it was never a fair fight.

The diamond brooch in his pocket was a lead weight – a lead weight on fire, burning through his clothes. Dwalin knew that she never loved him quite the same way he loved her – his adoration for her was single-minded, passionate and eternal. She was softer, more reserved, less ready to trust. Dís wasn’t going to come back to him, not now. Not after this. He couldn’t imagine what she would do when she heard about Dwalin’s treachery, how he chose Thorin over Fili, how his loyalty to Dís had been broken. Those fragments of Dís, that was all he could hold now, wrap them up in his memories that stretched back over a century and bemoan the cold, painful knowledge that he had been _so cruelly close_ to having her forever.

“Search the mountain.” Thorin tore himself out of Dwalin’s grip, holding his hands up and the blood ran down his wrists in thin rivulets. “Search every corner until we _find_ her.” His shoulders heaved as he breathed in and out, staring at the dim room that he had torn to pieces in his violent passion. Dwalin remained kneeling on the stone, frozen. “What are you _waiting_ for!” He snapped. “ _Go!”_

Dwalin left then, barking orders at the guards that were starting to crowd around the half-open door, pushing them back. Thorin stared at his bleeding, shaking hands as the rolling anger that left his fingers senseless began to ebb away. The low, throbbing undercurrent swelled from his knuckles and he gritted his teeth, looking up at the ruined room. Torn fabric, splintered wood, clouds of dust, broken glass and crystal, twisted metal and gold and loose gems were spread across the discoloured rug.

He’d lost everything. As the full force of it all hit him, Thorin clapped a hand over his mouth, trying to stop the embarrassing cry from spilling out. Fili, Kili, Dís – even his mother’s memory had been trashed and broken. Everybody had left him and Thorin was left totally, entirely, _completely_ alone.

* * *

“Oh – Ori!” With his brow furrowed and arms stretched out, Ori jerked up. Bain was running, his cheeks flushed red and a wide grin stretching across his face. Ori lowered the bow, his own small, shy smile growing at the approaching boy. The breath came out of the boy in silvered clouds, his face pale apart from those bright red cheeks and he hugged Ori for a brief moment, before drawing back. “I wanted to talk to you _ages_ ago but Papa’s been telling me to stay in the tent. He won’t let me out of his sight – I have to wait until he’s busy like now with Thranduil else he gets mad.” Grinning, Bain settled himself down on a large rock, one leg up on his lap. “Are you any better at shooting or can I still beat you? I wish I could practice but they’re all so _big_ – how are you coping with those bows, it must make your arms hurt like nothing else.”

“I manage.” It was necessary, getting in the practice at this clumsy little range. Ori tried to pick the times when no one else seemed to be around. Even though the air was chilly and the light cold and grey, settling on the heavy rocks, Ori could feel his heart lifting at the sight of Bain, innocent and bright and warm, as he had always been. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen you!”

The boy threw himself on the rocks beside Ori. “I can’t believe it’s been a month or so – can you? It seems like _so_ long ago we were at the range back home with Kili,” His face softened for a moment, and he paused, brushing it off with a little shake of his head. “Anyways, do you know what’s going on? Why are you here, is this some sort of peace talk? Papa won’t tell me a thing and all the elves are snooty as anything, they keeping looking at me like I’m not s’posed to be here, even when I’m real quiet and keep my hands to myself. Is it true that there’s going to be a battle soon? Everyone’s always practicing their fighting or sharpening their swords so they _must_ be but I don’t understand, ‘cause I always thought we were all friends. The gold must be doing funny things to people – they didn’t seem to be all like this before.”

Ori blinked, trying to comprehend the tangled, cluttered mess of words that Bain threw at him. He latched on to the last thing the boy said, smiling a little with jealousy. It must have been so much easier to look out the world with that untested naivety, seeing things only for what they were and not really questioning anything underneath. The nostalgic swell in Ori’s chest made him pause. When did he stop thinking of _himself_ as someone like Bain, being ‘the young one’ just going along, not really sure what was happening around him, being left out because he really know enough to be any help? It happened in small degrees, being brought closer step by step until Ori found himself right in the middle of it.

So he settled his gaze on the eager young boy, smiling a little sadly. “It is doing funny things to us, isn’t it?” Bain was swinging one leg over the edge of the sharp little bank, chewing on his lower lip. Ori shrugged off the quiver of arrows and set it on the ground. “I don’t know all that much about what’s happening myself. Fili and Nori and Bilbo and I... well, we couldn’t stay in Erebor anymore. We realised that we didn’t believe in the same things anymore. We’re not allowed to go back.”

“Oh.” Bain’s eyes widened in his unfettered curiosity. “Are you staying here now? What’s Fili going to do – Thorin’s his uncle, right? Is he in trouble?”

“He’s certainly in trouble.” Ori murmured. “Fili’s going to stay here and try and find an end to this conflict without it all ending in a war.”

“Is he going to be a king?” Bain picked up a small, flat stone, trying to skip it over the water.

“I don’t know. I don’t think he wants to be a king yet. He doesn’t want to hurt Thorin.” Ori chose his words carefully.

“My dad’s a king.” Bain said it so effortlessly and thoughtlessly, it must have been still unreal for him. “Honest. My great-great-great- _great_ grandfather is Girion of Dale.” He ticked the line of descent off on his fingers, unsure if he got it quite right. “Papa never told me because he never thought it would come to anything but then Smaug came and he killed _everyone –_ well, he killed the Master and all his best men and I got a _wicked_ scar and—”

“What?” Ori cut in, the blood draining from his face. “You... you were hurt?”

“Uh-huh! No it’s all right, it doesn’t hurt much anymore unless I sleep on it funny.” Catching the horrified look on the dwarf’s face, Bain tried to smooth it over. “I ended up saving everyone – well it was Papa that shot the dragon down but _I_ told him where his weak spot was. But everyone was _so_ happy, and they begged Papa to lead them and King Thranduil wanted him too so he said yes.” Bain was beaming. “Isn’t that _cool?_ I get to be a _prince_ after all of this. I’ll get a big room all to myself and new clothes and good things to eat whenever I want. I’m so excited.” His hands were clasped in his anticipative joy, legs swinging again.

“That’s great Bain.” Ori tried to fix that smile back on his face. “Your father is a good man and I know he’ll make a good king.”

“I hope so.” Bain’s brightness clouded in an uncertain moment. “He’s nervous a lot. He doesn’t admit to it but I can _tell._ He thinks that ‘cause he hasn’t been taught properly that he won’t know how to do it.”

“You can’t really teach someone how to be a good person.” Bain was listening with his chin propped up on his hands. “Thorin had the best education possible. He had been groomed for years and years, but he’s managed to mess everything up. Some people... I suppose they crack under all the pressure. Your father will have Thranduil to help him out. He’s... very, very clever.” Ori was as diplomatic as he could be. “You’re all going to be fine.”

“I hope so.” Bain blew at the mop of brown curls falling over his face. “If you and Fili can’t go back to Erebor, will you stay with Thranduil or Papa? You could stay with us! You’re _way_ cooler than all the other boys and girls from home Ori, you’re so smart and you’re not mean at all. We’d have so much fun.”

“I don’t think I’ll be staying here.” Ori chose his words carefully. Bain’s face fell. “I don’t think this place is right for me. You and your father and Fili are wonderful, but none of the other dwarves like me all that much anymore.”

“Why? ‘cause you’re here?” Bain squinted a little at him, and Ori’s stomach went soft at his complete naivety, the pangs of jealousy stirring in his gut again. “They were all old and grumpy anyway. And they smell funny. It was like being with my old Grandpapa before he got sick but there was ten of them.”

“No – because I...” Ori bit the inside of his mouth. “I’m just not like them. I don’t much want to stay anyway, to be honest.” It was just a sad thing to admit, and Ori had almost – _almost_ come to terms with everyone knowing, with his own name being poison, being an oddity and a freak, kept at arm’s length, with everyone unsure just what to do with him. Emboldened he leaned in. “If I tell you, you can’t tell anyone, all right?” Bain, he realised, was the only one who could really understand this. He knew Kili, he knew Ori and he didn’t have a shred of that narrow judgement that had warped nearly all the others, turned them against him.

“I _promise.”_

“Well... I think after all this has finished, I’m going to find Kili.” Ori’s voice was very low. Bain couldn’t hide the growing excitement on his face.

“ _Great!_ I’ve been _so_ worried about him you know – being all alone out there. I hope he’s all right. It’ll be so good when you bring him back and everything’ll be sorted out.” Ori’s mouth was dry and he had to really force the smile now. He dared to think, from time to time when he was alone in the dark and the rest of the world slept around him, what it would be like if he really found Kili. If they would go on together out into the unknown, or come back home, if Kili would even want him in the first place, if they could really be friends again. _Once_ , Ori dared to entertain the idea that they could perhaps be something more, just for one moment. He stopped himself, pressed his face in the pillow to try and muffle the sound of his breathing as his heart raced. He didn’t let it happen again. It wasn’t a fair thought to entertain.

“It will be good.” Ori finally mumbled, realising that he’d been drifting in his own little world again and the boy was looking at him. “Having Kili back – will be good.”

No matter who he was now.

* * *

Fili and Bard left together after having a short lunch with Thranduil, the elf-king confidently discussing battle-plans, the size of their combined army, which places were the best in the valley to attack and defend. It left the other two cold and uncertain, and when Bard murmured that he had to go and check on his son, Fili stammered an apology himself. It was transparent, fooling nobody, but Thranduil didn’t comment, he just let Fili go with a little twitch of his lip, ice-blue eyes gleaming.

“So this is the alliance of men, elves, and dwarves.” Bard muttered as soon as he knew the pair were free. It came off sharper, more gloomy than he meant and he wished almost instantly that he could take it back. “But – I am glad that one of you was able to see sense in all of this.” He stopped in his walk. Fili seemed to have a steady head on his shoulders. He didn’t seem like the rest of his family. Thranduil had filled Bard in, with little low murmurs, about how Fili had tried to overthrow Thorin with the goal of brokering peace, and how long it took for Fili to come to trust Thranduil. Then again, after everything Thranduil had done to the line of Durin, Bard didn’t blame Fili for his reluctance. “You’re not like Thorin at all, are you?”

“... No, I’m not.” Fili thrust his hands deep into his pockets, shoulders hunched over in the chilly air. “A month ago, I would have considered that an insult you know.” His fingertip brushed the smooth, round edge of a gold coin and Fili lifted his head in surprise. He’d forgotten all about the old piece, stowed deep away in his coat. Dwalin never found it when he was searching Fili – why would he? He was only interested in the Arkenstone, in stripping Fili of his knives. Once he had those, Dwalin didn’t bother with anything else.

“It’s so strange.” Bard was looking thoughtful. “Five generations of men have passed since Smaug attacked this mountain, and yet it’s still in the living memory of your people.”

“Just.” Fili stared over his shoulder at the single peak of Erebor. “Those who were alive to remember were barely more than children when it happened. We were running out of time – it had to be while Thorin was still young enough to lead us, with enough of Erebor’s old inhabitants alive to muster a force.” That was half-true. Fili pulled the coin out now, hidden in his fist. “Y’know, there is one piece of the gold-hoard that made it through that gate.” He opened his hand, where the coin rested on a flattened palm. “Take it, it’s yours.” The man took the coin between forefinger and thumb, turning it over. He stared at the thrush, at the image of Girion, the engravings around the edge. “You do look a little alike, you know. Must be some family resemblance. It’s always lucky when that happens.” Depending on what side of the family it was. Bard’s eyes were quite dark as he stared down at the coin, looking very far away.

“I didn’t ask for any of this, you know. Hell, I avoided it for as long as possible – until it came out nowhere.” Bard lifted his gaze. “Being king isn’t worth what was lost Fili.” A muscle on his face twitched, and he looked in physical pain. “Bain almost died in the fire. He’ll carry the scar for the rest of his life, although I suppose half a century is meaningless to an eighty-year-old child.” He wasn’t angry at Fili personally – he just hurt, and in that hurt he needed to lash out, make them realise just how close he came to losing everything and that he was truly, truly reluctant to have all of this thrust upon him.

“I’m sorry.” Fili whispered, finally looking Bard in the eye. “I am truly, truly sorry. I swear Bard – if I knew this was all going to happen, I _never_ would have come. This isn’t worth what was lost, I completely agree with you.” He ran a hand through his wild curls. “This wasn’t worth losing my uncle and brother.” Bard went quite solemn at that, staring back down at the coin in his hands, at Girion’s sharp profile with his lower lip between his teeth.

“I know Thranduil felt he had his reasons. He wanted revenge for his son and I understand that, I _do_ – but I would never deceive the way he did.” Fili’s muscles froze and his forehead deepened in a heavy frown.

“Deceive?” Bard’s head jerked up, the tendons standing out in his throat as realisation hit him. _Fili had no idea_. He’d just made a sworn deal, signed a contract with someone who had plotted to have his brother killed. “Deceive _who?_ ”

“Er,” Bard took in a shallow breath, diving right in. Fili deserved to know. He _needed_ to know if he was going to spend another second in Thranduil’s company. The longer Bard spent around the elf-king, the more wary and on-guard he became. He began to realise that the smiling, venerable lord of the woods was just an act – that Thranduil was sharp, cunning, violent, and everyone and everything around him were just tools, game-pieces, things he could pick up and use and then throw away when that usefulness had worn through. It made Bard realise just how little he knew, how much he was at the mercy of Thranduil’s whim. “Fili – the whole mess with your brother in Lake-Town, the story about him and Ella...”

“It’s not true.” Fili cut over him fiercely. “I know it’s not. I _know_ Kili and I know he wouldn’t hurt somebody who was innocent. No matter how twisted he became, he’d never hurt anyone who didn’t deserve it.”

“I know.” Bard agreed with him quickly. “I know, I know. I wasn’t suggesting for a moment that he did. I _know_ he didn’t – it was all a set-up.”

“Yes, I figured.” Fili snarled. “That _bloody_ captain of the guard, I know he’s behind it all. I never liked him, glad he’s been knocked down—”

“Gunnar wasn’t alone.” Bard tried to keep his voice kindly, as though it would soften the blow. “He – was under orders. Thranduil’s orders.” Fili was staring at the ground with the frown even deeper on his face, shaking his head a little from side to side. “He plotted to lock Kili up so he could get even – after what happened to Legolas. That _was_ true, Kili hurt him and he didn’t deny it.”

Fili closed his eyes. “Oh Mahal I should have suspected.” He _should_ have. The top of Thranduil’s tent was still visible, the little flag fluttering in the winter breeze. The sight of it made Fili’s chest constrict and swell. That _liar._ He kept a smile on his face and all the while he was the one _responsible_ for Kili’s disappearance. Fili tried to think rationally. With the way things were going, it was only a matter of time before everything exploded. Kili had become dark and violent and dangerous, he wasn’t going to live under Thorin’s thumb and follow his rules, and there wasn’t anything that Fili or Ori could do to keep that at bay. It was bound to happen, if not then, later, and it was stupid and downright perilous to think about the ever-wonderful ‘what-if’ that haunted Fili in his coldest, loneliest moments. But it didn’t soothe that hot anger bubbling in his stomach, rising and rising. “Of _course_ it was him.” Fili looked at the man in dismay. “How could I have been such a _fool_ Bard? He threatened us – he said he would make us suffer and he found his way, didn’t he? Thranduil just wants to hurt my uncle. _All_ of this, it’s just to ruin him.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “And I’ve just sworn fealty to him. I’ve sworn fealty to the one who cost me my brother.” His heart began to race as the panic set in. Oh _no._

“I don’t think he’s malicious.” Bard was frowning, trying to put his thoughts into words. “I think... He feels justified in every action he makes is a champion of consequence. His balance of punishment and mercy is harsher than most would think fair. He doesn’t like to forgive.”

“That’s a pretty way of saying he’s heartless.” Fili’s face felt hot. “I wonder what his reaction would be if Legolas was in that position, if he had to hurt Kili in order to stay alive. He would say it was fair. He’s not justified Bard. He’s a filthy hypocrite.” He felt like such a fool. Thranduil had been laughing at him this whole time, wearing a smile and all the while sneering at Fili, thinking him a naive, ill-informed child who was stupid enough to put his trust someone who hurt him and his family, again and again.

“I wouldn’t speak so plainly, not here.” Bard’s tone was a low warning. “Fili – I can’t tell you what to do, it’s not my place. You know all of this much better than I. But I hope you will listen to me in this and leave it all alone. What we could do – the three of us, we could make things _right_ for our people, for our families, for—”

“Our familes?” Fili cut over him. “Bard, I don’t _have_ a family! My brother is gone, my uncle has disowned me, my mother is locked up – who am I saving here? I am _alone_ in this, trying to do what is right because everything is so – distorted – clouded – and – I don’t understand _how_ it’s all descended into this. We’re supposed to be good. We’re supposed to be the heroes but I just feel like – it’s always been a pretence and the disguises are being dropped.” His eyes were unusually bright, the colour rising in his wind-chapped cheeks. It was so _painful_ – even though Fili knew he was right, that he was the only one who could see clearly, it still _hurt_ to have the ones he trusted and loved reject him like this. He was wounded.

“Maybe it’s always been a pretence. Just – generation after generation of fools and liars.” Fili took in an ice-cold breath. What did that make him? “Maybe – maybe it’s never been real.”


	93. Giving Life

“No – you need to hold it straighter your arm is going all crooked.” Bain’s hands were shoved deep into his pockets, a smile on his thin face. Now that Ori _knew_ something had happened, he was certain that he could see heavy shadows under Ori’s eyes, a gaunt shadow in the hollow of his cheeks that suggested he had recently recovered from a deathly wound or sickness. Or, perhaps, he was imagining everything, and it was just the overactive imagination of a boy, childish embellishment and a bragging need to please. Ori saw the way Bain winced though, when he swung his arm and pulled some tender muscles and skin, and knew that he was hoping in vain.

“What do _you_ even know, you’re twelve.”

“ _Nearly_ thirteen.” Ori hid his smile at the high-pitched whine. “Papa’s been teaching me since I was little – I was going to on a hunting trip y’know, that’s why we were out of the lake. It was going to be my _first_ time ever. Not that I’m complaining, ‘cause you were all _far_ more exciting than anything we would have seen in the forests – Papa said we probably wouldn’t have found a thing anyway, he went in sometimes ‘cause the Master _loved_ venison and pays out the nose for it but they’re so hard to catch, you have to be quiet and you can’t let them get a whiff of you...” Bain trailed off when he saw Fili approach, his tousled blonde curls a vivid, glistening crown about his head in the mid-afternoon sunlight. He looked exhausted, as though he had been running a long time, with his face drawn and tired and a dark, heavy look in his eyes.

Ori started, and lowered his bow. “Fili?”

“I need to talk to you.” Fili gasped, approaching the pair. “Now. Please.” His mouth was pulled downwards, cheeks oddly pale. The breath barely misted before his pinkish lips.

“What’s going on?” Ori slung the quiver to the ground and let the bow drop, frightened. Fili just jerked his head back, away from Bain. Four hard lines were standing out on the backs of his hands, the tendons pulled and tense. “You look _awful._ ”

“Just – come on.” Fili pulled at his free wrist, guiding Ori away. The younger dwarf mouthed a silent apology to Bain, the boy giving a little shrug in return, an unusual frown on his normally sunny face. “I’m sorry Ori,” He whispered. “I didn’t want to – I know you were busy but—”

“What’s going on?” Ori laid his hand over Fili’s. He looked stunned with that quiet, almost gaunt face and dull, dark blue eyes. Fili licked his cracked lips, giving the air around them a cursory glance before pulling Ori in, their faces close.

“I just spoke to Bard.” He whispered. “That _bastard_ Thranduil, he – well, he didn’t _lie,_ I’m sure if I asked him about it, he would come right out and smugly say it, take all the credit.”

“For _what?”_ Ori’s heart began to beat faster, as those shadows on Fili’s face grew sharper, deeper.

“For Kili.” His teeth were gritted now. “It was _him._ Thranduil had _planned_ to have Kili locked up so he could come swooping in and take him away without a fuss. He had the guards of Lake-Town in his pay. The _scum_ Ori, he had every piece of this planned out. And then he sits there, promising to help me, to protect me and stand on my side while he _destroyed_ my brother!” Fili gripped Ori by the wrist, his fingers ice-cold. The breath was coming out in sharp little panting gasps, tiny steam-clouds against Ori’s face. “I’ve promised a fifth of my wealth to the one who ruined Kili’s life all over again.” While he was alone, it seemed less real. It was a secret that almost seemed untrue, locked away, hidden from the light. It wasn’t true. Fili stared right into Ori’s eyes now, the dark hazel that flecked with gold in the right sort of sunshine. He begged silently for something, a twin of his outrage, a whisper of shock and anger, a promise of revenge.

When Ori finally did speak, his voice was trembling. “I wish I could say I was surprised.” Fili’s throat was stuck. “I knew – I always knew, that there was something unexplained. The way they hounded him, the elves as well as the men, that awful trumped-up story that I knew was a lie...” He shook his head, wishing he could feel Fili’s anger. “I feel like a fool.”

“How do you think I feel?” Fili hissed. “You may feel a fool but I feel like a _monster_. I can’t stand there, at his side, _knowing_ that he did this – that he ruined everything. I should tell him to go to hell, I should take that treaty I signed and burn it. Every moment I spent just standing here – just letting Thranduil do this, it’s another insult to Kili. I can’t keep this up Ori.”

“Yes – you _can.”_ Ori’s eyes widened and he found both of Fili’s wrists, clinging to him. “You _have_ to. Don’t you remember that letter he wrote to you? He knew he was innocent, he knew someone was conspiring against him and all the same he wanted you to keep on. You’re supposed to forget him completely, you can’t—”

“Don’t be cruel.” Fili snapped, drawing his hands back. “As though I could ever – _ever_ forget my brother.” Ori blinked. “ _Nothing_ means more to me than him. If I could give all of his up in order to have him back, if I could just – just turn time back, go back to that night and stop Kili from walking out Beorn’s door... _Mahal_ Ori, I would give anything. I would give up my name, my gold, my hands, my sight – my _life_ for him. I’d do it in a heartbeat.”

There was awful rush of bile in Ori’s throat, and he had to swallow hard to keep it all down. He breathed only when he thought he could it without any shaking, the humiliation and guilt and regret all coming back. He didn’t say sorry. It felt like a step backwards, to do that. Fili caught his breath, the long plume of steam rising in the air, that ember-bright gleam in his eye. “But you can’t.” Ori’s voice was very quiet, but the more he talked, the louder, more impassioned it grew. “He’s gone, Fili. And you’ve had the opportunity for _weeks_ to try to find him. But you haven’t. Not because you don’t love him, not because you don’t want him back, but because you _know_ , right in your gut, that Kili put you first, your name and honour. He wants you to succeed, to best Thorin and Thranduil and prove to everyone that you deserve this more than anybody.” Ori gripped Fili’s shoulders, his cheeks flushed. “We both know Thranduil is a corrupt bastard. If you renegade on your promises Fili – he’ll just throw you to the Ironfists all over again. You _need him.”_ His fingers curled tight around the broad muscle and bone. “And he needs you too. He needs an ally to put on that throne.”

“At what cost to me?” Fili whispered. “Thranduil _ruined_ whatever chance Kili had to be normal again. He has to pay for this – somehow, he has to pay. He can’t just smile and get away with this, all over again. I can’t _let_ him.”

“There you go again.” There was an edge to Ori’s voice, low and deep, rumbling in his throat. “Kili was _never_ going to be ‘normal’, if that’s what you want to call it, and we both know that. This isn’t your decision to make. Kili made it when he left without a trace, telling you to forget him.” Fili was shaking his head. “ _Yes_ Fili. Don’t you understand how special you are at all? When are we going to have someone like you again, who’s brave and strong and can see the world for what it really is, without these stupid notions of honour and glory blinding them? You can’t let Thorin and Dain beat you, and have that _awful_ son of his sit on the throne while you while away a life in exile.”

“I just – feel so alone.” Fili wrapped one hand around Ori’s skinny wrist, wrapped in soft, worn wool. “I had Thorin and Dwalin and _Amad_ and Balin and I felt like nothing could touch me. But now – it’s like I’ve been put in the battlefield without armour or sword, not even a knife, and I have to fight my way out with my bare hands.”

“You’re not alone.” Ori ventured a smile. “You have me. And Bilbo, Nori, Gandalf, and Thranduil and Bard. What’s a bunch old dusty dwarves compared to that? Gandalf, he is on our side, he truly believes in us. You’ve heard him speak. Thranduil, you don’t need to trust them. Mahal, I don’t think Thranduil trusts _anybody_. But just knowing that, being on your guard and having his support and watching your own back, it’s a barbed shield for you. You don’t need to bleed.” He squeezed Fili’s shoulder, and let go.

Fili looked hollow. “How can you have all this faith?”

“Because.” His gaze brushed the stone ground, a cloud of dust rustling about their ankles in the swirling breeze. “I have to have faith in something Fili. Do you remember, in Lake-Town, when Thorin spoke to me?” Ori swallowed, a tremor in his voice. “When – he said he was allowing me to come, but that I couldn’t expect any treasure? Wh-when, he said that I couldn’t expect any special _privileges_ , like the right to hold any offices or join a guild, that I couldn’t ever own property of have full dwarvish rights. A-and then he stood there, expecting me to _thank_ him for his leniency – as though I should be _grateful_ that he had the grace to let me tag along like some sort of sharp stone in his boot that he couldn’t shake out. And I had to get down on one knee and kiss his hand as though I had been granted a boon. He wiped it afterward, as though I’d contaminated him. It was the cruellest thing he could do.”

Ori’s teeth were gritted and his eyes stinging. “Well, f-fuck him. _Fuck_ Thorin and his heartlessness.” He stopped to catch his breath. Fili was staring at him. “You were standing in the doorway looking sick, shaking your head and mouthing that you were sorry. I knew then, right then, that you were the only one left who cared about me. Not just for _me_ , but for everyone like me, who’s spent their whole lives struggling with no one to give a damn about them. I can’t give that up Fili. Things need to change, for everybody. We can’t go back to those old ways, those stupid morals and codes and traditions.” Their eyes met. “I have to believe in this Fili. I have to fight for it, or I’ve got nothing.”

Fili gave him a rough, one-armed hug, a little abashed. “You’re an idiot sometimes.” He muttered, his lip twitching upward. “But you’re right.” The colour had lifted in his face, his eyes. He looked less greyish and withered. “I know what I’m fighting for – and I _know_ it’s good. Thorin can call me a traitor until his last breath but I know that I’m doing the right thing in this.” He stared up at the mountain for a moment, a little knot pulling in his stomach. “You know – I made a promise, the day we lost Kili. I didn’t tell him – it was in my head. But I promised that... I would make something Kili could come back to. That – I could create a new kingdom and he could return without anger or shame. Some place he would call home.” The resolve hardened inside of him at the memory of it. He could almost smell that dinner again, feel the heat of the fire, hear Thorin breathing beside him. Fili sank a little, but he refused to let it all bog him down, smother him. He wouldn’t drown again.

Ori’s cheeks were flushed. “That’s how you get him back.” He wanted to believe it, he really did. It wouldn’t be all over in a day or week. It would take years, _decades_ , for Fili to build the kind of world that Ori believed in. He would find Kili, and they would come back, they would help Fili rebuild, stone by stone, until they had built something beautiful together. Ori had to believe in it.

* * *

Streaks of gold and red brushed the sky. It took Dís’ breath away for a moment and she stood still, her neck arched up, staring and staring as the wind blew on her face, whistled about her ears. Handfuls of dust whirled at her feet. She felt entombed in stone, snaking carefully along this narrow little pass around the side of the mountain. At least the passageway hadn’t disintegrated over the years; Smaug could turn flesh and bone to ashes, reduce great pillars and statues to heaps of rubble, but those little pinpricks in the stone, like wood-worm tunnels in a great tree, they remained locked away. Sneaking out was easy – Dís wound up not at the Front Gate or anywhere near it, but around the eastern ridges of the mountain, hidden in a tiny valley that was knee-deep in snow. It was slow, arduous going, but she managed to scale the cliff on a series of carved footholds, stagger along the top of the ridge on a track as thin as string, half-run down the rugged slope with a stitch in her side, and climb again, fall again, the sun drawing nearer and nearer, until it hung low, red as an early-morning ember.

Then she saw the row of tents, and Dís knew – or hoped – that she had been saved. No. She had to stop quickly, get that thought out of her head before she could entertain it with any certainty. Nobody was _saving_ her from this. Nobody was reaching out their hand, offering to take her away and wrap her up in silk and fur and promise to keep her from arm. It emboldened her. And as the sky faded, edged with grey, the light shrinking westwards, Dís marched towards the camp with her head held high, gleaming in that fine-mesh mail, staunch and strong and utterly unafraid. She wasn’t armed. She didn’t _need_ to be. Dís could hold an axe and throw a punch and draw blood, but they were brutish, clumsy weapons in comparison to her cunning, sharper than the best-forged blades from the elvish forges. As long as she had her wits about her, Dís didn’t need anything else.

She walked towards the camp with her arms at her side, hands splayed out. She would have found a branch, if anything grew on these chilly slopes. A handful of grass or leaves, something green that would have shone against the grey in a gesture of peace. Even a mossy rock. Thranduil would accept her –he _had_ to, when it all came to light, what she had done. And Fili – _Fili._ She stopped then, swallowed that sour lump down hard in her throat. Her Fili. Having him ripped away, just _listening_ to Thorin speak of her son the way he had, with that exhausted, worn-out contempt, it hurt her. Thorin’s love and faith, it was supposed to last forever – he _promised_ and it all meant nothing in the end. Nothing could compare to the allure of that gold and power. Thorin had a reputation, a name to keep.

“Halt!” Ah, there it was. About fifty feet from the last row of tents, Dís froze, cocked her head at the sound of the feminine voice through the dying light. There was enough detail to make out faces, limbs, but the lithe figure was little more than a shadow, a pale face ringed in dark, reddish hair. “Who goes there?” Was that – it _was._ The elf walked towards her, with her bow drawn and arrow nocked. “What is your name, dwarf?”

Dís bit the inside of her mouth, so the smile wouldn’t spread across her gloomy face. Tauriel approached her, slow, careful steps, with the arrow pointed right at her heart. “Are you a spy, an ambassador? What is your business here?”

Tauriel narrowed her eyes, drawing the arrow another half-inch. “ _Speak!”_ Her sharp voice rose, and the dwarf simply stared dumbly with a little bitten smile. He stared at the ground for a moment, seemed to think, before squaring his shoulders in the grand armour. He looked like someone important, with the blue tunic over the finely-wrought mail, heralding Durin’s device in braided gold. Her sharp vision caught the dwarf’s eyes, blue as stones, hair raven-black with a hard, almost beaky nose and her lip curled. She had some trouble telling them all apart at times, but with the hair and face and clothes, there was no doubt in Tauriel’s mind that she had her arrow pointed square at a member of the royal family.

“Didn’t expect to see an elf in a skirt here of all places.” Tauriel froze at the voice, as delicate as glass, piercing as birdsong. The dwarf let _her_ smile grow, stretching out unarmed hands.

“Who are you?” She recollected herself, pulling the sagging string back to her ear. In the back of her head, however, Tauriel had a very good idea of who she was. “What brings you here?”

Dís slumped her shoulders a little, hands still held out. The smile faded half an inch, and she lowered those sharp blue eyes to the blackening stone that stretched out before them. “I’m here for my son.” And her voice did quiver then, just a single, shaking little syllable. “I know he’s here, and I know he’s not a prisoner.”

The bow slowly lowered in Tauriel’s hands, and she stared very hard at the shadowed figure, frowning. “Dís.” Tauriel murmured, gently sliding the arrow back into her stacked quiver. “I think you should come with me.”

* * *

Kili bartered a few lengths of soft leather during the day with a bored-looking orc who took a fancy for his dwarf-strung arrows, when the march paused for a few gulps of bread and water. It was dark, brownish-black stuff, smooth as the skin of an infant. Kili wound it around his fingers and breathed in thoughtfully, the smell of oil and of calf-skin against his face. Kili knew he had to make _something,_ a pretty trinket, a peace-offering to try and appease the one who fled his bed in the night.

By a little fire fuelled from pinecones and a great log from the blaze at his back, Kili sat apart from the rest with an air of solitude, carefully scoring the leather with his knife. He took off his armoured gloves and twisted and braided and wove, with his tongue between his teeth. He was lost in his work, hunched over, and with his hands engaged in the mechanical process, his eyes fell to the silvered ring on his finger, and a fractured mind wandered. Orcish tokens, they were made out of leather, sinew, and bone. The working parts of trophies, prey, enemies, lovers that had been ripped out, torn to pieces, and put back together as objects of beauty and desire, to instill fear, or affection, or respect. Things that once held life, turned into tokens and gifts. Dwarves, they carved their necklaces and rings, their little figurines and bracelets and beads from stone, metal, gems, taken from the heart of the earth. A heart that, despite all the legends and myths and stories, Kili knew wasn't true. It was just metaphor to try and give life to the caves and mountains they willfully walled themselves alive in.

Kili set down the half-formed leather, and found that he was twisting the bright little ring around and around on his finger. He tried to pull it off and get a better look at it, but the band wouldn’t quite get over his knuckle. He left it and scratched at the geometric carvings with a fingernail. There was a century of dirt and grime trapped in the engraving, tarnishing the ridges of silver almost black. The sapphire gleamed, not deep and dark like the commoner things Thorin used to sniff about (not that he got to finger them all that often), but sharp, clear, shining almost with its own light, threads of brilliant white. It must have been the firelight, that made it shine so bright. Kili frowned down at it, trying to think what the striking blue was so reminiscent off, when a pair of heavy boots stopped quite suddenly at the edge of his vision. Kili blinked and looked up, his eyes widening ever so slightly at the sight of Grishthak, towering over him with his long arms crossed over his chest.

“Yes?” Feigning mild interest, Kili lowered his hand. “Something interest you?” The old orc made a low growl in his throat, lip pulled in an obvious sneer.

“Bolg wants to speak to you.” He spoke low, bending down over Kili and making the most of his height. Kili remained on the ground, but he reached out and found the knife he’d used on the leather, fingers curling slowly around the hilt. “He’s bored. I wouldn’t keep him waiting. It’s so easy for his newfound favour to turn sour.”

“And you came all the way over here to tell me?” Kili stuffed his knife in his pocket and the half-braided leather into his pack. He rose to his feet but left his things behind. “How generous—”

“Don’t play smart with me, _dwarf.”_ The old orc snatched his elbow, catching Kili off-guard. “I’ve seen your type a thousand times. You think you can get close? Don’t be so arrogant. You’re nothing more than a passing whim. Just a tame warg who’s learned a few tricks, trying to push your luck. Snap at his hand and you’ll be muzzled.”

Kili let out a laugh, short and sharp, almost like a bark. “I’m not a biter.” He tore his elbow free and stepped back, heart beating heavy in his throat. There was a metallic taste as he ran his tongue along the inside of his teeth, staring at Grishthak. He held out his hands, fingers spread. “No claws.” His expression darkened, a low pause hanging in the air. “You don’t trust me.” The orc snarled at that, his face twisting beneath that well-worn show of restraint. “You don’t trust anybody.” His hands fell. “That’s how you’ve lasted this long, when all the others found themselves at the wrong end of Bolgs anger.” Kili softened the lines of his face, making himself look wistful. “I did. I trusted Azog with everything.”

“Until he died.” His stare was cold, trying to dig into Kili, to pick him apart and examine all the pieces. Kili held up, his inner self veiled. He swallowed loudly. Kili wished the look of grief on his face was completely false – but it wasn’t. There was something genuine in the way his jaw tightened and he looked away. What he was feeling – that was real. Even now, Kili still _missed_ Azog. It was a very, very small part of himself that was locked away, that would never see the light. What he felt, it was successful manipulation, poisoning him, bringing out a sort of gabbling madness. It _was_ mad, to still hold on to that tiny remnant of pride and joy he once felt so completely. The spell was broken, the act seen for what it really was – and yet, Kili knew that little tiny shard, that bone-fragment, it would stick in his heart forever. Azog was the first person who looked on him with surprise, with pride and respect, the first person who thought Kili was truly something great. He could never, _ever_ let go of that.

“Until he died.” Kili repeated, his voice soft, in mourning. He turned away, and his left hand, hidden from the orc’s view, found the tooth at his neck. Kili held on tight, beginning to walk towards that great, crowded blaze.

“It’s interesting,” Kili stopped, staring down at his closed fist. Grishthak kept on talking, his voice rough and coarse. “There were only two witnesses to his death. The orc from Moria, who died the very night before we arrived... and you.” His gaze snapped up from the ring, throat clenching tight on instinct. “I thought it was strange, the tale he told. Strange that you, someone so quick and deadly, and so loyal to Azog, you were unable to stop a lowly healer from killing him.”

“That’s a dangerous accusation to make without a shred of evidence.” Kili turned, his face in profile. He caught the shadow of the orc four feet behind him.

“Not an accusation.” But his voice suggested it was. Kili’s mouth was dry and he could feel his heart starting to race, beating like a heavy drum in his ears and picking up pace. “Just an interesting observation, Kili.” He left then, without waiting to hear an excuse. Perhaps that was a blessing; Kili had faltered, struck dumb, clinging uselessly to the necklace with his mouth half-open, frozen.

* * *

Thranduil had only a single memory of Dís. She didn’t stand beside Thror’s magnificent throne when he held court, didn’t play witness negotiations or counsel like her brothers. Thror didn’t send her out on scouting trips or patrols. She had been kept locked away, wrapped in silk and velvet like a precious gem. The elf-king had only seen her once, when she was still a little wisp of a dwarrow with a few hairs on her chin. A small figure stood on the dais, white as alabaster with waist-length braids of raven-black twisting over her shoulders, the train of her gown spread out behind her, draped in sapphires and diamonds set in mithril and white-gold sang to him in a crowded feast-hall, in a sweet piercing trill. Thror beamed and said she sang prettier than any bird or music-box.

So when Tauriel said she was here, just beyond the tent, Thranuil ordered her in and wondered what he was going to see. He knew the stories, just like everybody else in the west, of how she walked across the world with a child on her back and baby in her belly, had slain orcs and wolves and bears and survived perilous roads and tracks where whole armies had died of cold and hunger and exhaustion. A testament to dwarvish will, indeed.

The candle-flame fluttered as Dís stepped inside, her back straight and gaze fixed forward, refusing to even offer the suggestion of a bow. She looked _so_ like her brother that it took Thranduil’s breath away. She had the same ridge of close-cut hair along her jaw, although hers was thinner and softer, the same half-braided hair falling to her waist, the same stone-blue eyes staring at her. The alabaster skin had dulled and weathered, and Thranduil caught a glimpse of her hands out of her gloves, once as soft and delicate as an elf’s, dripping with coin-sized gems. They were plain, nails pared back and the palms callused, a few dark hairs across her knuckles. Hands that had lived.

“King Thranduil.” Her voice was still there. Although it had been tempered and sharpened over the years, Dís still had that sweetness, the soft vibration in her throat. “An honour to meet you again.”

“It’s been a lifetime.” Tauriel still stood there, her arms crossed behind her back. “I presume you come to us as a friend.”

“More friend than my brother.” Her thick, heavy brow furrowed, determined. “You already made a deal with Fili. How much of the gold did you wring out of him before sparing him from the Ironfists?”

Thranduil stood up with a little flicker of the mouth, not answering her yet. He slowly approached the small folding table, laden with a silvered plate of fruit and cheeses, and two empty goblets of wine. “You don’t beat around the bush, do you Dís?” She watched him pour, breathing long and deep with her lips slightly parted. “It’s been over a hundred and fifty years since we laid eyes on one another and the first words out of your mouth are politics.” He held one of the carved goblets out to the dam, his eyes locked with hers.

“I’m not thirsty.” Her hands remained at his side. “I’m not here to pander to your vanity Thranduil. If you won’t talk to me, let me see my son.”

Thranduil swallowed a rich, heavy mouthful with a smile. “So blunt, you dwarves. I’m not an enemy Dís, there’s no need to treat me like one. Fili and I are sworn allies, and as his mother I extent my warmest hospitalities to you.”

“Pretty words.” She raked the nails of her left hand over her palm. “But you still won’t tell me what my son gave up to earn your protection.”

“A fifth.” The colour drained from Dís’ face.

“A _fifth?”_ She echoed, taking a ragged step back. “You _greedy_ —”

“It’s not as much as I asked for.” Thranduil’s voice was as smooth as silk. He held the drink out for Dís again. “Fili was so eager for my protection, he didn’t even try to negotiate properly. Oh don’t _look_ at me like that,” she was glaring at him, her lip curled. “Anybody would have taken advantage, probably tried for more than I did. Here, have drink—”

“Oh, _damn_ your drink!” Dís knocked the wine out of his hand, spilling red all over one of his thick-woven rugs. Tauriel started forward, reaching at her waist, and Thranduil summoned her back with a minute shake of his head. “That is disgusting, what you’ve tried to do.” Dís pushed her index finger into Thranduil’s chest, glaring up at him. “Capitalising on his fear and anxiety. You think you can manipulate him into blindly obeying your every word? He has _integrity_ Thranduil, a hell of a lot more than _any_ dwarf in that mountain and you’re poisoning him.” Tauriel stared wide-eyed, torn between rage and amusement at the dam’s violent, bitter rage.

“But now his blessed mother is here to save him, hm?” Dís faltered, hand falling. “Is that what you’re going to do Dís? Wrap him in your furs and clutch him to your bosom? Is that who you want Fili to be, the little prince who went running to mama the moment she came for him?” The smile soured. “He’ll never live it down.”

She turned away from him, livid. His manipulations wouldn’t work on her. She wouldn’t _let_ them. “Take me to see him.” Dís was staring at Tauriel now. Even though she was so much shorter, Dís still had a way of looking down her nose, seeming to tower over the captain. Over her heard, Thranduil nodded just once, finishing his wine in a long, deep draught.

The sky had turned to a bluish night in those few minutes, with the first pinpricks of starlight peering through a mist of black clouds overhead. Dís didn’t look at them now. She went onward, with her hands balled at her sides. A _fifth_. Dís saw the claim for what it was – a security, a vested interest. Thranduil didn’t want all of the gold – he couldn’t fit it in his woodland Halls. It wasn’t the gems itself that interested him, it was the control, the promise that he held over Fili’s head, one that he could use stretch their alliance to breaking point and sever. All she ever, _ever_ wanted was for her boys to remain uncorrupted, and the blind outrage at Thorin for pushing Fili to this, for abandoning Kili, at Dain for his heartless scheming, at Thranduil for trying to pollute Fili, at Balin and Dwalin, who had the power to turn Thorin away from his cruelty and yet stood by helplessly in the name of faded loyalty. Everything seemed to have been pulled apart too far, and there was no bridge that could be built, no way to cross that divide.

Dís stopped short, on the outer edge of a wide campfire. Fili’s hair streamed in liquid gold down his back, hanging over his face, shining like a newly-encased gemstone in a pile of dead coals. Her heart swelled painfully in her chest, all too fast and Dís couldn’t breathe. He was sitting in between Ori and a dark-haired man in soft brown leather on a broad log, his legs stretched out. The braids in his beard had been cut at some point, but it was well on the way to growing back, and the hair along his jaw was coarser – he must have stopped cutting his beard at some point. Fili’s face seemed thinner, there were shadows under his eyes and a downward pull of his mouth that she didn’t remember seeing but it was still _Fili._ She took a step towards the fire, staggering a little in her excitement.

It was Ori, sharp, perceptive Ori, who saw her first. He stopped with a piece of biscuit halfway to his mouth, freezing up for a minute at the short, bulky silhouette. His eyes widened at the elbow-length curls gleaming black, the broad shoulders, and for a horrible, crippling moment, Ori thought it was _him_ , that Thorin had somehow come back. But then the figure stepped forward, face in the light, and Ori recognised her. That frozen shock melted into a wide grin, and he dug his elbow hard in Fili’s side, disrupting the blonde from his talk with Bard.

“ _Ow_ \- Ori what are you...” Fili trailed off, following Ori’s pointed arm until his blue gaze fell on his mother. A gasp ripped from his throat and Fili held a hand against his lips, shaking his head, refusing to believe it. Dís was walking towards him with her hands held out, a little smile on her face. One that was sad, and tired, but still brimming over with hope.

“ _Amad_.” Fili got up, ran, threw himself in her arms, with a force that knocked her a pace back, breathless. He couldn’t _believe_ it. Fili pressed his face against her neck and breathed in, that familiar smell of his mother’s hair and skin and clothes, still all dusty and worn from the road. It was all a rush in his chest and head, going right down to his fingers and toes. There was a small voice inside of him crying out, a crumbling relief that came from her strong arms around him. His fears seemed as fragile and ineffectual as a handful of old, dry leaf-fragments, borne away in the wind. If anyone could stand up to Thranduil, face Thorin and Dain and win, it was his mother. There was nothing she couldn’t do.

“It’s all right.” Dís held on just as tight, burying her nose in that wonderful mess of blonde curls and holding back the sting in her eyes. “It’s all right darling.” Something fresh was starting up in her heart once more, as though someone had blown the dust off and old forge, lit a careful little fire, fire, stoked the coals, pumped the bellows until the flames were roaring. She held one hand against the back of Fili’s head, the way she used to all the time when he was a child and came running to her with scraped knees and bumps on the head, when he had been fighting with his brother and wound up losing, and the only thing that could soothe those tears was her loving embrace. “We’re going to fix everything together.” She whispered in his ear. Fili nodded wordlessly, and the tight hold around her neck doubled until he was nearly choking her, but she never, ever wanted him to let go.


	94. Amad

Dís and Fili sat in his tent together, side by side with the blanket over their knees. They talked for a long time, and it grew very late. Fili went first, retracing his steps from Ered Luin in the early summer, travelling hundreds of miles with his words while the seasons waxed and waned. Dís listened in silence. When he got to the part about Kili, he stopped, breathing very heavily for a while before ploughing on. Fili left a few things out, like the whole mess with Ori, sticking to the facts, but he did tell his mother what he knew about Frerin, realising quite quickly that Thorin’s breakdown, his failure, that was all news to her too.

Dís went cold as he spoke about Frerin’s long, drawn-out death, something she dreaded, suspected, and now finally knew for certain. Her hands, when they were still, remained in her lap, upturned with the fingers slightly crooked as though waiting to accept two small tokens, or burdens. Frerin, that was a loss magnified with the memory, the truth, and the more Dís heard about Kili, the _real_ Kili, not Thorin’s weak half-truths and defences, the further she slipped away, inwards, feeling ghostly and withdrawn and so, so very cold.

His voice was hoarse at the end, his hair on end from the anxious raking and his mother’s comforting fluffing. Eventually, he let out a long, long sigh and his hands fell in his lap, signalling that his story was over. After a time, he lifted his head. “So – how did you get out? Are there secret passages, aside from the one that Thorin knew about?”

“Of course there are.” Dís brushed his hair out of his face, carefully patting it down yet again, as though she was trying to make up for lost time. “There’s dozens, possibly even hundreds, leading all over the place. I found the one in my mother’s room.” She sighed. “That room, it was cold as a tomb. Thorin never should have opened it at all.”

“I went in there.” Fili breathed. “Thorin and I – we actually slept there, one night. I think he felt lonely. It really broke him, seeing how everything was all ruined and burned. Coming back after all this time, he would have been hoping that there would still be something left.” Dís’ hand fell still, resting on his shoulder. “He just wanted to see a glimpse of his old life, even if it was covered with dust and rotting away.”

Dís sighed. “There aren’t many happy memories inside that room.” She had a distant, faraway look to her. “I remembered the canopy the best. The one with all the diamonds, the moon and stars. I didn’t understand why they would put something so beautiful there, where nobody could see it. It was Frerin – who said that it was put there so she would have something to look at.” Her voice fractured at the mention of her brother, but Dís recovered. “It was years and years before I understood what he meant. Oh, I pitied her, looking back. Not as a child – she bore such a flawless mask, and I never had any inclination that something was wrong. But afterwards, hearing the gossip from the other dams, and putting everything together in my mind, I got an unhappy picture.” She stroked Fili’s hair again, tucking a rogue curl behind his ear. “Sometimes I wonder if everyone in Durin’s house is cursed.”

“Do you feel cursed?” He looked up at her. Dís stopped for a moment, thinking.

“No.” She sounded like she meant it, too. “I’m not cursed. Yes, terrible things have happened, and they’re still happening, but I was _happy_ in Ered Luin. I had everything I wanted. Love, independence – no one had control over me. It was _wonderful_ being a widow. Lots of dams, especially the rich ones, say it’s the best years of their life. I didn’t want a husband, or gold, or a palace to lounge about in. I had everything I wanted – Thorin, and you, and Kili, and I-I...” Her voice broke quite suddenly, face crumpling.

“ _Amad?”_ Fili gripped her shoulder, wrought with concern. Dís covered her face with her hands, feeling the sobs rise in her throat and break out. “Oh no – what’s wrong?” He pulled her close, trying to coax her to lean in. Dís grabbed at her stomach, the old, old memory came back to her, the night when leaned against the window in the ruins of Tharbad clutching her belly, swollen with a child she hated, feeling the tiny kicks and pleading for it to just go away, to die before it sucked more of the life out of her.

And he _did_.

“I’m so sorry.” She sobbed. “Oh Fili – I used to wish him away, I-I didn’t _want_ him, I b-begged for him to just _die_ , b-before he as even born. I’m sorry I’m so _sorry..._ ”

“It’s not your fault.” Fili whispered, stricken. He hadn’t seen her cry like this for years and years, not since he was a very little dwarrow and the wound of her final night as an Ironfist was fresh and bleeding. “You didn’t do this – it was us, Thorin and I who left him.”

“It f-feels like a punishment.” Her voice was muffled in his shirt. Fili closed his eyes briefly, trying to breathe. His mother never confided in him like this – she sought to protect him from the darkness of the world. He didn’t know what to do, how to react to it. “How – _how_ could I ever say or think anything so horrible about my own child? How could I be so cold and _evil_ towards a little unborn baby?”

“Anybody would.” Fili didn’t know what to do with his hands, they felt so awkward and clumsy. He rested them on Dís’ back, rubbing a small, tight circle with his right palm. He swallowed hard before venturing the next words out. “After what m-my father did to you _Amad_... I don’t blame you for hating Kili at first.”

Dís lifted her head. Her eyes were wet and hands shaking. She scrubbed at the wetness with her wrist and tried to stop the quivering of her mouth. It was the most taboo of subjects. Dís had never talked to Fili about it, not once. She thought – or perhaps it was better to admit she made herself believe – that he was too young, that he didn’t see anything, hidden in that closet and wrapped up in her bear-skin. She was afraid to bring it all up when he was still young, unsure of how to even explain it all. It was evident that something was wrong; the way Fili ran away and hid whenever anyone raised their voice, the nightmares, the bedwetting that he tried to pass off as his brother’s. Dís was afraid of approaching the subject, unsure how to untangle what he knew. It was wrong, she understood that now. She’d tried to be strong for the both of them and let the past stay in the past, rather than bring it all back, and it seemed to work for so long. How was she to know better?

“How much did you see?” She finally whispered after a tense silence, after she had regained control of herself. Dís tried to put it behind her, but she could see from the shocked pull in her son’s eyes that this little breakdown would never be forgotten. Fili bit his lip, considering the question with his eyes lowered. “How much... do you remember?”

“Everything.” His voice was very small. “Him and... those Easterlings too. The way they... hurt you.” Fili didn’t know how to phrase the words. They were all withered up inside of him, hollowed, shrunken shells with hearts of dust. “And before that night, all the times he used to scream and hit you, and then you’d hit back, I remember that too.” Dís rubbed at her eyes again, sniffing. Fili paused, licked his lips as the subject lay beneath a half-inch of dirt, almost brought to the light, exhumed after a slow decay of decades, leaving behind something that was bleached, smooth in its cleanness, removed from flesh and feeling. His nails dug in. “I remember when he held me. He carried me through the halls and said that one day it would all be mine. I-I don’t remember a face, not well enough. Just his voice, soft and quiet. And I felt – safe.” His hands were balled into fists in his lap, twisting and curling.

“He loved you.” Dís murmured. “He loved you more than anything, anything in the world. He used to put you on the throne, when your grandfather was occupied, and you were too small to sit up on your own. You would fall forward and he would catch you. Taking you away, leaving the Ironfists childless – it hurt him more than any word, or blow, or knife-wound. I could have slit my own throat and bled out at his feet and he would have just laughed. But you – you were his everything. You were the world to those people.”

“He’s dead.” It came so suddenly and bluntly, it stole the breath from her lungs. Dís jerked back, her eyes very wide, mouth half-open. “Gandalf – he heard about it.” Fili cleared his throat. “Died ten years ago in Dunland. He’d been doing odd jobs there for a bit of coin until he got drunk and attacked the chief’s daughter.” He spread his hands out now, the broad fingers splayed over his legs. Dís closed her eyes and pressed the heels of her hands against the sockets, swallowing hard. “I’m... sorry.” Fili’s voice drifted upwards at the last word, as though he was unsure of his own apology.

It was hard to believe that she loved him once. It was a secret little flame she carried around inside of her, hands cupped tight, a seal of locked fingers, determined that no one else would ever see that flash of golden light. No one would even believe her – she was so strong, so self-assured and he was such a heartless monster in the end that after what he had done to her, done to Fili, the very memory of love seemed impossible. But she did – for _years_ , he was her entire world. Perhaps it was control. That’s what Thorin or Dwalin would have said, if they ever knew. He cut her off, isolated her from everything she knew, and starved her like an animal in a crate, starved her of light and touch and love, of _course_ she was going to fall in love with him eventually. It was so _easy_ for them to think that, when they had each other. They didn’t know what it was like to be alone, to witness a secret, hidden part of somebody that was so utterly at odds with the outside world that it seemed almost like a dream.

Her eyes flew open, a thought striking her. Dís tensed, reaching out to take one of Fili’s splayed hands. “You didn’t tell Kili, did you?”

Fili couldn’t quite look her in the eye. “No,” he lied, swallowing back the guilt. “He never knew a thing.”

“Good, good.” Dís patted his hand. “Fili – he can’t know. _No one_ can know. I lied to Fíak about Kili’s age – I had to. They already thought he was so young... He was such a small wee boy, so thin.” Her gentle patting turned to an iron grip. “They _cannot_ know. Not now, not when he’s alone – with nobody else to defend him.”

“They wouldn’t.” Fili rebutted stubbornly. “He doesn’t even _look_ like them, they won’t want him. He’s nothing to the Ironfists.”

“A bastard king is better than a civil war.” Her voice was grim. “You think you don’t have cousins, and second-cousins, and all sorts of distant relations crowding around, waiting for Vili to die and put their own heirs forward? You think Fíak doesn’t have some niece or daughter lined up for you? They’ll kill themselves in a fight for power.”

Fili snarled. “Let them. It would make this filthy world a little cleaner if we were rid of those chaotic mongrel bastards. They’re a curse.”

She wished she could disagree with him, argue that there were still innocents, wives and dwarrows, soft-spoken dwarves who were beaten and crushed underfoot, but Dís couldn’t summon the strength, the conviction to get the words out. Fili was too hard and angry against the Ironfists to listen to any reason. “Thorin thinks it’s something they are born with, that their blood is some sort of poison, spreading to their minds and driving them mad. But they’re not. Look – look at you.” Her voice was hard with resolution. “I wasn’t sure how much you saw, or remembered. If you had happy memories of your first home at all, or if you were too young for any of it. I was so _terrified_ that you would wind up like them Fili, so savage and heartless. But – you’re perfect, so perfect in every way.” Her hand found the back of his neck, and held on tight.

“Even now?” He had that look in his eyes again, lost and afraid, and she was strikingly reminded of that little dwarrow who came running to her, refusing for the longest time to leave her side. It was a frightening glimmer in that otherwise sturdy face.

“Even now.” She nodded. “You’re different. Older. Wiser. I look at you and I _know_ that you’ll be all right. You’re not my little boy anymore.” Still, Dís ruffled his hair, one more time, feeling a little sad. “I am _so_ proud of you Fili. You had the will to stand up to Thorin, and you held your own against Thranduil. You’ve done what I’ve wanted to do for years and years and years, but never had the chance. Putting what’s good and right for everyone above your own personal pride and ambition – you should walk with your head held high for this.”

“I’m trying. I _know_ I’m in the right but it’s... hard. Thranduil – he’s as slippery as an eel _Amad._ He has control of everything and I feel like I’m walking on a bridge made of glass. If I didn’t have Ori with me, I think I would have lost my mind.” A smile graced his tired features. “He’s been wonderful throughout all of this. He got the worst end of it well – except for Kili. Ever since, well...” Fili cleared his throat, realising it had to come out, and he was sure his mother would understand. “We found out a few months ago now that Ori had been... harbouring some feelings, for...”

“Oh, you mean he was in love with Kili?” Dís smiled a little, despite herself. Fili stopped, frowning at her in confusion. “I’ve known for _years_ darling, probably even before Ori did. The way he followed Kili around all the time, doing everything he could to try and impress him, it was blindingly obvious to anyone who knew where to look.” Her face grew worried. “When you say ‘we’, do you mean Thorin too?” Fili nodded with a little wince. “Oh _hell._ He must have acted disgusting about it.”

“He wasn’t the only one.” Fili stared down at his hands, red-faced and ashamed. “I first realised when Kili was still here – he had all these drawings of Kili and some of them... they were so intimate. I saw one and I realised in a heartbeat what was happening. I was _awful_ to him _Amad._ I-I threatened to break his fingers and punch him in the kidneys. He was so terrified, he withdrew completely and didn’t speak a word to anyone for days. And then afterwards, when we’d lost Kili, we were in Mirkwood and Ori just said something – I don’t even remember what now, he was trying to be comforting, but I just lost my head. I-I punched him so hard that he broke his nose. It’s still a little bit crooked even now. I said he was a depraved, revolting, monster, and I made him cry.” Fili’s shoulders slumped heavily in the memory. “I feel _horrible_ , even now.”

“We all make mistakes.” Dís rubbed his arm. “He’s obviously forgiven you, yes?” Fili nodded. “So there. You don’t think that _now_ , do you?”

“No – of course not!” Fili was alarmed. “ _Never_ – he’s wonderful despite all of that and I know that he’d never do anything.” Dís opened her mouth to contradict her son, to argue that no – it wasn’t the same to say that Ori was still ‘good’ _despite_ his feelings, that it was something he should just push down and ignore, but she thought better of it. “I _need_ him. I need him more than anything. In some ways – it’s almost like having Kili back, because he trusts me, he _believes_ in me, more than anyone else does. I wouldn’t have had the guts to try besting Thorin without him.”

“Then you could say he ruined you.” Dís pointed out, just wanting, really, to see what he would say.

Fili shook his head, looking surer in that moment than Dís could ever remember seeing him. “No. Never.” His face was hard. “It wasn’t Ori’s fault at _all_ – I was the one who said we should try Dwalin. I was too trustworthy.”

Dís paused. “Dwalin?” It was a wonder how she managed to keep that tremor out of her voice, keep it just the right level of curiosity. Mahal knew she’d had enough practice.

“It was him.” Fili’s throat visibly bobbed. “He ratted me out to Thorin – said he couldn’t break Thorin’s trust, that he was too loyal for that sort of betrayal.” Dís couldn’t trust herself to speak, so she kept silent, waiting for her son to continue. “He must have had some change of heart at the last moment – if he’d said no from the start, told just to back down, then maybe...” He trailed off, with a defeated little shrug. “I don’t know.”

“Oh, darling.” Her grip tightened around him, mining from that own streak of betrayal Dwalin had imprinted on her, a gash that ran across her heart. She tried to feel anger, some sort of hot flash of rage, but Dís felt like little more than a hollow shell, old and dry, a husk with the seeds scattered on the wind, floating away. Kili was gone, Dwalin was a traitor, her husband was _finally_ dead, and Fili was so grown-up now, she could tell that he didn’t really need her to come running to him, even if he still insisted on some level that he needed her. Dís felt, in this moment, like she had already given everything she could give. It was so defeatist of her and she hated it, she hated feeling like this. “Dwalin’s loyalty to Thorin goes beyond _everything_ Fili. They were so close, growing up. With Balin being so much older and Frerin being...well, Frerin, they were sort of like the brothers they each wished they could have. Nothing is ever really going to break them apart, not even other family. You know what that’s like.”

Fili cleared his throat, and when he spoke, his voice was thick. “I-I do.”

* * *

“Come on – up!” Throquûrz roared, stamping his foot. On hands and knees, his prey groaned, winded from a breathless blow to the gut. Kili slipped through the cheering, betting, crowing ring of orcs, ducking under elbows. “What’s wrong with you, _ziimûrz-_ _snaaghru!_ ”

“What happened?” Ghaashka was at his side. He smirked, heavy arms crossed.

“The stupid shit made a crack about Throquûrz being slow. Won’t do that again.” It didn’t look like anyone important; Kili didn’t recognise the orc on his hands and knees, flecks of tar-black blood on the ground as he coughed and coughed.

“C’mon Throquûrz finish him already!” Someone crowed behind Kili. Throquûrz kicked the orc in the side, a ragged gasp of pain breaking from bloodied lips. Bolg oversaw everything, staring at the huddled figure on the dirt with a smile. “Stick ‘im!”

“Get _up!”_ Throquûrz kicked the orc again, so he was splayed out on his back, choking. Kili’s heart skipped as he realised the poor creature was only some sort of guard-boy, the kind who ran armour and weapons to and from the forges and fed the wargs and dug the _bagronk_ at night. It must have been a thoughtless, offhand comment, not anything malicious. “You little _gluthoz,_ get up and _fight!_ ” Kili licked his lips, staring at Bolg now. The orc-king breathed in deeply at the smell of blood. There wouldn’t be any mercy from him. There wouldn’t be mercy from anybody here and this boy was going to die. Kili tried to push it back, the horror at what he was seeing, and keep his face still, motionless. Throquûrz stamped down on the orc’s naked hand with all his weight, the crunch of bone and scream of pain sending a shiver down Kili’s spine.

“ _Fine._ ” Throquûrz turned away from him, and for a moment Kili thought – hoped – that the crazed orc was going to just leave. Throquûrz approached Bolg, one hand held out, and with a little stab of horror, saw Bolg offer his huge sword, a silent approval of murder. He caught a glimpse of that twisted, snarling, and yet gleeful face, quivering with bloodlust, the knuckles already black with blood. Kili’s mouth was dry.

This wasn’t going to happen.

Kili stepped forward, putting himself between Throquûrz and the beaten orc. He stood with his shoulders back and face set in a scowl. The cheering, snarling ring lowered to a hum. Kili bent down, found a small stone and threw. His archer’s aim was deadly accurate, hitting Throquûrz in the small of the back. “You _coward_!” The general stiffened, and over his shoulder Bolg’s beaming grin froze. “Pick a fight with someone who can hit back!” Kili unsheathed his sword, and after a moment of thought, cast it away. Throquûrz spun on his heel, gnashing his teeth as his eyes smouldered. Kili threw his knife alongside it, the metal clanging in the night air. “Or do you like beating little _dâgmu_? Does it make you feel tough, is that it?”

“ _You.”_ Throquûrz spat in the dirt, his flattish nose crinkling as though he had stepped in a pile of muck and vomit, and the mess was smeared all over his foot. Bolg’s half-interest had snapped into a deep frown. “Get out Kili. This has _nothing_ to do with you.”

“Scared, is that it?” Kili narrowed his eyes. Everyone had gone quiet. “I thought you were a big, strong warrior. How many dwarf-skulls have you bragged about splitting? A hundred, two?” Throquûrz curled his notched lip, a low, dangerous growl reverberating in his throat, growing in volume. Kili looked briefly over the orc’s shoulder, catching a glimpse of Bolg. The orc-king’s glee had smouldered and soured.

“You _shit.”_ Throwing Bolg’s sword to the ground, Throquûrz pounced. “I’ll _kill_ you!”

Kili grinned, knees slightly crouched. “You can try.” Throquûrz was two feet taller than Kili and twice and wide, but Kili had unexpected speed on his side. Nobody ever thought a dwarf could be as light on his feet as Kili was, and he always used it to his advantage. He saw the fist coming from a mile away and side-stepped with a duck, throwing out his left leg and catching Throquûrz unaware. The orc went down on his knees with a roar, glaring at Kili. The crowd was getting excited now, realising that they were witnessing a real treat of a scrap. Kili lifted his hands, protecting his face from the blows he knew would come. He was still grinning. It was like taking in a deep breath of air, one that went through his lungs and right into his blood, flowing through his body, right down to his fingertips. Kili knew he could fight this orc and he could _win_ , humiliate him in front of everybody, give him the comeuppance he deserved.    

“Get the bastard Kili!” Someone yelled. Throquûrz got up and lunged at Kili, his gloved fists as big as hams. He tried to go for Kili’s nose, but he managed to block the orc with his armoured forearm, the clang of steel on steel reverberating down his bones, right into his teeth. Kili’s breath caught in his throat; he reeled back, arm throbbing, trying to collect himself with lightning-quickness and get in for another blow.

Kili glanced back over his shoulder to see the beaten orc had been hauled away, stumbling, cradling his broken wrist against his chest. With a growl, he charged Throquûrz, threw his weight behind his shoulder and struck him with the force of a running bull. The crazed orc staggered breathless, striking out loosely. He struck Kili on the elbow, a glancing blow that barely hurt. The cries of _get him!_ , of _put the dwarf down_ and _show that smug shit_ were coming out, and Kili didn’t know who half of them were even directed at. It was hard, trying to find the weak spots through the armour, but they managed to make one another hurt, tit for tat, Kili managing to knee him in the groin and kick in the back of his knee, Throquûrz going for brutish, heavy punches that left him breathless. For a moment, it looked like Kili was winning. Then Throquûrz had Kili backed up several paces and finally managed to land a decent blow, misdirecting his fists and feinting to the left, before hitting his blind side.

He went down with a cry, vision going black for a moment, pricked with stars. Kili’s head throbbed. Sprawled out, he looked up blearily to see Throquûrz standing before him, lifting one of those big, booted feet, a blow aimed at Kili’s ribs. He wasn’t sure if the iron armour would hold up to the weight. He didn’t want to find out. Eyes darting, Kili saw an out, rolling onto his side, underneath the lifted foot and staggered, disappearing through the orc’s legs. There was a whoop of laughter at that; Kili supposed it must have looked comical. Thwarted, Throquûrz whirled around with a roar, reminiscent of a foiled cat trying to catch a cornered mouse.

“That the best you got?” Kili spat on the grass, thick and bloody. The metallic taste spread, coating his tongue and teeth. He crouched a little, remaining coiled and still light. Enraged and graceless, Throquûrz lunged at him, staggering. Kili snarled, his blood hammering in his ears, throbbing, every muscle as taut as a bowstring. The right wrist was feeling shaky after Throquûrz tried to twist it, so Kili struck with the left. The sound was dull, hollow, almost disappointing in its softness. Kili hit the orc in the middle of his steel breastplate, Throquûrz collapsing on his back in the dirt, gasping for air and scrabbling uselessly at his chest. Kili stepped towards him, hands balled at his side.

The metal had caved in three inches deep, in almost perfect imprint of Kili’s dwarvish fist. Only then did he realise the left hand was _screaming_ with pain. He tried to ignore it, staring heartlessly as Throquûrz twisted and coughed on the ground, staring up at Kili with his eyes wide, ghostly and frightened as a fish on a riverbank.

“Shit – he’s choking!” Someone leaped forward with a knife, slicing through the leather straps and pulling the breastplate away. Throquûrz sucked in a gasp of air, punctured with a hitch of pain. The dented metal was tossed aside, bouncing at Kili’s feet. Throquûrz saw him, and with a pitiful attempt at a snarl, tried to get up but the orc held him down. “Oh stay down you _flâgît_ you lost.” A stranger punched Kili cheerfully on the arm in congratulations and somebody even ruffled his hair good-naturedly, shouting an indistinct compliment in his ear.

The handul of orcs parted way for Bolg, stomping through and stopping beside his general, curled on his side and coughing, propped up on an elbow. He bent down – not to touch Throquûrz at all, but to pick up the dented breastplate. Blearily, Throquûrz looked up, saw Bolg turn the metal over and over in his hands, a thoughtful little frown on his face, edging into a scowl.

His hand still _really_ hurt. Kili withdrew, breathing in the frosty air and looking down at his knuckles. The knuckles were tender, ballooning under his gentle touch. He rubbed them gently with a wince, but as a shadow from the firelight fell over him, he whipped his hand away and turned rapidly, eyes widening at the sight of Bolg.

“He deserved it.” Kili spoke before the orc-king had a chance. “Beating people no better than children and sticking them when they can’t fight back. It’s about time somebody—”

“Show me your hand.” Bolg cut over him, looking completely unconcerned about his general’s plight. Kili started.

“What—”

“The hand that struck him down, show it to me.” Bolg’s voice had an edge of steel to it, and his eye flashed. Wordlessly, Kili held it out, palm facing the earth, stiff. Bolg took it with a grunt, ran his fingertips over the swelling knuckles, pressing down to feel the bones and joints. He traced the heavy silver ring, his touch for a moment feather-light. It was so oddly proportioned, Kili’s palm lying in that massive, meaty paw. It was like a child’s hand, reaching out blindly for help. Kili didn’t like to look at it so he kept his gaze on the ground as Bolg tested his hand, poking and prodding at the knobs of bone. All four shifted seamlessly, agonisingly, swollen but not broken. Kili kept the scream locked inside his head, blinking rapidly so Bolg couldn’t see his eyes watering. “Does it hurt?”

“No.” He wasn’t fooled though, Kili knew. Bolg grunted again, and this time his lip flickered upwards in what could almost be taken as a smile. “I’m just sorry I couldn’t crack it on his big empty head.”

“Look.” Bolg gripped Kili’s hand tight then, his expression changing in an instant, as though he had reached the top of the falls and now he tumbled down, down, down, into the blackness. Kili held his breath, biting back a whimper as the orc-king squeezed his battered, swollen knuckles. “You may feel as though you have the right to throw your weight around, _Kili,”_ His hold grew tighter, and sweat was pooling against Kili’s temples with the effort to stay quiet. “But if you start a feud with Throquûrz, it will only get the both of you killed.” There was an ugly, ugly snarl splitting Bolg’s mutilated face. “I won’t step in to take sides.”

“But he—”

“ _Drop_ the misplaced justice.” He was really squeezing too tightly, and Kili did let out a gasp of pain then, his head half-bent and teeth gritted. Bolg grinned at that, smelling the pain and fear radiating off the dwarf. He paused, grip still iron-tight, to breathe in that rich, sweet smell of a dwarf sweating in fear. Oh, he loved it. He _craved_ it. It was time that lessons were learned, lines drawn. Bolg _knew_ that Kili wasn’t this cocky around his father – Azog would have had him on a short leash, keeping him under his watchful eye, always giving a little tug when it looked like Kili grew close to wandering off. “You don’t give a shit about that boy, don’t even pretend. You think you can jostle your way to the top of the pack by picking fights with orcs like Throquûrz, then you’re in for a surprise _._ ” He pulled on Kili’s hand, making him stagger forward with a choked cry, trapped. “I’m just warning you Kili,” Bolg licked his lips. “For your own good.”

He let Kili go then, and stepped back. Bolg didn’t spare Kili another glance, marching away from him, to where Throquûrz stood. His skin was damp with a cold sweat; Kili was coming down from the rush of the fight, his heartbeat slowing, returning to normal. He stared at his half-clenched fist, at the ring. He touched it carefully, checking for cracks or dents in the stone setting. Throquûrz’s breastplate would have been made of a thicker metal than the silver of his grandfather’s ring, it should have splintered or broken under the blow, but it looked the same as ever. It felt ice-cold under his touch, the sort of cold where for a split second he wasn’t sure if it was freezing or burning. It felt too tight, constricting the swelling skin. Kili tried to twist the ring off, but it refused to budge and he knew he couldn’t cut it. He shook his hand, tried to ride out the throbbing waves of pain that coursed up his hand, petering out between his elbow and shoulder. His head was aching too, and even his joints felt tired, sapped of energy.

“Get _off_ me!” Someone was trying to help him up. Throquûrz roared, lashed out and tried to fight them back. “All of you – _away_ you scum!” His teeth were gritted, humiliation pounding in his skull like a raging headache. He clutched at his chest, the breath still short, hitching with pain.

“Short-tempered fool.” Throquûrz snarled at the voice hovering over him, looked up ready to dish out a lashing. Grishthak simply shook his head with a disgusted growl rumbling in his throat. He held out a hand wordlessly, and bracing himself, Throquûrz took it.

“What the _fuck_ does the dwarf-scum think he’s playing at!” Throquûrz hissed as soon as he stood up, staring into the old orc’s eyes and realising in a moment that he had an ally in his explosive grudge. “Showing off in front of everyone. He _tricked_ me.”

“Whatever heals your wounded pride, Throquûrz.” Grishthak was staring at the dented armour that Bolg had cast aside, at the fist-sized imprint. He wouldn’t be surprised if the other orc was sporting broken ribs or a cracked sternum from that blow. Grishthak caught Bolg and Kili then, Bolg gripping the dwarf’s hand and causing obvious pain. He elbowed Throquûrz carefully. “Look.”

“Good.” Throquûrz sneered. “I hope Bolg dresses him down. Let him know he can’t just start fights with orcs like us and expect to get away with it.” His muscles tensed. “I should go over myself and—”

“ _No.”_ Grishthak held him by the arm. “You think you can just attack him? He’ll knock you down in an instant, you fool.” Throquûrz stared at him. “He’ll be on his guard now, waiting for another fight.”

“Then I’ll give it to him!”

“No you won’t.” Bolg’s voice cut over Throquûrz, the pair freezing, breaking their conspiring tone. “No more fighting.”

“But you love a good scrap.” Throquûrz spat.

Bolg leaned in. “ _Not_ with Kili. You can bash in as many orcish skulls as you like if you think it keeps the peace Throquûrz, you know how a good beating keeps this scum in line, but don’t touch the dwarf again.” His eye narrowed. “There are a hundred orcs jostling for your place, I could replace you in a heartbeat and it would barely change a thing, but Kili? I only have one dwarf, one descendant of Thror fighting on our side. Don’t _damage_ him, you hear me? Don’t you _dare.”_ He reminded Grishthak then of a spoiled child with a new toy, dangling it about, showing it off and then hissing that nobody else could play with it when they asked for a turn.

“Yes, Bolg.” Humbled for now, Throquûrz stared at the ground. Bolg grunted in low approval and left them then, Throquûrz humiliated and Grishthak staring not at the armour on the ground, but the little flecks of blood from the boy Throquûrz had beaten. “Damn.” The younger orc snarled as soon as it was safe. “That _– damn_ I wanted to hurt him. I can’t do _shit_ if I’m not allowed to lay a finger on him!”

Grishthak was smiling, eyes fixed on the remains of Throquûrz’s first fight. “Oh, yes you can.”


	95. Head Above Water

Blood splattered the rocks, some black but mostly red, pooling in hollows of stone, pooling around bodies. Sounds carried on the frosty breeze; the rough, ragged screaming of crows, the distant sound of steel-on-steel, the groans of the dying, the eerie, ringing silence of the dead where before there was a deafening roar of battle.

Fili was on his knees, blood gathering on his slack lips and dripping slowly. He scrabbled uselessly at the gaping wound in his side, his fingers snapped and broken, slumped on his knees. His golden mane was dishevelled and unbound, streaked with red and tangled across his throat. The breath was coming out in gasps and coughs, wheezing from his punctured lungs.

And the blood. So much blood.

Kili stood with his hands at his side, knuckles white around the curved orcish scimitar that dripped red. His face was an ash-grey carving, fixed and still, eyes black as night, flat and dead. “Oh Fili,” his voice was rough and low, heavy with an orc’s accent. “You’ve lost.”

“P-Please.” Fili trembled, lifting his head. Blood caked the left side of his face, his eyes bright shards of blue. Kili walked towards him slowly, lifting the blade. His heart was beating madly – not from fear or sick horror, but a singing joy, rising higher and higher, peaked with pride. The midwinter air was touched with ice, and Kili’s breath soared out in a foot-long plume, hot as fire. Lurching forward, Fili held out a shaking hand, the fingers twisted, flashes of white shining through the red. “K-Kili – Kili please—”

The blade sank easily through Fili’s chest, in, in, in, right to the hilt. Although it was a soft movement, it struck Kili hard in his own gut, flooding him, like the touch of a lover. His breath hitched as the blood ran over his fingers, scalding the frozen skin like melted gold, the copper-rich smell washing over his face. There was a strangled, broken cry of pain, of surprise, the body stiffened against Kili and those blue eyes stared wide, wider than they had ever been, blood gushing from his lips and running over his chin in rivers—

Kili woke up with a yell, heart hammering madly in his chest and a cold sweat against his skin. He could _smell_ the blood, could feel Fili slumping against him, could hear that broken, defeated cry, over and over, growing louder with every drumming heartbeat. He scrabbled with the furs over him, disturbing Nardur and making him snuffle about and whine. Kili pressed his hands against his face, trying to breathe and force the nightmare out of his head. He could still _see_ Fili’s face, covered in blood and twisted in agony, those eyes staring up at him, pleading for mercy. Kili bit down on his lip and forced the whimper back, crawling on his hands and knees to try and get out of the suffocating, pitch-black tent.

The first breath of air he sucked in hurt his lungs, needles of cold piercing his skin, getting down into his bones. Kili staggered, rubbed his hands together and breathed against his quivering fingers, but there seemed to be no warmth coming from him. He sank down to his knees, hunched over in his sleeveless leather vest. Why – _why_ would his mind torture him like, put those images in his head and play them out with touch and smell and sound. It was more real, more vivid than any other dream he could remember, even the ones connected directly to the most terrifying memories. He stared blearily out into the night, a half-moon hanging low in the sky, giving silvered outlines to the muggy shapes in the gloom. Kili’s chattering teeth broke the stillness of the night; he held a hand over his lips to muffle the sound.

Kili didn’t realise his face was wet until a breeze whipped up, pressing against his face. He rubbed with his free hand to try and get it away, locking up his jaw and gritting his teeth to combat the trembling. He got up slowly, his joints feeling stiff. His stomach and arms ached dully from the blows Throquûrz managed to land, and his left hand was still swollen. His shoulders hunched as another howling wind rushed around him, and he stumbled back inside that canvas coffin, burrowing under the furs in a daze. Nardur sniffed at him, drawing back as his nose came into contact with Kili’s cold hair while he tried to bunk down. He ended up curled into Nardur’s back, one arm thrown across the warg’s chest, his thumb running over a soft patch of fur.

Fili’s face flashed before his closed eyes again, the wide open mouth and bright, bright eyes, the hair streaked with blood. Kili buried his face into Nardur’s neck, his loose touch tightening into a desperate, one-sided hug. No – it was just a fantasy, an illusion, and it was never _ever_ going to happen.

Then why did it feel so _good_ , to stick Fili right in the heart, to watch him scream in pain and feel his body slump lifelessly against him? What thread in his mind had been tangled up to match the emotion with the image? Why did that make him so _happy?_ He gripped at his stomach as his guts writhed in disgust and horror. Why was he feeling like this?

Kili breathed in, smelling warg-fur and earth. He tried to empty his mind and push all the bad thoughts out, sink back into sleep – a deep sleep, hopefully, without dreams. But it was a long while before he was able to let go.

* * *

Inside the entrance hall of Erebor there was a lively bustle of activity. Climbing over the ladder in pairs, a torrent of two thousand dwarves had flooded the dusty, long-forgotten rooms and passageways, reduced now to an exhausted trickle. Thorin’s company had been just a whisper – this was a deafening shout, rising to the top of the arched ceiling. They got to work, finding rooms to bed down in, spreading out their things, scoping the long-abandoned forges and mines, poking and prodding and walking about with their necks thrown back and eyes wide.

A small handful of Dain’s eldest servants remembered Erebor in her prime – now they retraced their steps a little sadly, telling the younger dwarves about the feasts and tournaments, the rivers of gold and tables groaning with food that they swore stretched as far as the eye could see. They peered now through the cobwebs and dust and wiped at the faded carvings on the walls, looking wistful.

Dain stood in the centre of the entranceway, barking out orders, pointing, passing over the bustle with a critical eye and only occasionally looking at his cousin, who stood to his left, mouth in a hard, grim line. The bubbling echo of chatter filled the room, like a flood rushing in Thorin’s ears. It was all broken and garbled, and nothing made sense. He’d had reservations about this – withstanding the siege from inwards like this made a loss practically impossible, but a victory vague, uncertain and distant. He would rather meet the elves and men in battle, than drawing it out to a cold, wintry stalemate. Two thousand dwarves against five thousand men and elves – an outward battle could go either way in hand-t0-hand combat. Dain’s soldiers were iron-shod, as heavy and sturdy as the very stone in which they now rested. It took more than one set of hands, or even two, to knock a dwarf down. But Dain was wary of wasting any lives, and he knew, as Thorin knew, that dwarves could endure a siege far, far longer than those lean, tent-dwelling elves.

Thorin really knew he wanted a war because he was just so _desperate_ for this to all be over. He wanted a resolution, he wanted to be king of Erebor in deed, not just name. He wanted the freedom and independence to rule after his long, long exile. And if he couldn’t have that, then there was nothing left for him. He had sustained himself for months, years, on the idea that this would all be worth it in the end and to come so close, with that threat of defeat hanging over his head – he couldn’t _stand_ it. He tried to trust Dain, he really did. Without Dain, Thorin would have lost all of this days ago; Thranduil would have run him through and propped his little golden-haired puppet on that throne in a heartbeat. He _needed_ his cousin, and the soldiers he brought with him. There was still time, somehow, to turn all of this around. He saw the way Dain looked at him, as though he wondered if he could fit into those clothes, that crown. It sickened him. And to have his soldiers here now, it didn’t feel to Thorin like a unity, a welcome arrival of reinforcements. It felt like an occupation.

Outside the Front Gate, Fíak was pacing. In his hand was a crumpled letter, ragged and a little damp from the rain, streaked with mud.  Three of his closest dwarves stood beside in him in wait, one holding an exhausted raven with a scarlet ribbon still tied around her leg. Fíak’s lips moved silently as he read the letter, a knot visible in his throat. He looked up after some moments, the pouches of his lined eyes shadowed and dull.

He sat down on a large boulder, head bent and the letter dangling between thumb and forefinger. When he spoke, it was strained and the others had to lean in, to hear it. “Aflák died several weeks ago.” He spoke through a falling curtain of grey dreadlocks. “Fell off a balcony, or so they say, and broke his neck.” Fíak lifted his head, hooded eyes scanning the heavy winter skies.

“Oh _Mahal_ , how many have been bumped off now?” The dwarf closest to him hissed. “Aflák was barely fifty, no one seriously considered him an heir.”

“Somebody did.” Fíak stood up, thrusting the letter in his pocket. “It was Knorr, or one of his boys I _know_ it. Ever since his nephews died he’s been bursting for revenge. Vili still refuses to take sides. Now he’s threatening to dissolve the court in its entirety if there’s another suspicious death.” There was a muscle twitching in his cheek. “We can’t return without Fili, not now. Vili won’t name another heir and I will not have our people torn to shreds because of an indecisive, _mad_ old king—”

“They’re coming!” The voice broke Fíak’s smouldering veil. He jerked up to see one of his scouts running towards the little knot of dwarves, one of dozens scattered about a quarter-mile along the valley from the Front Gate. “Thranduil and his soldiers and Fili too I expect. They’re trying another round of negotiations. Now that Dain’s inside, no one knows if it’s going to be better or worse.”

“Worse.” Fíak said flatly, scowling in the direction of the sealed Gate. “We should pack up our things and move on. Both Dain and Thorin have made it plenty clear that they don’t want us hanging about anymore.” He pushed back handful of wild grey dreadlocks, the tendons standing out like ropes on his neck as he ground his teeth. “Let them have their negotiations. Let Fili and Thranduil return empty-handed.” He had to count on the futility and exhaustion. In his quest for honour and decency Fili had exposed himself as naive and idealistic. Fíak stared down at the crumpled letter in his hand, the slow realisation growing that perhaps that didn’t necessarily spell doom for them after all.

* * *

Fili felt a surprising calm in his chest as he stood at the foot of the Front Gate. With Thranduil on one side, his mother on the other, he felt armed, shielded. And more than that – he had the conviction, a burning ember deep in his belly, that he was right, that Thorin was wrong, that he had people on his side, he wasn’t alone. This would be the first time the pair laid eyes on each other since the night of Fili’s attempted treason and Fili didn’t even feel a trace of nervousness yet. Dís squeezed his hand and smiled in his direction, but Fili only saw a white shift on the edge of his vision. He kept his face turned forward, jaw iron-locked. But he squeezed her fingers in return, for a brief moment, before letting go.

“Well, he’s taking his time.” Thranduil muttered. “He thinks he can make us sweat.”

“Peace, Thranduil.” Gandalf rumbled in his throat. “If you’re planning to insult Thorin, perhaps it is best to hold your tongue and let me do the talking.”

“You won’t change him Gandalf.” Bilbo’s voice came from the wizards elbow, small and sad. “You didn’t _see_ him like Fili and I. He’s not the same dwarf you bade goodbye to in the Wilderland. He’s...”

“Hollow.” Fili supplied. He tasted metal on his tongue.

Bilbo paused. “I was going to say mad.” Thranduil’s lip twitched. “But hollow is better.”

There was a horn at the top of the Gate. The six lifted their heads, craned their necks as a line of dwarves filed along the inner scaffolding, heads, shoulders and chests above the edge of the fortified stone. Dwalin, Balin, Thorin, Dain, his son, and an elderly soldier in full regalia from the Iron Hills walked, the only sound a high whistling as the wind whipped through the valley.

Gandalf opened his mouth to speak, but Thorin got there first. “This is a fine party of traitors and thieves you have gathered Gandalf.” Fili saw his uncle clearly, his face set into deep, deep lines, as though he had spent the last week in a constant scowl and he couldn’t form any other expression. His nerves faltered, and Fili felt it strike in his chest – a tiny blow, as though from a jeweller’s hammer, but it cracked something. An instinctive noise, like a whimper or a squeak, sounded in Fili’s throat, and even though nobody except Dís and perhaps Thranduil could hear it, even in this cold silence, he felt his ears colour with shame.

“We are no criminals.” Thranduil cut in. “ _Your_ actions have caused irreparable damage to these lands. The orcs you dragged through my realm mutilated my son and by rousing Smaug from his slumber, you caused the destruction of Esgaroth and the loss of innocent lives.” He took a step towards the Gate, as though he could simply reach up, pluck Thorin from the high wall of stone and throw him down. “If anybody here is a criminal Thorin it is _you_.”

“Pretty words!” Dain called. “If you didn’t call upon Erebor in arms before Smaug’s body even turned cold, perhaps they would have more meaning. You have _no_ rights or claim on this treasure Thranduil. Stop trying to dress up your greed.”

“I remember your last visit to these Halls.” Thorin gripped the edge of the stone, leaning over a little. “The way you stared at our gold, admired our craftsmanship. You were full of compliments but I saw the look in your eyes. Jealousy and hunger. You lusted after our gold for over a hundred years and after I removed the only obstacle in your way, you swoop right in—”

“You did _not!”_ Bard cracked, his hands balled into fists. “ _I_ killed Smaug!” Gandalf tried to grab the man’s arm, but Bard pulled away. “I brought him down after he destroyed my home, after he nearly killed my _son_ and you have the _arrogance_ to claim responsibility? Shame on you Thorin! If this is your idea of honour then you don’t deserve a single coin of your grandfather’s hoard!”

“What do you know of honour, _bowman?_ ” Thorin spat. “Just because you are Girion’s descendant it does not give you the right to be king. Your line shirked their duties, their birthright, for what was easy. They fled like cowards! I have _never_ failed my people. I stood for them and guided them even in our darkest hours! I am the rightful king!”

“ _Stop it!”_ Fili screamed at the top of his lungs, bursting forward. He stood in front of Thranduil, right in the middle of the two groups. "This pointless posturing is getting you nowhere. Thorin, _please,_ understand that nobody wants to take your gold or crown away from you—”

"Says the one who tried to overthrow him." Dain broke over Fili with a sneer. "How dare you even think that you have the right to speak to us! You are nothing Fili. Nothing!"

"Uncle please." Fili stared up at the dwarves with his heart pounding. "Listen to me. You don't want your first act as king to be stained in blood. Tear down this wall. You will be thought better of as a bringer of peace and prosperity than of war. Don't do this."

Thorin stared down at his nephew, knuckles white beneath his heavy gloves and his chest swelling, swelling, swelling, almost fit to burst. Fili's hands were clasped together, begging, pleading. And for a moment, he _ached._ The edge of the wall on which he leaned on felt like a deep precipice, a scar that ran down into the very bottom of the earth and Fili stood on the other hand with one hand stretched out. He felt the pull right in his gut, underneath the deep shock and outrage and blinding betrayal, that still burned as fresh as it did on the night Thorin banished him. He opened his mouth and found that he couldn’t speak. He still loved Fili, still wanted him, still needed him at his side. It was unquestionable. But nothing – _nothing_ could heal that wound on his heart, one that refused to heal and weather away to a scar. Thorin’s breath was strangled in his throat as he stared, one hand snaking across the edge of the wall, the soft scrape of leather on rock the only human sound in the chilly, whistling valley.

Dain grabbed his arm. “You, Fili, are a traitor and a liar!” He pulled Thorin’s hand back to his side, maintaining an iron grip. “A filthy half-breed who deserves the same end as his father!” Fili took a step back at that, hands curling into fists and a tightness flooding his chest. Dís maintained her composure silently, the violent quiver of her mouth unseen by her cousins and brother. “Look at the company you keep! Men and elves who would sell you out in a heartbeat if it weren’t for the blood in your veins. Even the dwarves you managed to rally on your side – your traitorousmother, a convicted thief, and a disgusting _freak_ who tried to seduce your brother!” Fili’s heart was hammering in his ears. _Who told Dain about Ori?_ “You’re a pathetic joke and no dwarf worth his salt would _ever_ consider you a worthy king!”

“I’m not interested in what you have to say Dain!” Fili’s voice shook and he paused, gritting his teeth and waiting for the burning flash in his throat to die. “I want to hear those words from Thorin’s mouth! He is the king of Erebor, not you!” He saw Thorin now, and even though his uncle was so far away, he _swore_ he saw the doubt and uncertainty in his face. He had to know now that Fili was right. He _had_ to.

Thorin pulled his hand away, looking briefly at Dain before gripping the edge of the wall, leaning over a little further so his answer could ring out in the chilly valley. “I have made my position perfectly clear.” He didn’t yell like Dain did – he didn’t need to. The deep rumble of his voice was enough. “You are no prince of Durin. There is no place for you in these halls.” Fili reeled as though he had been hit and Thorin stared down at him, cold and stonefaced. There couldn’t be any agreement without forgiveness, and as he looked at his nephew, Thorin realised he could never, _ever_ forgive Fili for what he had done. He had done this to himself and there was no changing the consequences. “There will be no negotiations with thieves and liars. Leave, all of you, before I give orders to attack.”

“Thorin—”

“Leave, Master Gandalf.” Thorin turned his icy stare towards the wizard, his lip curling. Fili stood looking shrunken, staring down at his shoes. “You seemed more than willing to aid me on this quest and for your early involvement I thank you. But don’t for a moment believe that I will allow past friendships to cloud my judgement.” Thorin was looking at Bilbo now, a deep shadow in his eyes as the sting of the hobbit’s own betrayal flashed for a moment. “You have all shown me dishonour and infidelity in these last weeks. Pray that I don’t sink to your level in return.”

“Very well.” Thranduil had a twisted expression on his face, as though Thorin’s words physically disgusted him. Perhaps they did. “Let him lie on the bed of gold he has made. I’m done with him.” He turned abruptly, the silver weave of his long coat gleaming. “We will see a long, cold winter Thorin!” He called out over his shoulder. “If you think starving yourself will serve your people better then I shall leave you to that end!” Bard followed him, and Bilbo, and after a long sigh and shake of his head, Gandalf. Only Fili and Dís remained facing the Gate, Fili shaking from head to foot.

“Come now.” She took his shoulder gently. “He’s not going to listen any longer Fili.”

“This is all _you!”_ Fili screamed, his head snapping up and one hand stretched out, pointing firmly in Dain’s direction. Thranduil kept walking but the others stopped, peering through the dust. “You’re _poisoning_ him – you want this war, you want Thorin to die for this so you can swoop in and take the throne! You’ve wanted this for years, you and your son! You’ve been scheming and plotting, just waiting for the opportunity and now you have it—”

“Fili!” Dís screamed, wrapping her arms around her son and heaving him to the side. Both landed heavily. Fili struggled at first, thinking she was trying to restrain him until he saw the small throwing-axe embedded in the gravel and dirt right where he stood. He looked up to see Dain’s son Thorin gripping another, his arm wound back, staring at his cousins with a deep, ugly snarl. Dwalin had started, on instinct a hand was at his own axe slung on his hip and Balin had to hold on to him with both hands, whispering something in his brother’s ear.

“Get. Out.” Dain spat, looking furious. Fili’s mouth was dry, shaking his head in disbelief. _They tried to kill him._ Thorin stood in silence, eyes very wide and his mouth half-open in utter shock at what had happened. Dís pulled herself up and helped Fili to his feet, eyes not leaving the axe in Thorin’s hand. They fled without looking back.

* * *

As soon as the march broke and orcs started to squat before careful stacks of kindling and hammer tent-pegs into the ground, Kili collapsed. He threw himself on the ground, pulled off his heavy breastplate and armguards and stretched out before the slow-growing fire, stubborn to catch in the dewy, damp air. He didn’t have the energy to pitch his tent so he just propped his head up on the rolled canvas for now, throwing an arm over his eyes. Nardur curled up beside him, resting his big head in Kili’s lap and getting drool on his trousers. The air was cold but slowly warming. Kili would rather bare his skin than try to get comfortable inside that corpse-sized metal prison.

He closed his eyes, listened to the low mutter of the camp until a boot at his side – not pained or malicious, more of a gentle prod – dragged him out of his desperate rest. “Here,” one of the orcs thrust a heavy skin into Kili’s chest. “Fill it up, will you? I need to save the fire before that _flâgît_ Talaan smothers it.”

“Sure.” Kili slung it over one shoulder, giving Nardur a little pat on the head. “ _Shakrop_ boy. Don’t move.” He made his way down to the river, through a thicket of drooping trees. The sun was low, blood-red on the western horizon. Air misted before his lips. The water was fast-moving, clogged with weeds below a three-foot bank. Kili walked along, searching for a shallow way down, when he saw the tall, hunched figure of Throquûrz at the only smooth bank, smoking from his pipe. Kili approached him warily, one hand resting on the knife at his hip, the other clasping the leather strap of the skin.

“Kili.” Throquûrz didn’t turn his head. He could probably smell him, Kili reminded himself, breathing in deeply. The acrid stench of the orc’s tobacco burned his lungs. “Come for solitude?”

“Just filling up the water-skin.” Kili stomped past him, stones shifting under his feet, and crouched down. “Can’t reach it from the bank, arms are too short.”

“Ah, indeed.” Throquûrz was pacing back and forth behind him. Kili looked over his shoulder briefly, tried to concentrate on the task at hand. He squeezed the empty skin slowly, watching the bubbles break on the surface. The water washed over Kili’s hand and held back a gasp of surprise. It was _freezing_ , a mountain-stream flowing from Erebor, of melted snow and ice. It meant they were close.

There were extra sets of footsteps on the stones. Kili recognised the sound immediately, limbs stiffening. Before he had a chance to even stand up, two sets of huge hands were on him, fingers closing around his arms. Someone tore the knife from Kili’s waist, and the water-skin was thrown to the stones, forgotten. Kili twisted and swore, trying to stamp the feet of the orcs that had him. They wrestled with Kili, turned him around so he was facing the trees, the water up to his ankles. Throquûrz stood with his arms crossed, a scowl screwing up his face.

“What the _fuck_ do you think you’re doing.” Kili spat in the most jagged voice he could. “Get your filthy hands off me before I rip them off!”

“You had this _coming_ , you little shit.” Throquûrz slapped the remnants of his burned tobacco out on his hand, rubbing it on his thigh. “I don’t _let_ people humiliate me without their own punishment.” He put the pipe away in his pocket, standing five feet away from Kili. “You’re going to regret _ever_ thinking you could beat me.”

“Is this your idea of revenge?” Kili growled. “Ambushing me at dusk when I’m alone? You slimy sack of warg-filth. You need to let me go before you _regret_ it.”

“I’m not afraid of your threats Kili.” He jerked his head forward, towards the water, and the orcs holding Kili began to slowly wade out, Kili unable to move his arms but kicking out and thrashing, the water churning white around his writhing legs. “I don’t know who you think you are, coming here and thinking you’re better than us just because Azog liked you, _dwarf._ ” Throquûrz’s voice grew low, and he sloshed through the water in his big boots, waterproofed with oil and reaching to the knee. “But you’ll learn your place.”

There was a stab in Kili’s chest at that, but he kept the snarl fixed on his face, eyes flashing. “You won’t get away with this.”

“Won’t I?” Throquûrz scowled, looking now at the orc hovering at Kili’s right. “Go on.”

They shoved Kili under. He screamed as his face hit the water, the shock robbing what little breath remained from his lungs. Someone held his tied-back hair in a thick fist, pushing his head down. Kili kicked out as the survival instinct took over, the water freezing his limbs and making his movements slow and jerky. His vision was a greenish blur, clouded with dirt from dislodged river-stones and out of instinct he screwed them up. One foot came into contact with an orc’s leg, thick as a tree-trunk and rooted in the riverbed. It didn’t move and Kili’s limbs gave out, folded beneath him.

The hand in his hair yanked roughly and Kili was brought up into the air, head and shoulders exposed to the wind. He coughed, trying to heavy in breaths of air through his waterlogged lungs, shivering uncontrollably. “Swear to me that you will stay _out of my way_.” Throquûrz’s voice was a growl, one Kili barely heard over his sputtering as water leaked over his chin in huge mouthfuls. “Don’t come near me or my orcs again. Don’t _ever_ show me up in front of Bolg. _Promise_ it.”

He realised then what Throquûrz was trying to do, why he chose to threaten Kili like this. He was trying to hurt him, without leaving any marks for Bolg to see. His quivering lips pulled back in a snarl. “F-Fuck you.” Kili spat, trying to find his feet. He gasped for air as the crushing pressure came down on his shoulders and this time he managed to hold it, cheeks blown out. Kili realised this time that there was no sense in fighting, and he saved his strength. The shocking cold sapped the life from his limbs, fingers crooked and stiff. No air – he didn’t need it, he was all right, he didn’t need to breathe. He just had to stay awake.

All the same, when he was dragged back up, Kili sucked in big, greedy gulps of air. The sun had faded, leaving only the utmost lips of the trees red. His lips were already purple and the ash ran in streaks down his face. It was _so cold_. Kili was struggling to breathe as his chest spasmed and contracted uncontrollably, loose pieces of hair plastered over his face.

“Eat shit.” Kili’s voice was weak, punctuated by heaving, choking gasps. “Eat shit and d-d-die Th-Throquûrz.” Even though the colour was running out of his face, leaving behind bone-white, almost waxy skin. They pushed him down again, down down down, and this time, they held him until his chest hit the bottom. His arms were let go and one of those huge feet came down on his back, heavy and blunt, the force knocking the air out of him and the weight growing. They weren’t letting him go. Kili panicked now, trying to push himself up, but there was no strength in his frozen limbs. He reached out, searching for a weapon, hand closing around a jagged rock the side of his fist. His chest was on fire now, head swimming, and when he opened his eyes, the greenish-grey was prickled with black, the darkness edging in on his vision. _No._

There was barely any recognition when his head broke the surface. Kili’s half-hearted breath was choked with water, limbs weak at his side. They didn’t even bother holding him close anymore, he just hung by his hair, legs still folded up, useless. “Still feeling brave, dwarf?” Throquûrz spat in the water, jerking his head in a silent demand for the other two to let him go. He grabbed Kili himself, by the front of his leather shirt.

“G-Go _htol_ your m-mother.” Kili cursed, his eyes black as night in the gloom but burning with an inward fire. The sun had faded entirely and the sky above sunken to a deep, heavy grey, a rim of dying, burnt orange on the western horizon. “You’re a _c-c-coward_. Ev-everyone knows it.”

“You _shit.”_ His fists tightened on the front of Kili’s shirt, and with his face twisted in an ugly, ugly snarl, he shoved Kili under. The water rushed, Kili’s chest seizing in a silent scream. There was a desperation and anger in the way Throquûrz held Kili in the water and with a stab of fear, he realised he’d pushed the orc too far, he wasn’t going to be coming up again and those other two would rather stand back and watch him drown than dare to interrupt Throquûrz in one of his mad fits. Kili went for the hand that had him pinned beneath the water, attacking with his sharpest weapon. He bit Throquûrz hard in the forearm, breaking the skin and tasting the orc’s blood, coppery and bitter as black oil. Above the water, he could hear Throquûrz shouting in pain and surprise, the gnarled fingers unravelling from his shirt. Kili got up and swung his right fist before he could think, the rock coming into contact with the side of the orc’s head. Throquûrz buckled with a cry, holding his head, and Kili saw his chance. He ran, forcing his legs to move, staggering out of the water. One of the orcs stayed behind to help Throquûrz out of the river but the other gave chase, clumsy and staggering himself after wading in the thigh-high water.

He stumbled, trying to weave through the thicket of trees and almost falling. Kili heard the orc behind him thud and crash, the sound spurring him on, faster and faster until he couldn’t breathe and his limbs were screaming in pain and his fingers were unable to bend and flex. It was black in the trees; the only light came from campfires, distant slivers of yellow and orange.

“Run away, Kili!” He stopped, head whipping back at the roar. The orc seemed to have given up the chase now that Throquûrz was screaming through the dark. “I’ll _get_ you I _swear_ it!”Kili stared and licked his lips, crouching behind a tree-trunk and listening. He held his breath but there seemed to be nothing else, and when the rustling faded into a distant silence, he fled in the darkness, his skin frozen and heart rushing, hot with fear, both ice and fire leaving him feeling numb.


	96. Breaking Strain

“Do either of you want to explain that!” Dwalin thundered as soon as the group had filed down into the entrance hall. Balin stood silently a little back, grinding his teeth together and looking frankly disturbed. Thorin still had the same look in his eyes, wide and bright, like someone who had just woken up from a horrible nightmare.

“Please, master Dwalin—”

“Stay out of this Hjorr!” He silenced Dain’s elderly companion, Hjorr drawing back in surprise. Dwalin turned his smouldering glare to the young Thorin. “It is _inexcusable_ , you tried to kill your cousin!”

The dwarf’s lip curled, wrinkling the bridge of his blunt nose. “He was slandering us! Fili was asking for it with those groundless accusations. I won’t let _anyone_ speak like that to Father and I, even if they are family.”

“Peace Thorin.” Dain laid a hand on his son’s arm. “No one is arguing you had the right to defend our honour.”

“On the contrary,” their king finally spoke, “no arms will be raised against Fili again. You are lucky, my cousin, that Dís had the foresight to see the axe coming.”

“But he deserved it!”

“You lashed out in anger instead of acting reasonably.” Thorin’s face was hard and set. “What I saw was the rage of a child rather than the composure I would expect of a prince of Durin.”

“And what was Fili doing?” The young dwarf almost whined in response. “Everything he was saying, am I supposed to _let_ him insult us?”

“We will not come to blows against our own kin!” Thorin’s deep voice rumbled, anger rising at his insolence. “Dain, if you cannot control your son, then perhaps he is not ready to be present at our negotiations.”

“You can’t talk!” Dain broke in, hearing enough. “Look at _your_ nephews, Thorin. A traitor and an orc-friend, what does that suggest about your influence?” The moment he spoke, there was a frozen moment of silence, as the weight of those words sank against Thorin’s chest. Dain stared, indignant and sure, refusing to be sorry.

“How _dare_ you!” Thorin’s hand was shaking. “I did my very best for those boys – they were _perfect_ before all of this happened! Fili’s failures are a product of his own misguided naivety and Kili – he was put in a terrible situation and he couldn’t cope.” He took in a short breath. “I didn’t do this to them.”

“You are letting past love cloud your judgement. They are dangerous criminals and should hang—”

“I have _never_ let emotions cloud my judgement, Dain.” Thorin’s voice was sharp, low, and steady, eyes gleaming blue fire. “I have always put my people and my crown first, _always_. I did not hesitate to do what was required, no matter how difficult.” He took a step towards his cousin. “I will not have us made out to be fools. Thorin will not accompany us again unless he swears to hold his tongue.”

“He is my son.” Dain’s jaw was set. “If I want him there—”

“I am still king of Erebor, Dain!” Thorin’s boom was deafening. The scattered crowds in the entrance hall stilled their busy hands, a hushed, cautious silence blanketing the stone. “Or do you challenge that, as you challenged every decision I have so far made?”

The colour had drained from Dain’s face, and he took a step back, realising only just now that he had gone too far. He shook his head, hands spread wide in humility. “Of course not, my king. I submit to your will and no other.”

Thorin’s hands were shaking, curled into fists at his side. “Good.” He turned abruptly, his long cloak flaring up behind him as he walked. His head swam and he could still see Dain and his son in his mind’s eye, even as they walked away from him, the side-long glances at each other, conspiring, plotting. They didn’t even have the grace to wait until he was dead. Out of respect, the dwarves drew back, eyes downcast and hands clasped, parting to give Thorin room enough to march out of the entrance hall, Balin and Dwalin close behind. As soon as he was out of sight, in the cool dimness of the high-ceilinged passageway between the hall and the long suite of rooms where the remnants of his company slept, Thorin stopped, leaning against the wall with his hands over his face.

“He’s a nasty piece of work.” Dwalin muttered, crossing his arms. “Thinks he can come in here and swan about like he owns the place.”

“He’s the only ally we have.” Balin rested a hand on Thorin’s shoulder. His king looked up from his splayed fingers. “We have to trust him.”

“I don’t want that awful _brat_ on that throne.” Thorin whispered. “Not ever. He’s an undeserving, spoiled little worm. How could Dain raise him to be so coarse and graceless and then have the hypocrisy to criticise Fili?”

“He feels that Fili got off lightly. We should have exiled him properly and then he wouldn’t be a problem anymore, in his eyes.” Balin shot his brother an uneasy look. “He’s worried because Fili is an actual threat. Even sheltered in Erebor, there’s no certainty of victory.”

“ _He’s_ worried?” Thorin hissed. “If this fails, he can still return to the Iron Hills, to his halls and his gold-hoard and his armies. This isn’t his home, it was never his home. But this – it’s all I have now Balin. I have no heirs, no family to call upon, no allies.” His shoulders were hunched and shrunken inside the coat. “An empty kingdom filled with visitors.”

“It’s not as bad as all that.” Balin said firmly. “There are thousands of us in Ered Luin, we’ll fill these halls in due time with our own people, strike up the forges and sow the land, and it will be as though Smaug never darkened our door. And I still say we have a damn good chance of keeping Dain off that throne.” His hand tightened over the broad curve of muscle and bone. “You’re not all that old, there’s barely a whisper of grey in your beard. You still have a good sixty years left in you, if you’re lucky. I’ve heard of dwarves fathering children well past two hundred with young, healthy wives.” Thorin looked sick at the prospect, gloomy and pale in the faded light, as though Balin suggested a death sentence.

“I had an heir.” Thorin whispered, twisting his hands up in the sleeves of his coat, fighting back the ever-sharp anger and betrayal and the blunt heaviness of inexplicable grief. “He was perfect. He was everything I could have wanted. How could I ever have another?” It was a rhetorical question, one neither Balin nor Dwalin could, or intended to, answer.

* * *

Grishthak found the orc by a little fire with just a few others, holding a bundled rag to his head, clothes sodden and looking sorry for himself. “You colossal fool.” Throqûurz looked up and snarled, grip tightening on the blackened cloth. “What did I tell you, hm?”

“Go ahead and gloat.” He spat. “Get it all out then.”

“Piss off, all of you.” The old orc shooed the rest away, Throqûurz’s hangers-on and flatterers, the muscle who kept the lesser people back. “Go find another pair of boots to lick.” Grishthak sat himself down beside Throqûurz on the fallen log, taking the bloodied rag. “Let me look.”

“It’s _fine.”_ But it wasn’t – there was a flash of white beneath the pulpy patch of black. “He’s a little shit all right – I _won’t_ let him get away with this not for a moment.” Grishthak half-listened, bored, while he pressed the cloth against the open wound. “He’s getting too big for his boots, thinking he’s just as good as us or better. It’s _embarrassing,_ watching a dwarf swan about and cosy up to Bolg like this. Azog wouldn’t have stood for it.”

“Azog, the one who turned him into this?” Throqûurz glowered at him, and turned his face away. “You’re not pissed off that he’s here. You’re pissed off because he’s better than you.”

“No he’s not.”

“Twice now, he’s kicked your sorry arse and walked off with barely a scratch. Just accept it Throqûurz, you’re never going to beat him.”

“I _am!”_ Incensed, the orc pulled away and stood up, spitting on the ground at Grishthak’s feet. “I am the strongest of Bolg’s inner circle – I have _proven_ it, time and time again. I’ve crushed countless elves and men twice Kili’s size. He’s nothing!”

“It’s not a matter of size and strength,” Grishthak wound the rag around his fingers in thought. “It’s speed, cunning, endurance. He outpaces you in all three and until you find a way to break Kili, you will always lose.”

“You said you had a plan.” Throqûurz leaned in a little, the blood hot and black on his breath. “You said you knew how to get to Kili without laying a finger on him. _Tell me_.”

“What, and have you fuck it up again?” But Grishthak paused, looking up at the ragged, furious orc. Blood was oozing down the size of his face again, slow and sluggish, occasionally dripping on the ground. “You really want to get him, don’t you?”

“No one gets the better of Throqûurz and live to brag about it.” The orc heaved. “ _No one._ And certainly not twice. _”_

“If you’re serious about hurting him, you need to go for the heart.” Grishthak smirked, patting at the heavy log. “You need to find a handle on him.” The orc sat down, staring blankly. “A weakness.” He explained. “A way through him. You have your pride, Bolg his reckless bloodlust. You can’t fault Kili’s strength or speed or cunning. He’s damn well perfect like that.” He growled in distaste.

“So what’s he keeping secret then?” He misunderstood. Grishthak shook his head at the orc’s naivety, teeth gleaming in a wicked grin.

“It’s not a secret.” He dug his heel in the dirt, dragging it back. “Kili’s weakness isn’t inside of him, he’s become too hard and hollow for that. Azog scooped it all out.” Grishthak stared at the fresh earth, black as shadow in the firelight. “But he’s been pretty damn open about what he still cares about, though I’m sure he’d lie about it if you asked. You know he’s been bringing someone to bed with him.” It was a statement.

“’Course.” That furrow was still on Throqûurz’s face. “A weedy little thing in rags.” Grishthak tilted his head to one side in a silent confirmation, giving a one-sided shrug. “... _Oh.”_

“Sir!” One of Throqûurz’s orcs approached the pair. “Bolg is coming this way, he said he has something to ask Throqûurz.”

“That is my queue to leave.” Grishthak stood up, voice sharp. “Now – we never had this conversation.” He pressed the forgotten rag into the orc’s hand, turning away. “I have enough on my plate without being dragged into your spats.”

“Then why did you even tell me this?” Throqûurz pressed the soaked cloth against his head, although it did little good for him now.

Grishthak stared out into the thick nest of trees, black, glimmering distantly with firelight. His right hand curled into an instinctive fist. “Because you’re not the only one thinking Kili needs putting down.” And if he could have someone else take the blame, then all the better.

* * *

Kili peeled his clothes away layer by layer, draping them over propped-up sticks before the fire. He left on his underthings and wrapped one of his furs around him, his legs sticking out. They looked flushed and thin and small before the fire, the colour of chicken that had been left boiling for too long and was limp, bloated, inedible. He ran his hands up and down, felt the thick coating of hair shift against his palm, still damp.

“ _Ishi_ what happened to you?” The orc who had directed Kili to the water was missing – a plant, obviously. He cursed himself now for his stupidity and blindness. It was one of the nosey guards, and Kili mumbled weakly about falling in the river, turning his face away in an unspoken desire to be alone. Nardur had settled in beside him, sitting up on his haunches with his massive head leaning down on Kili’s shoulder, soaking the fur with drool. Kili scratched at his ear with one hand, staring into the shifting flicker of red and orange. Slowly, Kili thawed out before the fire, the violent tremors in his limbs smoothing. At least he was safe here – out in the open, with everybody else around, there was no way Throqûurz would try anything against him, he knew it.

With his face slowly warming in the fire, growing pink and flushed once more after the ash had been washed away in the river, Kili found the doubt and fear growing in his stomach. _No one had thought of him as a threat before_. Azog had treated him like a glorified lapdog and an eventual partner, Mautor thought him a philosophical affirmation, a prototype for a new world order, Grishthak despised and mistrusted him, and Bolg saw Kili as a weapon. No one had looked him in the eye and saw a challenge to his own pride and position. This was a new danger for Kili, one he never planned to contend with and had no way of fighting.

Perhaps he just run to Bolg now, tell him what had happened and ask for protection a promise. Kili saw though, in an instant, just how that would look to the rest of his generals, to the other orcs. He saw the rumour rushing like a wildfire through brush, passing through whispers and taunts and jeers. Kili couldn’t even handle a little grudge against him – one little fight and he went crying to Bolg like a baby running to his Mama. He thrust his jaw out, eyes flashing in thought as he studied a broken log in the flames.

There had to be some sort of way Kili could trick the orc back, lure him into some sort of trap and make it look like an accident. He didn’t want to _murder_ anybody, even somebody he hated him, but there seemed to be no other way out of this. Throqûurz wouldn’t let this slide he wouldn’t fight the armies of Erebor on a broken ego. This was why Azog forbade any fighting in his retinue, why he punished Kili for his act of violence. Bolg didn’t have that control over his own orcs, even those closest to him, serving directly under his command. His rule was fragmented, bloodstained, wrought in depravity. Kili wondered how many of those close generals were truly afraid of Bolg. It wouldn’t have been many.

“What happened to you?” Speaking of. Kili looked up, drawing the thick fur tighter around himself and folding his legs close. Bolg stared down at him with his arms crossed, his huge silhouette blocking the flames.

“Fell in the river.” Kili muttered, keeping his eyes low. “Misjudged the bank and slipped.”

“Huh, that right?” Bolg took a half-step closer, so his heavy boot was just prodding Kili’s bare toe. “I saw Throqûurz just before. Turns out he fell into the river as well. Hit his head on a rock when he went down and everything.” Kili stared up at him now, his bare foot curling away from Bolg. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

Kili’s refused to give anything away. “I’m not a snitch.” He said evenly. “I can handle myself Bolg.”

“Evidently.” He gestured with his hand for the dwarf to stand up. “Come here, I want to talk to you for a moment.” Bolg walked away from the fire, where he knew they could at least talk quietly without being overhead. With a little frown, Kili obediently followed, making sure the fur was wrapped close. “He really hates you.”

“It’s not my fault he can’t handle a blow to his pride.” His fingers were wound tight in the hem of the blanket, wondering just where this led. “I’m not sorry for stepping in yesterday. Even if it means Throqûurz wants my skin, I don’t care. What he did was wrong and I’m not going to apol—”

“What have I told you about the misplaced justice.” Bolg cut over him. “I tried to speak to Throqûurz further, I gave him the opportunity to apologise, and he refused to take it. He disobeyed a direct order and this isn’t the first time.” Kili’s mouth was dry. Before he had a chance to respond, Bolg was talking again. "He sees himself as some sort of favourite, and I suppose he was for a while, but recently, he’s getting too full of himself. He doesn’t hate you just because you beat him in a fight. He’s jealous. He thinks he should be ahead of you.”

“Shouldn’t he be?” Kili’s feet were growing cold again in the damp, slimy dirt, and he shifted his weight from side to side, trying to remain inconspicuous.

“Why? Because he’s an orc and you’re a dwarf? Because he was here first?” Bolg’s face was set in a scowl. “I would rather have a sharp knife-blade than a blunt, heavy rock in my right had.” He clapped Kili on the shoulder, the weight of his massive hand catching Kili unaware and almost throwing him off balance. “Next time he attacks you, fight back. Do what it takes to bring him down to his proper level.”

“What made you change your mind?” Kili murmured, feeling cold underneath the heavy fur, realising what Bolg was insinuating. “Just yesterday you told me you didn’t want a drop of blood spilled, now you’re calling for his head.”

“I’m not calling for anybody’s head,” the orc-king remarked sharply. “I’m saying if he’s choosing to break the rules, don’t feel you have to continue obeying them.” The bridge of his mutilated nose was wrinkled and heavy. “He has his own sway in the army and I can’t get rid of him without due cause, several hundred soldiers will descend into mutiny. I am too close to finishing off the remnants of Erebor to take any risks here. He will come for you again, and nobody would question what you did in self-defence.”

 _If you want me to kill him for you, just say it._ But he kept that all locked up, bowing his head slightly in a sign of respect. “ _Narnûlubat_ Bolg.” Kili’s hand found the old tooth at his neck, thumb pressing against the sharpened point. “Your protection means everything to me. I’ll... Consider everything you’ve said.”

“See you do. It would be a shame to lose you before you get a chance to really shine.” Bolg touched Kili’s shoulder again and left him, strolling away to his own tent for a choice meal. Kili twirled Azog’s token between two fingers, watching it catch the firelight. Perhaps there was more of Azog’s brutal, heartless cunning inside of Bolg than he’d ever let on. Perhaps he was being careful, this close to the Lonely Mountain and an uncertain victory. Bolg couldn’t have been more explicit about what he wanted and yet he hadn’t said a word that was incriminating. Kili wondered how long Bolg had been stewing on this, rolling the thought around before the opportunity came along. Was that what Kili was now, Bolg’s contracted killer, getting the blood on his hands and taking the risk so Bolg could keep his soldiers sweet?

He found his old spot by the fire and curled up, watching the general hubbub of activity around him, the drinking, the eating, the games. Scenes like this, they hit Kili harder than acts of violence, watching somebody be beaten up or stuck with a knife. This image hurt in its normalcy – just a group of shoulders whiling away the night-time hours. It could be anybody, orc, dwarf, man, and it would all look just like this. Things that blurred those lines that been so stone-carven and permanent, they stuck in Kili’s mind far longer than they should.

“Hey Kili,” someone touched his elbow. “We’re starting a new round of _bûth_. Want in? I heard you’re pretty good.”

“Good?” Kili forced a grin. “I’m the best. Let me get dressed.” His clothes were still damp but he put them on anyway, leaving his boots and Nardur stretched out on one side. He tried to leave his thoughts and fears behind, but they rattled around in his skull, clinking and clattering and no matter how loud Kili laughed or joked or cheerfully teased, he couldn’t drown them out.

* * *

“Does my hair look all right?” Ori touched his braids self-consciously, trying to flatten his rough mop of hair with one hand, tongue in his teeth. “I wish I had the time to comb and rebraid it, I look a mess.”

“It’s just dinner.” Fili shrugged, tried to smile in Ori’s direction. Dain was whispering in his ear again. _A disgusting freak who tried to seduce your brother_. His blood boiled just at memory of it and he felt a surge in his chest, hot and tight. It took a moment for him to place the feeling. It was protectiveness. It was how he felt whenever he had stumbled across Kili in trouble. Because they were like brothers at this point, Fili and Ori. They slept beside each other, shared their hopes and fears and deepest, darkest secrets, sought advice and comfort. Fili had an overwhelming instinct to protect Ori, who seemed to have everything stacked against him, who wasn’t just a bastard, a traitor, the son of a whore, but someone who carried something so immoral, so fundamentally wrong that just existing was enough of a crime. The only one who had sworn fealty to him and him alone. Fili’s soft, sad smile dissolved into something warm and real, and he teasingly ruffled the thatch of auburn hair, Ori pushing his hands away with a huff. “Oh calm down. We’re honoured guests, remember?”

“We were honoured guests in Lake-Town, too.” But Ori followed him willingly into Thranduil’s tent, where a long table had been set up for the night, the papers and maps cleared away. Tauriel and Legolas were already there with Bard and Bain. Legolas and Bard looked in deep conversation and Bain tugged at Tauriel’s sleeve, trying to tell a story. Tauriel nodded and smiled, but Ori could see her leaning towards the males, ears tuned to their low mutters.

“Oh, Ori! You’re here too!” Noticing the dwarves, Bain broke away with a grin. Tauriel looked relieved. “Come sit next to me, I saved you a seat just in case. Everyone else is always _really_ boring, I’ve been at three dinners now and it’s all the same.”

“Perhaps then you are too young to be sitting to dinner with your elders.” Bard’s sharp voice made Ori grin. “What did I tell you?”

“Hold my tongue and don’t speak unless spoken to. Yes Papa I know.” Ori sat next to him, gently shoving his shoulder.

“Don’t worry,” he said it quietly, with an air of conspiracy. “ _I’ll_ still talk to you.”

“You still look shaken.” Bard commented as Fili sat down across from him, at the first seat on Thranduil’s left that had been reserved for him. “You all right Fili?”

“It’s not every day one of your kin throws an axe at you.” He tried to joke about it, but his voice was weak and face pale. “It’s nothing, really. Cousin Thorin was always a bit of a short-tempered idiot.”

“At least he missed.” Tauriel was having a rare cup of wine. “Thranduil would be quite upset if he lost his chief ally before we’d even begun.”

“Ah, quite a merry gathering!” Although it was solemn and anything but, Gandalf tried hard to raise spirits as he entered, Bilbo at his elbow. “Ori, where is your brother?”

“Wasn’t feeling up to it.” Ori said apologetically. That was a lie, Nori felt fine, but as he sniffed, he would rather enjoy a few hours of peace and quiet rather than bow and scrape in Thranduil’s presence, and Ori left him in the tent rather than waste his energy despairing. “Sends his regards and all that.”

“Ah, what a shame.” Gandalf sat down and Bilbo beside him, sniffing the air. “Is that pork?”

“I think it is.” Fili frowned. “We haven’t had it since...” _Oh._ Since the night Kili left. He leaned on his elbows, trying and failing to mask the gloom. Dís came a few minutes later and then Thranduil, sweeping in with his silvered cloak behind him, the table rising to their feet out of respect as he took a seat.

“I don’t think we have had a proper dinner yet.” Thranduil’s eyes skimmed the table, taking everybody in. “Quite a shame.” Fili eyed Thranduil’s hands as he poured himself a generous serving of wine, the gems dripping from his fine-bone fingers and looked down at his own, hairy-knuckled, edged with black under the nails, callused and streaked with dirt. He hid them under the table, self-consciously.

Talk shifted far too soon to the encounter at the Front Gate. Fili was halfway through the thick steak before him when Thranduil dabbed at his mouth with a clean handkerchief. “I hope,” Thranduil ate like a bird, nibbling and pecking at this and that, shifting from one thing to the other, his own food still barely touched, “that your nerves have recovered from this afternoon.”

“My nerves are fine.” Their conversation was secluded and private, a soft hum beneath the chatter of the table. Only Dís was listening. “I’ve known for a while what Dain and Thorin think of me. I knew the risk and the damage that could be caused to my name if I failed to protect Thorin from himself.” Fili looked down, the whites of his mother’s eye still gleaming in the corner of his own vision. He could see his reflection in the silver knife, warbled and faded, but still strong enough to make out his nose, his sharp blue eyes. Mahal, there was no doubting where he had come from. “Their words can’t hurt me anymore. My allies are here, Thranduil. Inside this camp. Nobody else matters.”

“So this is what you want.” Thranduil drank, fingering the edge of his studded goblet. “Your heart and loyalty is firmly here.”

“Of course it is.” Fili wondered what he was getting at. “I want what’s best for our people – and this is it, I know it is.”

“So, you have no love left for your brother then.” Dís set down her fork a little harder than she meant to, but Thranduil ignored her.

Fili closed his eyes for a moment, felt his heart swell and ache. “I’ll always love my brother.” He spoke calmly and evenly. “But I cannot agree with the path he has chosen to tread.” With every word was a gut-ripping betrayal and he could feel the hatred rising and bubbling. He hated Thranduil. He hated himself. “I don’t consider him a part of my life anymore. He will go his own way and I will go mine, and I hope to Mahal our paths don’t cross again, for both our sakes.”

“Really?” Thranduil raised a heavy eyebrow. “Perhaps you should tell that to Ori then.”

“Thranduil _stop.”_ Dís snarled, one hand on her knife, pressed against the edge of the table. Fili’s throat tightened and Bard and Legolas fell silent.

“It is a serious question.” Thranduil’s own voice rose, counteracting her. “He’s not on _your_ side, is he Fili?” Everyone fell silent now. Ori was staring at the head of the table, a few sentences behind and trying to catch up.

“Ori is the most loyal dwarf I have ever met.” Fili’s voice shook and he hid his hands under the table, not trusting them to stay still, to stay back from Thranduil. “I have never questioned him, not for a moment.”

“Thranduil—”

“And being in love with your brother has done nothing to colour his allegiance to you, or to me, or to this cause?” There was a _clink_ of metal as Ori dropped his fork and sat absolutely frozen, the colour draining from his face. Fili’s head whipped around, and out of instinct he found himself rising to his feet, although that still only left him perhaps head-and-shoulders above the elf-king.

“Firstly, nothing _ever_ happened. Thorin was wrong, he completely misread the situation, and it is _disgusting_ that somebody saw fit to let everybody in Erebor in on our private lives.” His chest was heaving, and Fili could feel the blood rushing to his fingers and toes, throbbing painfully, his head feeling overstuffed and searing with rage. “Whatever feelings he has, I don’t hold them against him, not for a moment. It’s irrelevant. I _know_ Ori is on our side and you have no right to question that!”

Ori listened in a numb silence, hearing everything in his ears as though they screamed at him, rattling his eardrums, and over all of that, the running thump of his heart, like heavy boots sprinting over stone, was growing louder and faster until it seemed as though any moment it would collapse. Dís was on her feet now too, the tendons standing up on her neck and arms. “ _Shame_ on you Thranduil – you’re so desperate to find a way to punish Kili that you’re inventing allies based on rumour and hearsay!”

“So Ori _didn’t_ say that he was going to personally search for Kili when all of this was over?” Thranduil’s response was as smooth and collected as ever. “That’s what you said, isn’t it Ori? I believe you said you were going to bring him back here.”

“I-I...” Ori gasped for air, unseeing. “I-I didn’t—”

“Quite a fine pair they would make.” The shock on Fili’s face told Thranduil everything he needed to know – he had no idea that Ori was entertaining such a thought, let alone spreading it aloud. For all Fili’s protestations that he and his brother were eternally apart, his most loyal comrade was at the same time conspiring to bring Kili back. How could Thranduil let the disconnect remain undisturbed? Somebody was keeping the truth from him. But at least now, looking at those blue eyes grow wide and that mouth slacken in a soft, youthful beard of gold, Thranduil knew that it wasn’t Fili who lied to him. “I hear that orcs lie with their own brothers, perhaps the two of them would be better off—”

“ _Thranduil!”_ Dís screamed, pounding the table. He jumped and visibly flinched back at the blow, as though he himself had been hit. “Stop this, _now!_ This has nothing to do with you or any of us!”

“I hear from Fili that he never wants to see Kili again, and then I hear from Ori that he wants not only to find that savage little wretch but bring him within the walls of Erebor.” Dís had clearly rattled him. “Somebody is _lying_ to me and I have a right to know who.” There was a thud then, as Ori’s chair fell to the floor. He backed away from the table, shaking from head to food and his breath coming out in harsh, panicked gasps. Somehow, he staggered to the low exit, the choked, stale air cooling and widening out as he hit the night and tried to run, run as far as he could, unable to see or think or barely even breathe.

“Oh – Ori no!” Fili stepped back from the table, not paying any heed to Thranduil as he marched straight out of the tent. He could hear his mother yelling in defence of Ori, could hear Thranduil shouting back. He left them, seeing a hunched, staggering figure in the moonlight, the distant sound of hitched breaths and wracked sobbing growing louder with each step. “Ori!” But he wasn’t listening to Fili, he kept on going forward in his odd, lopsided stumble, catching himself before he fell. “Stop – come _here.”_ Fili caught up with him easily, although Ori was trying to run. He tackled the younger the dwarf, the two of them sent sprawling against dust and stones and all of a sudden, Fili’s nerves and ears and mind were sent back, months and months ago; he was in Mirkwood, with Ori’s thin little hands clinging to him, only the air wasn’t thick and muffled here, it was open, clear and cold as ice, the ground lifeless beneath them. Only it was Ori running, not Fili, and Thorin was very, very far away.

“Get _off_ me!” Ori tried to punch Fili in the shoulder, his fists weak and shaking. Fili deflected the blow easily, wrapped his fingers tight around Ori’s wrist and forced the skinny limb back down at his side. “Let me go—”

“Ori, stop this.” Fili wanted to shake him. “You’re never like this – _stop._ ” He grabbed the front of Ori’s shirt, trying to duck his desperate blows.

“Let me _go_.” Ori howled, trying to twist free. “ _Please_ Fili leave me alone.”

“No.” Fili wrapped one arm around Ori’s neck, trying to crush him in a hug and pin his arms. “It’s all right, nothing’s going to happen to you, I’ll make sure of it.”

“You don’t _get_ it!” Ori pressed his fists against Fili’s chest, trying to beat him off. “Just – let me go, let me be.” He lifted his head, eyes swollen and face streaked in the faded moonlight.

“What’s going on?” He gripped Ori firmly by the shoulders, holding him in place. “Don’t listen to Thranduil, he doesn’t matter – I don’t know what you’ve been saying but we’ll talk about that later, just calm down and—”

“I can’t just _calm down!”_ Ori pulled himself free and scooted back, freeing his tangled legs. “I have never, _ever_ been so humiliated! How could he, in front of Bard and Gandalf and everybody? How did he even _know_ about Kili and I? Who told him?”

“Dain did.” Ori jerked back at that, his open mouth in a shapeless expression of shock. “Somebody must have told him – he shouted it today at the Gate, saying that you and Nori being my only dwarvish allies proved how nothing I was. But it doesn’t _matter_ ,” Ori had pitched forward with his hands over his face, shaking all over, “to hell with Dain, he’s nobody. They’re all nobody.”

“They’re not _nobody_ , they’re _kings!”_ Ori gritted his teeth. “So everybody knows about me – they’ve all been gossiping behind my back and – how can I ever look anybody in the eye again? H-How can I ever walk with my head held high when all everybody sees is something wrong and broken?” His breath came out through splayed fingers. “It will _always_ be like this, for the rest of my life. N-No matter how hard I try, no matter what I do, people will only ever remember me for how I felt towards Kili. I’ll a-always be disgusting.”

“Not to everybody.” Fili whispered, heart aching. “Not to me,” he reached out, tried to take Ori’s arm, but Ori swatted him away.

“I can’t do this Fili. I _can’t_. Just being tolerated, and never belonging.” His face crumpled. “I didn’t even mean to say it, all that about Kili. Not really. I was just – fantasizing. I would never do anything like that without telling you, never. But I... I _know_ he wouldn’t think of me like this and I just wanted someone else – someone who understands and who knows everything and didn’t think I was sick or unnatural. I want _Kili_ back. I know it’s hopeless a-and I don’t care if people hated or exiled me for it – I-I just want Kili.”

“I know you wouldn’t.” Fili tried to steady his own breathing, tried to look strong and confident, for Ori’s sake. “Please, calm down. Go back to our tent, go sit with Nori, get some sleep.” His hand closed around Ori’s elbow, and this time Ori let him. “I will not let a single thing happen to you Ori, not ever. You and _Amad_ are the only people I have left who completely believe in me. I _need_ you.”

Ori stared at him with his heart in two. Slowly, placed one hand over Fili’s, feeling the broad bones, the thick knuckles that stood out on his skin, the scattered coat of hair. He squeezed, trying to push back the raging bile that burned in his stomach and throat and threatened to come out. Fili didn’t understand – of _course_ he didn’t. Ori had kept that burning hope inside of him for weeks and weeks that somehow, he could cobble together a life here, he and Fili and maybe even Kili, too. Hearing Thranduil speak like that about _him_ , it was a knife in his gut and he couldn’t get it out. _Everybody knew now._ How could that not change the way they thought and felt about him? How could Ori expect things to go on as they were before, now that they all knew there was something wrong inside of him? He wanted to cry again but his eyes and heart had dried out.

Fili led him back to their tent carefully, where Nori was inside, whittling away on a bit of old wood. He jumped up when he saw his brother’s face, fists curling. “What the hell happened?” Ori staggered inside, fell on his knees and reached for his scarf, left in a little bundle by his pillow.

“Everybody knows about him and Kili.” Fili said quietly. “Thranduil just accused him of being two-faced. Ori, I have to go back and sort this all out, but I won’t be long.”

“Just go.” Wrapped around his shoulders and face, the scarf muffled him, and he breathed in deeply, smelling chamomile. Ori thought everything had gone hard and dead inside of him, but the scent of Dori’s favourite tea brought it all rushing back and his eyes were stinging and watering.

Mahal, he missed his brother.

Nori snarled. “That _arrogant_ bastard, I oughta go and give him a piece of my mind—”

“No!” Ori grabbed his sleeve. “J-Just leave it. I don’t want to cause any more trouble.” Nori looked back at his warbling voice, realising that Ori was crying.

“Oh shit Ori no. No – it’s all right.” Somewhat awkwardly, because it was a gesture that was still foreign to him, Nori wrapped his arms around his little brother, holding on tight. “Who gives a damn about what that prissy flaxen-haired _elf_ thinks? Tell you what, if anyone else is hiding themselves around here, it’s him with his silvered clothes and clean hands and tresses fit for a lass. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was caught on his knees with one of the guards out on patrol.” Ori’s sobs hitched, face pressed against his shoulder. “Why do you think he’s always sitting up so straight? He’s probably got something so far up there—”

“Nori, _stop!”_ Ori punched him in the arm and lifted his head, but he was smiling. “You’re so awful.”

“Don’t worry about him.” Taking the edge of that ratty old scarf, Nori wiped at his brother’s face. “Don’t worry about any of them, everyone has their own secrets Ori. We’re all guilty of something here. Anyone with half a brain can see that it doesn’t matter how you feel deep down. Fili and Dís and I, people who really know you, we don’t care.” He held Ori firmly. “Nobody is going to send you away, Fili won’t let that happen.”

“But I won’t ever belong here, not properly.” Ori mumbled, feeling tired. Nori’s grip slackened for a moment, then doubled.

“You _deserve_ to be here more than anyone.” His fingers dug into the soft flesh of Ori’s arms. “You didn’t come to Erebor for gold or fame, not like the rest of those hypocrites behind the wall. They came here to get rich and loll about on silks and furs and be called lords. But you came here because you wanted to get out of Ered Luin and see the world. You wanted to help our people.”

“I suppose...” Ori looked down, flushed and embarrassed. He never did well with praise.

“Ori, I am _proud_ of you. I might be a dirty thief who doesn’t know right from wrong, but I know what you are. You’re a good person. And I’m sorry, for how I acted when I first found out. I was – shocked, I suppose. I always thought you’d wind up more than Dori than me.”

“Dori did his best to keep me on the straight and narrow.” Ori smiled at his own little joke. “But it was never going to work. I can’t be like that, just sitting back and watching everything go by. I want to help people, Nori. Fili _has_ to win this. There is so much good he could do for folks like us, who’ve tried to fit in but only seem to cling to the edges. I want to help him make a world where we can belong.”

“And you will.” Nori tried to comb the uneven thatch of hair out of Ori’s eyes. “And you know what? I think it could almost be better like this.” Ori frowned at him. “ _Let_ people know. And let them know that you’re not ashamed of who you are. So what if you’re in love with a bloke, Kili could pass for a dam anyway if you put him in a dress. Does it mean you’ve forgotten how to hold a quill or read a letter? It doesn’t make you any less clever or loyal. Trust me on this, there’s nothing worse than sneaking around and pretending that nothing’s wrong, it makes you look twice as guilty.”

“It’s not as easy as all that.” Ori toyed with the edge of his scarf. “This isn’t like being caught filching a gold ring Nori. It’s like... like if an orc came into this camp, right now, and wanted to join Thranduil’s army. Even though he hasn’t done anything, he’s a criminal. There’s something wrong with him, something he can never change and before he can utter a word, he would be shot on sight and nobody would lift a finger in his defence. That’s what it’s _like_ for me. For months – _years_ – I had Dori in my ear saying that if anybody knew then I would be shaved and thrown out before I could speak a word. That sort of fear, it doesn’t go away. Having Thorin spit at me and call me disgusting, being repulsed at the sight of me – do you think I’ll _ever_ stop hurting from that?” His eyes were glimmering again at the painful memory. “I’m scared. I’m scared that I could be attacked or killed by someone who hated me, or people like me.”

“No one’s going to jump you in a dark alley, don’t be ridiculous.” His heart was aching for poor Ori at that moment, who usually kept his secrets and fears so close to his chest and now that one had been ripped away, held up for the world to see, the rest were all spilling out. “Fili and I will _always_ be looking out for you, so even if anyone tried, they couldn’t lay a finger on you, all right?” Ori sniffed. “Say it. Say that you’ll be fine.”

“I-I’ll be fine.” He repeated, still wobbly and unsure as an unset pudding. Nori ruffled his hair and called him a funny one, and for a moment, it seemed as though everything would be all right. Ori tried to tell himself that it _would_ be, he would put Kili out of his mind and try to remain here, where three people loved him and cared for him, who he could trust and depend on, where he still had his freedom. And tomorrow, when he had to face them all again after a night of letting this all stew, Ori was going to look Thranduil in the eye and make him realise what a mistake it was to ever doubt Ori’s faith and loyalty. He would make sure of it.


	97. Blood and Gold

Fíak waited, pacing slowly back and forth before an abandoned fire in a sparse corner of the tight little camp. A neutral space. The fur on his thick collar rustled in the breeze and he pulled it up a little higher around his neck, staring out at where he thought his exiled prince would appear.

Fili was a stark, immediate figure. Sun caught his hair, molten gold streaming over his shoulders and shining against the dull grey of stone and canvas. Fíak stopped, kept his hands respectfully at his side and waited until Fili was well within earshot before inclining his spine in a deep bow. “Fili. I was worried for a moment you weren’t coming.”

“Whatever this is about, keep it short.” There was a scowl fixed on Fili’s face, dark and gloomy. “I’m supposed to be seeing Thranduil.”

“It won’t take long.” Fíak sat down on a squat rock, his hands clasped between his knees. Fili followed suit, sitting across from him with his fair brow still furrowed, those dark blue eyes staring right into him, seeking him out. “I’m here to tell you a little more about the Ironfists, to make it clear why we’re here.”

“I know why you’re here.”

“No.” Fíak reached for the letter in his pocket. “You don’t.” He pulled out the message he had received about Aflák’s death. “I received this yesterday, from the east.” Fili eyed the paper before begrudgingly taking it, scanning the text briefly. “Aflák was your third cousin once removed.” Fili looked up. “This has been going on for some time. There are a number of families that want that throne.” He sighed. “The first are the descendants of Vili’s cousin, Katrín. She married a merchant before her four brothers and two nephews died. Her sons are the closest blood-relatives to Vili but they’re commoners through the father’s side, blood’s not noble enough. But they have money, and the support of the guilds.” Fili handed the letter back and listened with his arms crossed. “The courts are much stickier. Túni is Vili’s second cousin and he’s spent a century marrying off his daughters and nieces to cement family alliances. He’s pushing his eldest Húni as a possible heir for Vili, and he’s a complete brute. His youngest brother Úni is a lieutenant here, you should hear the stories he has to tell. Course, none of them are as bad as old Válka. She’s Hepti’s cousin, coming up three hundred but still sharp as a pin. Her sons are all dead but her grandsons and great-grandsons are still around, keeping Túni on his toes.”

“So it’s getting bloody.” Fili sat up a little straighter, finally interested in what the old dwarf had to say. “And certain healthy young dwarves from certain families are winding up dead.” Fíak put the letter away, obviously downcast. “So whose side are you on?”

“None,” He snarled. “I’ve kept out of this, although they’ve all tried to buy my allegiance. The kingdom is in decay from this fighting. Easterlings have seen our weakness and their raids are growing. There’s not the wealth there once was, not in your father’s time.” Fíak stretched out his legs. “Vili is too old. His memories are in tatters and he spends most of his days in bed. I’ve told him, for years, to just name an heir, one of Túni’s or Válka’s boys and get it over with, but he refuses. He doesn’t want some distant relative on the throne guided by some greedy, power-hungry guardian. He wants _you_.”

“Bull.” Fili said flatly. “He doesn’t want _me_ , he wants my blood. I would never be on that throne and we both know it. Do you think I want _three_ wealthy families after for my head?”

“I don’t like this situation any more than you do.” Fíak stared, expressionless. “Do you think I want some foreigner on our throne, who misunderstands and hates us?” Fili remained close-mouthed. “But it doesn’t matter what I think. You are the rightful heir of a desperate and fractured people. The king’s guard is still loyal to Vili and I, they always will be. I know I can’t win you over now, but if you fail in this Fili, if Thorin and Dain win and you’re left with nothing, just – remember there is a crown waiting for you, one you can take without question, wanted or not.” He spoke the next words slowly, as though it hurt to make them. “We need you.”

“If I lose,” Fili stood up, pushing back his wild hair and staring with a hard look in his eyes. “The Orocani Mountains would be the very last place in this world I would go.” He turned away, swallowing back a worse insult.

“Is this your stance then?” Fíak’s voice rose, sharper, without a hint of warmth. Fili stopped. “You’re just going to run and hide? Then go. Go back to your mother’s skirts, and let her try and win Erebor for you while your father’s people kill themselves!”

“Why do you think you deserve anything from me?” Fili kept his back to Fíak, staring at the ground. “I don’t deny my blood or heritage anymore Fíak, I tried doing that for years and got nowhere. But I will never go back. This is my home, this is what I spent a lifetime working towards. When I think about everything you’ve done, the way you turned torture and execution to a weekly show in a packed theatre, the slavery and the raiding, the way you treated my mother... I’m not even angry anymore. I just feel nothing. You’ve done this to yourselves, when you created a world where people knew nothing but violence and pain, where the only way to survive was hurting someone else before you were hurt yourself. Are you really so surprised that it’s all falling apart?”

“Don’t stand there and act as though the Longbeards are perfect.” Fíak took personal offence at the insinuation. “They are selfish and greedy and far too proud for their own good. I have never seen a clan of dwarves so heartless, selling their own children for a pittance, bringing fire upon their heads with their goldlust and hubris. Need I remind _you_ just how much Thrór and Thorin coveted gold and power over their own people, their families and loved ones?”

“Oh _please_ , don’t act as though Thorin is as bad as my father.” Fili turned back around, cold with fury. “Don’t you _dare_. Thorin is sick, he is losing his mind but he is _not_ , nor will he ever be, heartless. His love for us isn’t dead, I knowit. But you—”

“I have never seen a dwarf love their son the way your father loved you.” Fili’s voice died in his throat. “You were his whole world. And he loved Dís. As stubborn and loud-mouthed and disobedient as she was, he loved her.”

Fili’s eyes stung. “Shut up.”

“Your father was many things, but he wasn’t heartless.” Fíak’s old bones creaked as he stood up. “He loved the two of you with everything he had. You may not like to hear it, but it’s the truth. It was Dís that drove him mad, Fili. Not his people.”

“Get out.” Unable to hear another word of it, Fili pointed towards the campsite. “Get the _fuck_ out of here and never, _ever_ show your face to me again.” His voice and hand trembled. “Never talk about either of my parents, to me, to _anybody_ , do you hear? Go back to your den of thieves and murderers and lead them to whatever end you see fit. I won’t be your saviour, Fíak. There’s nothing than can save people like you.”

“All right then.” He brushed past Fili with a detached, cool exterior. “If this is the path you want to take, I’ll let you walk it.”

“Go back to the hell you’ve made.” Fili shouted at his back. “And leave me alone!” He sat back down, staring at his crooked hands as his head continued to pound. They were monsters – all of them, every single one. Something burst open inside at the mention of his mother and father together. Nobody had ever broached the subject to Fili before, nobody had talked about them as husband-and-wife, a king-in-waiting and his consort. All he had were his distant, dusty memories of the pair, locked in a constant battle of wills and fists with Fili firmly in the middle. The idea that _he_ could be capable of doing something so abhorrent and twisted to someone he loved was more disturbing to Fili than if he had done it out of pure hate. It made him _more_ heartless, not less. The more Fili thought about what the old dwarf had said, the longer he brooded and turned it over in his mind, the closer he came to a realisation.

It was strange. Ever since Fili had been more open, both to himself and to others, about that dark half of his soul that had been locked away and covered up, ever since Fili stopped trying to push it down and started accepting that it was _there_ , he could feel himself growing more and more distant, in heart and in mind, from his father’s people. Ever since he thought of himself as a whole, as _Fili_ , rather than two warring halves that refused to come together, there had been an ease on his mind – he wasn’t quite so afraid of himself anymore. That tight gip around his soul had relaxed. He could stand back, see that whether a clan lusted over gold or blood, both were poison, sickening their people inside and out. For all their differences, their centuries of distance and hatred, both Ironfists and Longbeards were killing themselves, in almost the same way. The weapons bore the same shapes, same thickness and strength and sharpness, they simply forged from different metals. And it seemed like Fili was the only one with power who had armed himself against it.

Both were wrong. And the longer Fili stopped and thought, _really_ thought, not about himself, or about Thorin or his mother, or the stupid, petty power games he’d become swept up in, but about everything they had done as a people for over two hundred years, the wandering, the battles, the bitter poverty and unfathomable riches and everything in between, the sharper and more clear that realisation grew.

* * *

Bain found Ori sitting on a stout little ridge that overlooked the campsite, with the valley stretching out, Erebor looming in the distance. He sat with his head erect, staring out with his hands splayed at his sides, fingers curled into the rock.

He stopped about fifteen feet behind him, little clouds of dust billowing beneath his feet. Bain held his breath for a moment, running over the clumsy speech in his mind before opening his big mouth. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you!” Ori looked over his shoulder, eyes widening. “You’re not – hiding, are you?”

“No, I’m not hiding.” Ori looked back out over the ledge, hands clasped together in his lap, studying the ridges of dirt between his nails. “I just wanted to be alone for a little while.”

“Papa spent _ages_ trying to explain it all to me.” After spending a few moments hovering unsure behind him, Bain went ahead and sat down at Ori’s side, swinging his legs a little over twenty feet of open air. “It was sort of funny actually, he went _so_ red. He’s told me all about where babies are born before of course, but I never knew that – well, sometimes neither are girls.” Ori’s hands tightened into fists. Bain leaned forward to look at Ori properly, one eye closed to peer through the morning sun. “Is it _actually_ true?”

“Some of it.” Ori admitted carefully. “Thranduil got a lot wrong, too.” Turning on the ledge so the pair could sit face-to-face, he squared his shoulders. “Kili and I were only ever friends. We didn’t _do_ anything, ever – he likes girls, always has. I don’t... well, I don’t really _want_ to be anything more than a friend. I liked things the way they were, just fine. But Thorin, he knew how I felt and he was just beastly about it. It’s against the law, and he felt he had to enforce it.”

“Why?” Bain frowned. “ _Why_ is it against the law?”

“Because it is. Lots of things are illegal where we’re from.” Ori tried to rush past it, as his stomach started cramping. “And lots of them are stupid, like betting and gambling, charging people to borrow money, selling certain goods without the right permits – all these things that just feel invasive, and they’re almost all about either money or love, and all the ways it’s wrong. People like me – if they just keep to themselves and never do a thing about it, then nobody gets hurt. If it wasn’t Kili, then maybe I could have got away with it – but there was already so much scandal around him, after everything he’d been through, and to Thorin it would have been a complete disaster.” He gave a sad, frustrated half-laugh. “I don’t know why I’m trying to defend him – I _hate_ Thorin for this. He’s ruined my life, by bringing it all out.”

“So that’s why you want to find Kili again.” Bain sounded apologetic. “I didn’t tell _anyone_ about what you said Ori, I _swear_. I don’t know how they found out, but it wasn’t me.”

“It wouldn’t have been you.” Ori agreed. “It was stupid of me to say it so openly. There would have been other elves around, listening in. _Trust_ me, I’m not making that mistake again.”

“Do you want him to come home?” Bain asked after a moment’s silence.

“’Course I do. But I know it’s just a dream. I think I just... I want to know where he is, if he’s safe. I don’t like the thought of him being alone out there.” Ori pulled at a loose thread on his scarf. “Just – _knowing_ , it would help me sleep better.” He looked up, gave the boy a wan, tired smile. “I’m sure I’m boring you now Bain. There must be something better for you to do around here.”

“ _Hardly_. Everyone around here bores me to tears. It’s all _so_ grey and grim. Bilbo and Gandalf have some wonderful stories to tell and Tauriel—” Bain broke off awkwardly. “But they’re always busy, and just tell me to go mind my own business or play somewhere quietly.” Ori was staring down at his hands again. “You’re so sad. I haven’t seen you this sad before.”

“It’s not that I’m sad.” His thin, helpless voice was almost lost to the winds. “I’m just... I’m unsure. I hid that secret for such a long time and now it’s out I don’t quite know what to do with myself.” Bain listened quietly, his head cocked to one side and eyes distant in thought. “And I s’pose I am afraid, too. I have a lot to lose in this and I feel like there’s nothing I can do to change anything. I’m just one dwarf, and not a very good one at that. If I had _any_ idea about what was going to happen after, then maybe... maybe I wouldn’t be so terrified of what was happening to me now.” He shook his head. “I think at the moment, I just want to be by myself for a little while.”

“Oh!” Finally understanding that Ori was politely asking him to leave, Bain stood up. Already he was puzzling out a little plan in his head, the excitement leaving a smile on his face. “Things will get better Ori. They always do. I almost _died_ , remember? Twice! And you were going to be exiled along with Fili for treason but we’re all here now, aren’t we?” Ori looked up at the bright voice.

“We are.” But he still looked sad, and when Ori smiled, it was tiny and forced. “We are all here.”

Bain left then, running down the winding little track that led to the clustered campsite. It was still early but he begged and whined until the cook’s boy finally broke off a piece of elvish bread and pressed it in his hand, whispering to keep it a secret. With the treasure in his pocket, Bain crept along the river until it reached a bend, south of the valley and looking out into the foothills of the Lonely Mountain. It was a clear morning, and despite the chill breeze the sunshine was warm against his face. Sucking in a deep breath of air, Bain whistled.

He waited. Crumbling up the bread between his forefinger and thumb, he kept his eyes trained in the sky, whistling again. Sharp and piercing, he warbled in his throat after years of practice coupled with his innate, birth-given skill. “Oh, come on, I _know_ you’re there.” Bain muttered under his breath, throwing crumbs and waiting.

Finally, a thrush arrived, small and speckled and young, hopping about from rock to rock. “Oh, good!” He stretched his palm out, where a small lump of bread lay. “Hello Miss Thrush, I need to ask a _really_ big favour of you.” Bain leaned in. “Look – I’m the great-great-great grandson of Girion Lord of Dale.” He _thought_ he had the number of generations right. “I need you to gather as many of your kind as you can and find somebody for me. Ask for Betsy, she can vouch for me.”

“Betsy?”

“She’s an old thrush from Lake-Town, only has two toes on her left foot. I’ve been feeding her for months and months. Please, can you find her for me?” The little thrush flew off, twittering in agreement and leaving Bain kneeling amongst a handful of breadcrumbs. He chewed thoughtfully on the remnants of his elvish bread, not stopping to think if this was the right idea. In his head, this was the perfect plan. The thrushes were his messengers and secret-keepers, no one else could hear them speak.

“What is it you want now Bain?” The old thrush fixed a beady eye on him as she landed on his knee. “Not causing any more trouble, I hope.”

“None I _swear_. Please – I need you to do this for me. It’s _really_ important and you can’t tell the ravens.” Bain looked over his shoulder, making sure he was entirely alone. When he spoke, it was in a soft whisper. “I need you to help me find a dwarf. He was last seen heading into the northern forests, near the Grey Mountains. He has dark hair and no beard, actually. His name is Kili and he’s Thorin Oakenshield’s nephew—”

“I know who Kili is, I can understand when other people speak.” Bain drew back a little at the sharp voice.

“ _Please_ , I promise I will never ask another thing of you again. I’ll give you anything you want, I’ll help you build nests, I’ll get enough food for every thrush from here to the Long Lake to eat for months and months.”

“We build our nests high out of reach from human hands and eat worms and insects, not your food.” But she pecked at the bread in his hand all the same, a rare treat.

“ _Please._ This is so important. I won’t say anything to anyone else – I won’t send anyone to go and find him, I just want to know where he is and if he’s all right. No one will ever know – it will be a complete secret. Just between us.” Bain lied, giving a hopeful smile. “Please?”

“Kili, dwarf, dark hair and no beard, northern forests near the Grey Mountains.” The thrush sprang into the air. “Only because your bravery in Esgaroth spared our homes in the shoreside forests from burning. Consider this an act of gratitude.”

“I will.” Bain beamed, victorious. “And don’t tell the ravens!”

* * *

Ori waited until he knew Thranduil would have broken for lunch before he made his way towards that large, billowing tent. Every step he took left his heart beating faster, the sweat growing slick on his palms and his underarms damp. He was going to talk to a _king_. Not a newcomer, like Bard, or an awkward king-in-waiting like Thorin, but somebody who held on to his power for an age, who had an army at his call and a real crown on his head and nobody to question him. He almost backed out, but every time Ori stopped, he could hear Nori’s voice nagging in the back of his head, urging him on. _Let them know you’re not ashamed of who you are._

“I need to talk to Thranduil.” Ori squared his shoulders at the guard before the tent. “As soon as possible.”

“One moment.” The elf retreated inside, leaving Ori to wait. He came out all too quickly, a little smirk on his face. “Go on in.”

Thranduil was still picking at the remnants of his lunch. He looked up at Ori’s entrance, a thick eyebrow raising. “I’m quite surprised to see you here. I thought you would be doing your best to avoid me.”

Ori pulled at his scarf so it wasn’t covering his mouth, and breathed in. “I spent this morning thinking long and hard about what I was going to say to you, Thranduil.” The elf-king sat up straighter in his chair, food abandoned. “At first, I considered apologising, for what I had said and thought about Kili, and swearing that I would never allow such things to cross my mind again.”

Thranduil rested his chin on tented fingers. “But?”

Ori swallowed. “But I realised that I should not, and will not apologise to you, or anybody for this, because I am not sorry. I am not ashamed. And I have done _nothing_ wrong.” Thranduil’s jaw went hard at that, eyes flashing, but Ori refused to falter. “Thinking is not against the law. I have never made any action against Fili, or you, either in Kili’s defence or otherwise. Being in love with Kili doesn’t define me as a dwarf, it has nothing to do with what is happening now, and it will never cloud my judgement when it comes to my allegiance with Fili, with you, or with anybody else.” Ori’s voice caught and he had to stop for a moment, sucking air into his lungs as his head swam. “I won’t stop thinking about Kili. I won’t stop missing him, o-or caring about him. Nobody has the right to control what is going on in my head. And you know,” emboldened, Ori ventured even further. “I think it’s no one else’s business, how I feel about anybody, and people using it to try and humiliate me – well that’s just downright rude, if I say so myself.” Thranduil was very still, the muscles tight in his throat and eyes firmly on Ori. With a little duck of his head, Ori stepped back. “Th-That was all I wanted to say.”

He turned and left as quickly as he could, before Thranduil could scream at him, retaliate, laugh in his face, or simply tell him to pack up and leave. But underneath his nerves and shaking hands and the sweat that left his clothes and hair damp and the heart-pounding terror lodged in his throat, Ori could feel the relief in his stomach, small and pale and fragile as a robin’s egg, unsteady now but sure to grow. After a lifetime of standing by with his head bowed, keeping his mouth shut and eyes and ears open and having it lead to despair and ruin, Ori was finally able to speak.

* * *

“My boots are _seriously_ busting – look at them!” Ilzkhaal closed his eyes at his cousin’s voice, fighting back a groan. “You can’t even sew them back up – the leather’s worn to tatters and the soles are in pieces. What am I supposed to do Ilz, march in to battle barefoot? Steal a pair from the first bloody carcass that I stumble across? This is a joke – we’re not getting paid a brass fucking farthing for this stupid campaign and when my boots fall apart I can’t even get a new pair.”

“Well why don’t you go and tell Mautor all your grievances, cousin. I’m sure he would love to hear it.” Ilzkhaal mumbled with his eyes still closed. “In fact, why not speak to Bolg directly? He’s the one who’s really ordered us all here.”

“You don’t have to be an asshole about it.” Akash snarled, glowering at their pathetic little fire. “You probably _could_ say something you know, through Kili.”

Ilzkhaal opened his eyes. “No I couldn’t.” His sharp voice made Akash seize up, and the two orcs beside them fall silent. “Not after what he said about me to Bolg’s generals and Mautor too.” He drew one leg up to his chest, resting his chin on his kneecap as shame flooded his memory. “I’m not some sort of advisor to him. I’m just...” He trailed off with a little shrug, not needing to say it.

“Is that why you haven’t gone back?” Akash lowered his voice, soft with pity. “What did he say?” He hardened again. “That little _shit_ I’ll roast his skin—”

“I haven’t been back because I haven’t been asked.” He sat up, feeling the blood run hotter through his limbs. “He’s probably busy with Bolg and his lot now.”

“Damn, I’m sorry. I knew it wasn’t going to last forever – not with someone like Kili, he was just hanging around waiting for Bolg, and after this is done he’ll be heading back westward with ‘em. Can’t you ever just... I don’t know, find someone _normal?_ Remember the butcher’s boy last spring? He was nice, didn’t have any hang-ups or nasty past lives or allegiances with brutal kings. You liked him.”

“Skazlai _was_ nice, until I found him hanging off some soldier’s arm down the pub. Look, I’m not just on the lookout for someone to go to bed with, you git. I just...” Wide black eyes stared up at the night sky, as though searching the stars for the words. “He doesn’t _like_ being there, I can tell. And he’s lonely.” The back of his neck prickled at the memory. _Save him from himself._ “I s’pose I just... thought that he needed me.”

Ilzkhaal retreated, watched the rest of the world go by with both legs drawn up, a soft haze of silence wrapped around him, thick and heavy as a fur-lined robe. It was so _easy_ for his stupid cousin to declare that well, obviously Kili was just bored, that it wasn’t worth Ilzkhaal’s time anyway, that there would be somebody more _normal_ out there. The longer he stewed on the word, the angrier and angrier Ilzkhaal got, until his teeth were gritted and nails driving hard ridges in his palms. No. Kili _wasn’t_ normal. He was as far from normal as any one person could possibly be and Ilzkhaal liked that, he liked it so much it made everything in his chest hurt.

“Hey – which one of you lot is Ilzkhaal?” He sat up suddenly at the harsh voice, frowning at the armed soldier that burst in on their little cluster. “Heard he was around here.”

“What’s it to ya?” Akash stood up, hand on the long knife at his belt. Ilzkhaal’s throat closed and he madly shook his head at his cousin. “And who are you, anyway?”

“Look, Kili wants to see him, I was just told to pick the boy up. He couldn’t make it all the way out, it’s a bloody long way. Are you coming or not?” Obviously, he thought Akash was Ilzkhaal. His cousin snarled, spitting on the ground at the orc’s feet.

“To hell with Kili.” Akash growled. “Tell him he can come over himself, I bet all he wants is a quick fu—”

“Akash!” Ilzkhaal hurried to his feet, getting in between them. “Ignore my cousin, he’s an idiot. Give me a moment.” Shooting Akash a glare, he grabbed his rumpled mess of a jacket, falling apart at the seams and wearing through to holes. The soldier looked him up and down, the corner of his mouth lifting in a smirk. “Just – don’t wait up for me.” He hissed in his cousin’s ear.

“Don’t be spineless, Ilz.” He shot back, heartlessly. “He’s playing you for a fool.”

“Shut up. You don’t know a _thing.”_ Every muscle in his face was tensed in anger, and for a moment, Ilzkhaal looked almost threatening. He left then, shrugging into his mouldy old jacket, one eye on the orc, head and shoulders taller than him, walking in long, broad strokes that Ilzkhaal had to almost run to keep up with. “What’s had Kili held up?”

The orc gave a non-committal grunt, shrugging his plated shoulders. “Dunno. They just tell me to come here. I’m not the one to ask, kid.” Ilzkhaal looked back, catching a glimpse of his cousin’s hunched form, half-lit in the fire, still indignant. He _wasn’t_ a fool. Ilzkhaal was smart – smart enough to have Kili figured out, smart enough to discover his secrets, ones he kept hidden, lurking away at the back of his mind, sticking in him like pieces of broken glass. He knew more about Kili than anybody. Perhaps Kili did think he was stupid, like everybody else did. Perhaps he really did see him as nothing more than something to amuse himself, a release, a crutch for his damaged psyche. A way for him to forget. It was cloudy – Ilzkhaal had clouded it himself, stirring up those waters and making it dark and murky, hard to see through his own paranoia and uncertainty. He liked to think that Kili trusted him, needed him, cared about him. He roped Ilzkhaal in on everything he had done back home, had admitted his fears and insecurities. That had to count for _something_.

By the time they passed through into the central campsite, Ilzkhaal had resolved to tell Kili everything he knew, that very night. Maybe then he would trust Ilzkhaal a little more, let him in, and maybe it wouldn’t seem so fractured and desperate. Maybe, maybe, maybe. His head was full of it, writhing and swimming, the memories and possibilities, alternatives, what-if’s. It was a new sensation to him, uncertain and almost frightening.

“In there.” A big hand clapped Ilzkhaal on the shoulder, breaking him out of his quiet brooding. He started, frowning at the big canvas tent. It wasn’t Kili’s. Kili had a private little tent, a cocoon that enfolded the both of them in quiet hibernation. This was one of the big mess-tents that slept a dozen grumbling orcs and their packs of gear.

“Really?” The hand tensed. “He has his own tent, what happened to it?” He didn’t want to sit awkwardly by Kili while he snarled and cursed and spat on the ground. He wanted privacy. There was something strange about the way the guard had his hand on Ilzkhaal’s shoulder, gripping the bone painfully tight. A thread of unease began to wind through his gut. “He’s never in these.”

“Get in.” Ilzkhaal was roughly pushed, stumbling forward as he tried to hold his ground. _Why would Kili send a stranger in the first place?_

“No, I don’t want to—” He tried to pull away, when a sharp prick in the small of his back made him stop. The point of a sharp blade bit easily through his ragged clothes, threatening to pierce the joint of his spine. His shoulder was throbbing.

“Get in the tent, boy.” Ilzkhaal couldn’t breathe. _Oh no oh no oh no_. A searing panic flashed through his head, the bottom of his gut dropping. He walked as slowly as he could, grasping at his pockets for any sort of weapon, but he was completely unarmed, his bow and little knife all bundled up way back in his own camp.

The tent eight feet wide and tall enough for the pair to stand up in, was cluttered with bedrolls and bits of armour and half-full packs and sheathed scimitars, almost empty of life except for a single orc, sitting in wait with his arms crossed on the floor. Ilzkhaal recognised him almost immediately – the one who had seen him and Kili together, who Kili so obviously, openly hated. His mouth was dry.

“Excellent,” Throquûrz stood up, with a smile on his face that Ilzkhaal _really_ didn’t like. “Go and fetch Kili, will you?”

“Yes, sir.” Ilzkhaal froze, heart pounding as the guard left him alone with the mad orc. Throquûrz towered head-and-shoulders over him, staring down with that same fixed smile.

“Get on your knees.” Ilzkhaal’s throat closed at the command, hands trembling helplessly.

He shook his head. “No.” The leer on Throquûrz’s face turned cold.

“Get on your _fucking_ knees.” Throquûrz punched the young orc in the stomach, _hard._ With a white-hot flash of agony that got right in behind his eyes, Ilzkhaal fell forward, legs giving out. One hand groped at his midsection, his skinny body wracked with choked gasps of air, pitched forward on his knees. “That’s better.”

“Wh-What d-do you wa-want.” Ilzkhaal was struggling to breathe, his stomach burning and limbs turning heavy with a cold, leaden fear.

Ignoring his words, Throquûrz got down on one knee to look him in the eye. His scarred nose wrinkled, as though a rotting carcass had been shoved in his face. “ _Ishi_ , you reek of the dwarf-scum.” Ilzkhaal refused to open his eyes. “You’re covered in it. What a filthy disgrace.” Ilzkhaal yelped as Throquûrz grabbed the back of his ratty old jacket, forcing his head up. “Think you’re too good for orcs, is that it?” Ilzkhaal flinched away, refusing to meet his gaze. “ _Look_ at me.” With a hiss, Throquûrz dug one hand into his face, gripping his bony chin. Ilzkhaal opened his eyes, willing some life to his dead limbs, some way of struggling or fighting back, but he was frozen in his terror. “Well, don’t you have a pair of pretty eyes.” Throquûrz shook him by the scruff of his neck, his teeth bared and breath hot and rancid.

“I-I h-haven’t done anyth-thing—” Ilzkhaal was cut off as the orc squeezed his face, fingers curling around his jaw and making it impossible to talk.

“I’m not interested in _you_ ,” he sneered. “My soldiers use scrawny runts like you for target practice. You’re only here because Kili’s refusing to crack and sticking you in the gut is the best chance I have to get him.” Ilzkhaal’s aching stomach tightened even further in a stab of fear, as it all clicked into place. Now it made sense why Kili hadn’t asked for him to come back.

Ilzkhaal’s hands were still free, one clutching at his stomach, the other limp at his side. He tore his eyes away for a second and saw the polished gleam of a knife-handle sticking out of Throquûrz’s belt. Could he – did he even _dare_ to try? He couldn’t just sit here and let these bastards lure Kili into a trap – he couldn’t give up without even trying. Kili wouldn’t have given up. The thought seemed to embolden him, and with a deep breath of air, as though preparing to dive into a deep lake, he lunged forward with a sprightly quickness that caught Throquûrz by surprise. His shaking hand found the knife, and without a moment’s hesitation, Ilzkhaal ripped the blade out and stabbed it in Throquûrz’s side. There was a softness, an ease to it, as the knife cut through skin and sank into muscle and organs. Ilzkhaal had killed deer before, slitting their throats when his shot didn’t instantly end their lives, gutted and cleaned and skinned them, but he’d never lifted a hand against his own kind, not once. Not even when he’d been mugged or cheated out of his money or beaten up by some drunk – Ilzkhaal had never spilled blood no matter how strongly somebody had deserved it.

Throquûrz loosened his hold with a roar of shock and pain, and Ilzkhaal tore free. Still stumbling a little, legs weak from the heavy blow to his stomach, he staggered out of the tent. His fingers were dripping black, shaking and ice-cold. “You _shit!”_ With his much longer legs, Throquûrz was hot on his heels. “I’ll _kill you!”_ Ilzkhaal ran towards the nearest fire, heads turning at the sound, voices falling silent. He screamed as Throquûrz grabbed him by the leg and pulled him down, trying to kick out and push the heavy orc away, his body a monstrous, crushing weight, keeping him pinned.

“No – _help!”_ Who was he screaming at? Even though there were perhaps a dozen others around, nobody was helping him. Nobody moved. They were either afraid of Throquûrz, or this was something so commonplace and normal for him that it wasn’t even a novelty anymore. He tried to twist and struggle, but he was totally immobile from the waist down, one arm trapped, twisted over his head with the joint burning. Throquûrz pulled the knife out of his side, blood gushing, and with his face withering in hatred and anger brought it down, aiming for the young orc’s heart. Ilzkhaal threw out his free hand in a desperate to ward him off, the blade going straight through his palm.

Kili was eating when the guard came. He crouched behind him and tapped his shoulder, leaning in, whispering. “If you want to make sure your little friend Ilzkhaal doesn’t get hurt, you need to go and see Throquûrz. Now.”

He froze. After a moment of ear-splitting roaring and ringing, Kili finally reacted, gripping his half-stripped shankbone like a weapon, looking over his shoulder to find the guard strolling away. A gutful of roasted lamb writhed in his stomach. _No._ Not that – _anything_ but that. Kili excused himself, stiff and mechanical as a wind-up toy, leaving the bones in the dust. He was halfway to the orc’s tent when he realised he’d left his bow and scimitar behind, leaning against the bundle of his pack. Kili stopped, heart thudding, stuck in a moment of indecision when an achingly familiar scream ripped through the night air, tearing into Kili’s gut and leaving him reeling. _No._ He broke into a run, pushing through a knot of squabbling orcs, jumping over a low fire, knocking over somebody’s cook-pot of thin broth. He left a trail of curses and obscene gestures in his wake, blind in his panic.

As Kili came around the edge of the large tent, he heard a second scream, for help, Ilzkhaal’s voice stretched and desperate. He saw the hunched figure of Throquûrz on the ground, beneath him a skinny pair of legs trying to kick out. The glint of the knife, already black with somebody’s blood, was like a blow to Kili’s own chest. He saw it go down, heard the cry of pain, and in that moment, it was like his heart had stopped beating. Kili heard a low roar, like a warg who had caught sight of his prey and was rushing towards its throat, mad with bloodlust. Only distantly, very distantly, did he realise that the sound was coming out of his own mouth.

There wasn’t time to think. Throquûrz was knocked onto the ground, sprawled on his back with a gasp of surprise. There wasn’t even time for the orc to lift a hand in self-defense – Kili was brutal and relentless. His first blow to Throquûrz was right in the throat, leaving him choking and immobile, clutching desperately at his neck as cartilage crunched under Kili’s fist. Kili got him in his eye-socket with his left hand, cracking the bone, Thrain’s ring tearing through flesh and into his eye from the sheer force. Throquûrz tried to scream through a crushed windpipe, the only sound that came out a broken gurgling that bubbled with blood. One hand brushed Kili’s face in an attempt at a blow, harmless and weak, smearing blood over his cheek. With that warg-growl still rumbling in his throat Kili hit the orc in the mouth, knocking teeth loose and dislocating the jaw, senseless in his fury. There was nothing else – the rest of the world stopped existing, the cries of surprise and the screaming for somebody to break them up vague and murky, even Ilzkhaal vanished, half-crouched on the ground and watching in helpless terror. There was only one thing running through Kili’s mind, beating in time with his heart and flooding his limbs, hot and thick as molten gold. _Kill him._

It took three orcs to drag Kili away from the body, one on each arm, and a third grabbing the straps of his armour on the back of his neck. He shouted and swore, kicking out and thrashing. “Stop – stop _Kili stop!”_ Someone screamed in his ear, grabbing a fistful of brown tangles and holding him in place. “He’s dead!”

With his hands on an orc’s wrist, ready to break the bone and wrestle free, Kili stilled. He stared at what he had done, numb at first, with the adrenalin still pumping through his veins, making everything seem unreal. Throquûrz was unrecognisable from the neck up, his face a pulpy, swelling mess of skin and blood and exposed muscle. With his chest heaving, Kili looked down at his hands, the leather half-gloves drenched with blood, skin embedded beneath his nails. His face was wet – Kili licked his lips, tasting blood, sharp and bitter. Orc’s blood. Ilzkhaal was sitting up, the good hand wrapped around the bad, blood welling through his fingers. He stared at Throquûrz’s body, transfixed, refusing to believe that Kili could be capable of something so brutal and senseless.

“What the hell is...” Pushing his way through the knot of orcs, Grishthak fell silent, his heart sinking as he took in the sight – Throquûrz dead, Ilzkhaal wounded, Kili still held down, blood splattered and smeared over his hands and clothes and face. “ _What happened?”_

“Throquûrz had _him_ pinned,” The orc holding Kili by the hair spoke, pointing at Ilzkhaal. “And Kili jumped and beat him until he was dead. Took three of us to pull him off.” Kili locked eyes with the old orc, his stare cold, challenging him to speak.

“You did this with your bare hands.” Grishthak touched Throquûrz’s shoulder with his foot, trying to comprehend it all. A deep, deep unease was rising in his gut. Kili was far stronger than he’d _ever_ anticipated. The dwarf snarled in response, flexing his bloodied fists. “You feral little monster.”

“He _asked_ for it!” Kili wrenched free, straightening his bone-laden armour as he stood up. The three remained crouched on the ground, not wanting to touch Kili or get in his way. Grishthak took an involuntary half-step backward, shockingly frightened in that moment. “I will not let him – let _anyone_ attack somebody else for my sake. It’s a cheap and cowardly way to hurt me.” He was close to Grishthak now, staring up at him. Anybody else would have looked comical trying to leer from such a low height, but the way Kili stood, with Throquûrz’s blood all over his face and his hands shredded from fighting, eyes black in the dim firelight, it would have intimidated even the biggest of orcs. There was a coldness in the way the dwarf stared at him, inviting a challenge, disregarding any consequence.

“If it happens again – if _anybody_ tries to be clever, and hurt Ilzkhaal,” The sharp snarl made the old orc draw back. Kili stared around at his petrified audience, the whites of his eyes shining through a mask of ash and blood. He licked his lips again, slow and deliberate, running his tongue over his upper lip and seeming to savour the taste. He wasn’t afraid of these orcs, of Bolg, of anything – and he never would be, never, ever again. “I will tear them to pieces.”


	98. Southern Winds

-

“We need to talk.” Grishthak didn’t bother to announce his arrival, grovel or bow or scrape. He approached Bolg with steady coolness, his anger smouldering away, hot and smoking but still barely visible. The sack in his hand slapped against his thigh as he walked, heavy wet and sticky. Bolg, lounging in his chair and flanked by his guards and generals, just looked at him, giving a disinterested grunt. “I have something you might want to take a look at it.” Standing ten feet before Bolg and his tight-knit cluster of sneering orcs, Grishthak held up the dripping sack.

“Go on then.” His throat visibly tightening at Bolg’s command, Grishthak strode right up to him, staring down at his king and with his face set in a hard stare, upended the squelchy contents of the sack on his lap.

Bolg jerked up with a yell as the mutilated remains of Throquûrz’s head landed on him, watching as it fell and rolled on the ground. Grishthak stopped it with his boot, eyes never leaving Bolg’s face. The rest jumped back, torn between watching Grishthak and Bolg and utterly mute with shock. “You wanted to know what would happen if you gave Kili that ring? _This._ This is what happens!” Bolg stared at the severed head, his eye widening at recognition as he placed the three rings of bone lodged through the left ear. “He did that with his bare hands Bolg – put a sword in them and there is no telling what he’ll do. Kili is _dangerous_.”

“Well what good is a warg with no teeth?” Bolg was _smiling_ , that bare-lipped, sneering way that only he could _._ Grishthak’s voice was dead in his throat, realising with a horrible jolt that the mad orc was pleased with this. “Come now Grishthak, we all know this was a long time coming.”

“You were the one who forbade any fighting – you _said_ you wanted peace between them.” The longer he stared at his king’s smiling face, the more and more that discomfort grew. Was this what he had wanted? “How can you be pleased about this?”

“Where is he now?” Bolg seemed to ignore his unease completely. With his voice failing him, Grishthak could only point in the direction of Kili’s tent. “Good.” Bolg pushed past him, still smiling, leaving his oldest and most loyal general standing dumbly, a sharp, bitter taste filling up his mouth.

* * *

Stealing from this camp of elves had proved to be far easier than Nori expected. Unlike Fili, who spent his time torn between Thranduil and his mother, or Ori, who rekindled his friendship with Bain and spent long hours distracting himself with archery, or even Bilbo, who smoked half a pouch of tobacco a day and wandered in a kind of daze, distant and fractured, Nori didn’t share that deep unease. Fuck Thorin, he had declared when he was arrested in Erebor, and he stuck by it now. Nori was never a worrier – he was too pragmatic and clever to really _worry_ anything. Worrying was for wet blankets or complete neurotics or people whose lives actually depended on the outcome. Already Nori had a route mapped out in his mind, deciding it would be best to him and Ori to head south-east for now, along the River Running, staying at the villages all along its banks until it ran into the sea of Rhûn. He had friends there, and they could get work easily enough – Ori could copy for some scrivener, and Nori could pass as a decent blacksmith. The lands were a little rougher than Ori was used to, but there was no doubt in Nori’s mind that the both of them could handle it. It was astonishing, to see how much Ori had _grown_ in the last few months, how he’d matured and toughened up. In the summer, Nori would have never let Ori step a foot east of the foothills of Erebor; now he knew his once goofy and clumsy little brother could hold his own in any market, any cell or dirty pub or dodgy back-alley between here and the Orocanis.

When he overheard a pair of gossiping elves talk about how Ori had walked right into Thranduil’s tent and declared he was never going to apologise for anything he had done, Nori felt almost sick with pride. Not just because Ori had listened to him, but because he had the conviction and confidence to believe in himself, the guts to stand up for himself, the courage to know he was right. It was why he sneaked into the food-store, filching a half-empty cask of Thranduil’s wine, a nice wheel of cheese, and a dozen apples that were barely worm-holed. He was a dwarf of the people, Nori, and he had no qualms about taking Thranduil’s food when it was for others.

Usually, Nori peered around corners and clung to the shadows, but one thing he came to realise with trusting, unaware people who genuinely thought of you as a friend, it was far simpler to just hold something under one arm and looked as though you knew where you were going. It was unsettling to somebody used to being constantly on their guard and surrounded by enemies, and Nori wasn’t even sure yet if he quite liked it.

Nori laid it all out in the big tent that he shared with Ori, Bilbo, and now Fili, who had given Dís his own sleeping-space. Nori, Ori, Dís and BilI tbo spread themselves out after dinner, gorging themselves even further on bread and cheese, drinking perhaps too much wine, and it was that warm scene that Fili stumbled across half an hour after dusk, bidding Thranduil good night and intending to hide away and think.

“Fili!” Ori’s face was red and eyes bright, drunk. He shuffled on his knees, getting crumbs everywhere and almost knocking over Bilbo’s cup. “There you are – come, sit! Have a drink!”

“What is happening here?” Fili hid a smile as Ori threw an arm around his neck, slopping wine over his shirt. “Where did you get that from?”

“Completely legitimate, I swear.” Nori winked. “He won’t miss it anyways. Here,” he pressed a cup into Fili’s hand. “It’s good stuff. Say what you want about Thranduil but he has quite a magnificent taste in wine.”

“Fili, are you all right?” Dís read her son in an instant. “What’s wrong, my dear?”

“Nothing.” Fili took a cursory sip. “I didn’t realise you were all in here. I should let you go—” But Ori, who was still draped against his side, pulled on his arm.

“No, stay.” He begged. “You’re going to go off and brood, I just _know_ it. Stay. Talk it out with us, we’re here to listen.”

“You don’t want to listen to me.” But Fili relented, sitting cross-legged and giving Ori his cup so he could take off his boots. “I just – had an interesting conversation with Fíak this morning.”

“That old bastard,” Dís made a face. “What does he want?”

Fili’s hand stilled on the straps of his left boot. “He had a lot to say about the Ironfists. About my father and... about you.” He looked up. “A lot about you.”

“Perhaps we should leave,” Bilbo squeaked. “If it’s family business, I don’t want to interfere.”

“No, don’t go. You’re family. You all stuck by Fili and were willing to suffer for him. That makes you more family than half his blood relatives.” Dís’ smiled at the hobbit, someone she’d only known briefly and was still largely unknown to her, but implicitly trusted. “And Ori – you were in and out of my house as often as my own boys.” She ruffled his hair, her smile going soft, nostalgic and almost sad. “You were always family.”

“It’s the problem of family that Fíak brought up.” Fili ran the pad of his thumb over a scratch in his wooden cup. “ _Amad_ , do you remember anything about an old dam named Válka?”

Dís nearly spat out her drink. “She’s still alive? _Mahal,_ she was as old as the hills even when I was there.” Perhaps it was good that Fili caught her like this, with her tongue loosened by wine and the sharp edges of her defences a little softened. “Her husband was dead by the time she was sixty, left three boys. I’ve never seen anybody take to widowhood the way that she did, taking charge of his estates and servants and duties. She did it all herself, even when her eldest came of age, she still held control. Válka _hated_ me, most dams in the court did, but I always admired her in a way.”

“She sounds like my mother,” Bilbo piped up. “After Father died, she insisted on holding Bag End herself and managing all of his money. Ooh, she drove his solicitors mad, refused to listen to a word they said.”

“I remember our mother used to say that was why wives outlived their husbands so often. It was the only way they could anything done.” Nori snickered, resting his chin on a balled fist.

“Did your mother outlive her husband too?” The question was so innocent and unknowing, Nori was surprised rather than offended. He shook his head, the smile faltering.

“She didn’t marry.” Ori supplied, a little awkward. “We were, um, well...”

“We’re bastards, all three of us.” Nori drained his cup. Bilbo’s hand froze halfway towards the remains of cheese. “It wasn’t just an insult when Thorin called our mother a whore. I have no idea who my father is or Ori’s either. Probably customers. Could even be one of the old gits in Erebor right now.”

Dís had an uncharacteristically angry, defensive look on her face. “Nori, don’t say that. That’s not what happened at all and if she were here she’d give you a good whack for running your mouth. She knew exactly who they were and had good reasons to keep it to herself.”

Nori lifted his head. “You know.”

“If I had a name, I would have given it to you long ago.” Dís patted Ori’s arm, the only son of Glori’s in reach. Ori had gone quiet, staring down at the dregs of his wine. “I swear. All I know is they weren’t customers. She made it a point to tell me that.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Ori declared. “Even if I did know, so what? Somebody I never met, who’s never done a thing for me, why should they ever matter to me? Far as I’m concerned, I was an orphan the moment Mama died a-and that’s perfectly all right by me.”

“They always matter.” Fili’s voice was distant, eyes soft and vacant. “Even if you don’t have a name, they always, always matter.”

“See, this is why I’m _glad_ I don’t know.” Nori glanced over his shoulder, busy pouring himself another wine. “Fili, you were the most highly-strung, neurotic kid I’ve ever met, including my brothers. You’d convinced yourself that you were possessed or diseased and it left you such a mess that you became the very thing you were trying to avoid.” Fili was staring down at his hands.

“I see that now. It wasn’t until I stopped running away from my parentage and just... _accepted_ that it was there and I couldn’t change being half-Ironfist, that I sort of... became a whole person.” Fili tried, very clumsily he thought, to explain how he was feeling. “I wish I’d figured this all out even just a year ago – I could have avoided so much of this, if I’d been honest from the start.”

“You know it goes, life isn’t made of ‘what-if’s’ Fili.” Bilbo tried to be comforting. “What if I never found the Arkenstone? What if I’d turned back in the Misty Mountains, or never left the Shire at all? But we’re all here now, and things aren’t quite as bad as they could be, and I think we have to chalk that up as a plus, for everybody. Would you rather be back in Erebor, listening to Thorin and Dain and knowing that they’re all dreadfully wrong, and not being able to do a thing about it?”

“No, no I wouldn’t.” Fili visibly brightened. “I don’t think I regret what I did to Thorin anymore. I think the only reason I did at all was fear. I didn’t even want to _think_ about the Ironfists at all until very recently, but now...” He trailed off, realising he wasn’t just ready to talk about it with anyone else yet. “So you liked Válka then, _Amad?_ ”

“I admired her, I didn’t like her.” Dís clarified, passing her empty cup around to Nori to be refilled. Ori, who had gone quiet and was now just listening, leaned against her shoulder. “She was a hard old dam, didn’t take stick from anyone. She even snapped at Víli once, after he told her to be quiet while the dwarves talked. To this day, she’s the only one I ever saw speak out against him and keep her tongue in her head. It was her way or nothing and she didn’t give a damn who stood in her path.”

“And her sons, what do you remember about them?” Fili pressed. They were all dead, but her mother’s memories could still shed a little light on it all. Dís paused, thinking for a moment.

“Saps.” She said bluntly. “Empty brains and limp wrists, she coddled them all and kept them stupid and dependent. I wonder how they’ll go on without her.”

“They’re all dead. She has a tribe of grandsons and great-grandsons, according to Fíak.”

“Probably like their fathers. Why is he telling you this?” Dís’ frank, cheerful insults towards the most respected matriarch in the Ironfist clan paled. “Why does he think this is your business?”

“He thought I should know about the people jostling for my throne, I suppose.” Fili gave Nori an uneasy look. “He mentioned somebody else, an older dwarf named Túni.”

“Oh _hell_ , not him.” Dís snarled. “Túni is scum, him and his whole family. His eldest must be about forty years older than you Fili, and he’s possibly the nastiest piece of work in the entire court. A court of Ironfists too, that’s saying something. He’s a thoughtless brute. Every time one of his servants disobeyed him, he’d cut off a finger. The poor things, were bonded slaves too, couldn’t run away, used to make me sick to see them. It wasn’t only his lessers he would hurt. Just after you were born, Fili, a rumour went around about Húni’s new wife, a pretty little thing. Her father turned Húni’s offer down and so Húni broke into her room, had his way with her, and burned his name on her skin, here,” she placed a palm just below her abdomen, “so she couldn’t marry anybody else.”

Bilbo’s hands were pressed against his mouth in horror, eyes wide. Fili was first to speak after a tense, uncomfortable moment of silence. “But it was just a rumour.”

“I thought it was too, until she showed me the scar.” Dís’ face was pulled downwards in shadows and lines. “Fili there is a reason I left that place and there is a reason I did everything I could to keep them away from us. You must have _nothing_ to do with them for now on. Never.”

Fili opened his mouth argue, to say that he _just_ said there was no sense in running anymore, when a soft voice came from the tent-flap. “Um, hello?” Ori jumped at Bain’s voice. “Are you all s-still ... still in?”

“Bain? Come in!” Ori piped up. “Shouldn’t you be in bed already?” With a low sniffle, Bain slowly crawled inside. He was crying. “Oh – oh no!” Ori pulled away from Dís and left his wine on a dangerous lean at his foot. “What’s wrong?”

Bain held his breath, trying to work up the courage to speak. His eyes were read and swollen, shoulders shaking. “I-I-I’m so sorry b-but I c-c-can’t talk to Papa – I’m s-so scared.”

“Oh, it’s all right.” Ori invited the boy to sit beside him, holding one shoulder. “Don’t cry – don’t cry.”

“Please don’t be m-mad at me.” Bain wiped at his face, smearing his cheeks. It was quite easy sometimes to forget that he was only a boy, and a young one at that. Ori’s stomach had knotted up in sympathy, recognising the irrational fear of a child caught breaking the rules and knowing he was going to be in a heap of trouble for what he had done. “I’m in so m-much trouble I know I am but I c-can’t keep it a secret.”

“Keep what a secret?” Fili asked, stricken. “Did you overhear something? It’s all right, you can tell us and we won’t mention you at all.”

“B-But nobody else – No-one else c-can...” Bain swallowed. “Papa and Thranduil are going to kill me.”

“Bain, no one is going to kill you.” Dís tried to be comforting. “How about you start from the beginning, hm? Have a little bit of wine, just a little, it’ll help calm you down.”

Bain took the drink, teeth chattering against the wooden rim. “I um – I did something bad.” He whispered, so soft that everyone had to lean in to hear him. “Really bad.”

“What did you do?”

“W-Well... It’s about Kili.” Ori visibly tensed, a frown creasing his forehead. “You this morning...” Bain wiped at his now-red mouth. “When we were talking Ori, and you were so sad...You s-said you didn’t want him back, you just wanted him to know. S-so I sent out a few thrushes – ‘cause no one else can understand them, I thought... maybe they could try and find him.”

“Oh no, you didn’t.” Ori breathed. Bain’s face crumpled again. “No – it’s all right, Bain, don’t worry. We won’t tell anyone else, it’ll remain between us and no one needs to know.”

“But that’s the thing.” Bain had another gulp and Dís saw sense to take the drink away from him. “B-Betsy – the thrush – she did find something and i-if I tell you, you’re going to tell Thranduil and Papa and I’m going to be in _so_ much trouble.”

“Bain,” there was a pit in Fili’s stomach. “What did the thrushes find?”

Bain held his breath, pressing his shaking hands against his flushed cheeks. “Orcs.” He finally breathed. Dís froze. “S-So many. Sh-She couldn’t even count but it was thousands. They’re c-coming, _here_ and they’ll be here soon – in _days_ and – and—” Bain shook his head, unable to continue.

“ _No.”_ A hunk of bread fell right out of Nori’s open mouth. “You’re _joking.”_

“Are you sure?” Fili swallowed back the hot rush of bile that screamed in his throat, eeling the earth pitch and sway beneath him. “Are you _sure_ about what the bird saw?”

“Of course! Betsy wouldn’t lie to me – not about this.” Bain insisted. Ori was staring at Fili with his dark eyes very wide, one arm draped across Bain’s shoulders, trying to comfort the poor boy. “B-But Thranduil – he was _so_ mad when Ori was just _thinking_ about it and I went ahead and I c-can’t tell him, but – but I have to – I know I do but I _can’t_.” Bain was looking at Fili now, biting on his lip. “Please – can you...”

“I’ll go tell them now.” Fili made to stand up. His voice didn’t seem to register within his head when he spoke. It sounded disconnected, like somebody else was talking, using his mouth. “ _Amad_ , can you come?”

“Of course. Is there anything else we need to know?” Bain paused for air.

“U-Umm, they were north – about f-fifty miles north. S-Some of them were on wargs but lots were just walking. If she said anything else... I can’t remember. I’m sorry.” He clung to Ori. “Please – tell them I’m so s-sorry.”

“Bain, you’ve done a wonderful thing.” Fili crouched before the child, hands on his knees. “If this is true, you could have just saved everybody, all right? No one will think about getting you in trouble for this.” Bain stared back, shaky and unsure. “I’ll be back in just a moment.” Once the pair left, Ori’s shoulders slumped in a heavy sigh.

“Oh Bain.” He breathed. “You’re either horrible or brilliant.”

“He’s saved our skin from a surprise attack by a bloody army of orcs, I’d say the kid’s a hero.” Nori remarked, trying to regain a little of his old confident swagger. “You’re worrying about nothing Bain. They’ll be so busy trying to figure out how to hold this off no one will think to even give you a slap on the wrist.”

Bilbo’s head was in hands. “How did we not think – after they followed us for so long - I know Kili got rid of the orcs in Mirkwood but how did we not think for one moment that they might come after us again?”

“We all assumed they were gone for good. I mean we killed their bloody _king_ , I thought that was all it took to disperse an orcish army.” Nori scowled. “So now we’re trapped between two armies.”

“Maybe.” Ori gently rubbed Bain’s arm. The boy sat with his elbows on crossed knees, staring at the ground. He’d calmed down now, but was still flushed and red-eyed, his hair on end. “Or maybe this is just the thing that’s finally going to get everybody to work together.”

* * *

It was easier to get privacy than ever before. Kili led Ilzkhaal by the hand to his tent, the last on the row, snarling at a gang of younger orcs huddled nearby to rack off. They were left alone almost instantly, and although there was no fire Kili found a lantern, throwing thin, uneasy shadows across the both of them as they crouched on the ground and Kili tried to do everything he can to fix what he had done. The only sounds that came from Kili and Ilzkhaal was the slow drip-drip-drip of vinegar falling into the half-empty bowl, the soft rasp of cloth against skin. Even their breathing was soft and low. Kili kept his eyes locked on his task, winding the cloth around the orc’s hand, wringing out blood and vinegar that trickled down his own hand, pooling on his wrist before falling in tear-sized, infrequent drops.

Now the rush of the kill had faded, Kili felt exhausted, wrung-out, and sick with worry. He saw the way Ilzkhaal looked at him, the way he flinched at Kili’s touch and kept his eyes downcast, avoiding Kili’s gaze. He was scared. In his mind, he’d borne witness to something seemingly random, unprovoked. Kili tried to open his mouth and explain, that it was in all sense of the word a task, a duty that he had been ordered to carry out. That he was _aching_ with regret himself, that he didn’t want Ilzkhaal to get dragged in to his own problems. There were a dozen apologies, excuses, justifications crowded in his mind, but whenever Kili thought he had the courage to let one of them out, he could hear it again in his head, pale, weak, meaningless. There was nothing that could absolve or excuse this.

When he was finished, Kili tied off the bandage, the soft breath hitching in his throat and making Ilzkhaal’s fingers instinctively twitch. Even though he was done, Kili kept holding on, loosely encircling Ilzkhaal’s palm with both hands as though he had some small insect trapped between his fingers. Finally, Kili spoke, his voice harsh and disused as an ungreased axle. “I’m sorry.”

They both looked up, eyes meeting. Kili’s face was still smeared black with blood, dried and matted at this point, making him look more like a shadow than a real person. He wore it like a badge of honour, like war-paint, both a token of pride and a warning. Ilzkhaal heard it again, that desperate bubbling scream welling up in the orc’s broken throat, the warg-like growl in response, his chest tightening in memory of the overwhelming terror. Ilzkhaal cleared his throat. He couldn’t say that it was all right, that he would forget all about it and they would just go on. So he said the only thing he could. “I know.”

“I didn’t want to get you caught up in this.” Kili continued, his fingertips tracing shapeless marks over the orc’s palm. “I know this isn’t what you want and I tried to keep you out of it. But they’re not going to touch you, not now. You don’t have anything to be scared of.” He could feel Ilzkhaal’s hand tense up. Ilzkhaal pulled free and hid it in his lap, eyes now downcast. “I’ll protect you.” Kili shuffled closer to him, reaching out and touching his shoulder.

Ilzkhaal shut his eyes, his heart banging so hard he was sure Kili could hear it. The words stuck in his mind, mocking and accusing him. Of course – of _course_ he was afraid. But he wasn’t afraid of the dead general who tried to kill him, or the clusters of orcs that had surrounded him, stood by him and done nothing. He was scared of the very person who held him now, with the skin of his victim still lodged beneath his fingernails. Kili had beaten somebody to death, for _him_ , and he could see he didn’t have an ounce of regret about what he had done. He would do it again, and again, and again, if he had to, kill dozens without batting an eyelid, all for Ilzkhaal’s sake.

He felt sick. Ilzkhaal shrugged him off and buried his head in his hands, gripped by terror, making it impossible to speak and hard to breathe. He never, _ever_ would have thought Kili capable of something so brutal and senseless. It didn’t even seem like Kili at all – it was a monster wearing his skin, something dark and hidden.

“What’s wrong?” Kili’s hand was on the back of his neck. “You’re shaking – it’s all right Ilz, you don’t have to be scared of them.”

“I’m not scared of them!” He tore free, voice breaking in his throat. “I’m scared of _you.”_ Kili stilled, his mouth half open and his confused frown deepening. “You beat someone to _death_ Kili!” Ilzkhaal dragged his good hand over his stinging eyes. “You killed him with your bare hands and now you’re telling me not to be afraid?”

Kili stared at the ground, eyes darting rapidly in thought as his mind reeled. “But – I’d _never_ do anything to you.” His hands were frozen in midair, unsure if he should touch Ilzkhaal or not. “You’re the only one I care about. And for everything Bolg and Mautor have said, I know you’re the only one who really gives a damn about me too.”

Rather than being relieved, Ilzkhaal just looked sicker at Kili’s words. “Did you mean to kill him? Did you want him dead or were you just planning to give him a fright?” Kili took in a sharp breath, and Ilzkhaal realised at the moment that he’d been caught out. “You did _._ You _wanted_ him to die. That wasn’t an accident – you murdered him!”

“No! Look, it’s not that simple,”

“How could you? He didn’t _deserve_ to die Kili – nobody deserves to have their brains knocked out!” Ilzkhaal‘s breath was rapid and frantic. “What if Mautor wanted me dead, or Bolg? Would you murder them too? When does it stop?”

“Just _shut up_ and let me talk!” Kili hissed, getting up on his knees so they could be eye-to-eye. “What happened between Throquûrz and I, there’s more to it than what you saw—”

“You can’t justify this!” Ilzkhaal shouted in a rare moment of fury. “You can’t – and I’m not going to sit here and listen to it anymore—” He tried to withdraw, but before Ilzkhaal moved, Kili’s hands were on the front of his worn-out jacket. He overbalanced and pitched forward, upending the bowl of bloodied vinegar, knocking Ilzkhaal to the ground and leaning over him, pinning him to the dirt.

“You’re not leaving me!” His voice was hoarse, a wounded howl of the dying. Kili stared down at him, his breath hot and wet through gritted teeth, shoulders heaving. “You – are _never_ leaving!” Ilzkhaal whimpered in fear, pinned to the ground and unable to move, his eyes very wide. The silence stretched on, winding tighter and tighter until neither of them could bear it. And slowly, very slowly, Kili’s grip relaxed as it hit him, what he was doing to the only person who he called a true friend. He just _threatened_ Ilzkhaal. His hands flattened, palms pressed loosely against Ilzkhaal’s chest. Kili drew back, eyes distant and unfocused as his tense jaw softened, mouth half-open in disbelief. Eventually, he dragged himself off of Ilzkhaal’s body, sitting beside him with his legs stretch out, hands over his face. The panic came as a screaming rush, rising in his chest until it was deafening, leaving him paralysed for several horrible moments. “I—” His voice cracked and when he tried to speak again, only a soundless rasp came out. His head was throbbing. “I-I’m sorr...” Kili tried yet again, lifting his head, trailing off when he saw that Ilzkhaal had vanished and he was alone.

Kili should have run after him, shouted and screamed that he wasn’t _allowed_ to leave, wrestled him back and held him down, forced him to stay. He could do that – he could keep him as a prisoner and nobody would bat an eye. He could threaten to have Ilzkhaal’s son killed if he tried to escape. He could break his ankles so there was no running away. The bitter, vengeful thoughts grew more corrupt until Kili had his fingertips pressed hard against his eyes, as though tearing them out would wipe the images from his mind. His heart jumped at the sound of footsteps behind him, turning rapidly and pulling himself to his feet. They were too big and heavy for Ilzkhaal, he knew in the back of his mind, but Kili hoped for a wonderful, fleeting moment that maybe – just _maybe_...

Thick white limbs flashed and Kili’s heart sank again, further now. Bolg grinned when he saw him, the gleam in his remaining eye shining through the narrowing darkness. His body was too worn-down for this, his mind too twisted and tightly-wound, but Kili forced his head in a short bow, keeping the rest of himself stiff and rigid.

“I just received quite the gift from Grishthak.” Kili licked his cracked lips, keeping his face unreadable. “The bloody remains of Throquûrz’s head.”

“It’s what you wanted.” Kili didn’t have the patience to indulge him. “He’s dead, you look like you had nothing to do with it, and I got my revenge. Everybody’s fucking happy now.” His voice was haggard and raw, and with every breath, Kili could feel the pressure rising in his head, the stinging behind his eyes threatening a flood. “What, did you come to congratulate me? Or do you have the name of some other orc that’s pissed you off?”

Bolg was taken aback. “Have you _forgotten_ who you’re talking to?” He grabbed Kili by the hair, gathered at the back of his head, jerking his neck back. “Don’t sass me Kili. Don’t you dare.”

“I’m sorry.” Kili winced in pain. Bolg grunted, studying his face carefully before letting go. “Sorry.” He repeated, rubbing at the back of his neck. Why was it so easy to say now? “I... wanted it to be cleaner. Not like – that.”

“I didn’t realise you got squeamish.” The orc-king leered at him. “It’s only blood.” One hand swamped the side of Kili’s face, squeezing his blackened cheek between thumb and forefinger. “Looks good on you. You did well tonight.”

“Just following your orders.” Kili breathed, wishing he would let go and walk away. Bolg looked thoughtfully at him, studying his features, his eyes, the tightness of his jaw and cheeks.

“You know, I was going to kill you once we’d ended Thorin Oakenshield.” He was smiling again, at his own joke. “I couldn’t for the life of me imagine why my father would want to keep you around. But – you’ve proven that there’s more to you than meets the eye. You’re hiding a lot in that little head of yours, aren’t you Kili?”

Kili refused to give anything away. “There’s no weapon more effective than surprise.” He had Bolg and he knew it. He completely had him.

The orc-king let him go. “We’re going to have _fun_ after this. Ever been south, Kili?”

“South?” His face remained still, but Kili’s heart picked up pace. “Never.”

“You’ll love it.” Bolg’s eye was gleaming. “Packed with villages and cities, you’re never hungry or bored, and the realms are so spread out that nobody can attack you, not properly. And no elves, not for hundreds of miles. We’ll make good sport on our way to the Ash Mountains.”

“The – where?” Kili was growing uncomfortable. “Where do you want to go?”

“Mordor, of course.” He clapped Kili on the shoulder. “Not all of us, I’ll probably take a hundred or so and send the rest back, this isn’t a war mission, not yet. They won’t like you at first down there, but they’ll see how useful you are in time.”

“Who’s they?” But Bolg ignored him.

“You could even be a messenger for us, in the East. Rally the Orocani dwarves to our cause. We haven’t been allies for centuries but with Erebor’s gold, I’m sure we can buy their loyalty.” He paused. “But it depends on how much they trust you. Once they hear about what you did to your own family, they’ll understand.” Bolg grunted in thought and drew back. “I should get back. Coming?”

“I’m tired.” Kili spoke weakly. “I think I’ll turn in if that’s all right. Get some sleep for the day ahead.”

“Suit yourself, but you’re eating with me tomorrow night. If we keep up this pace, we’ll reach the mountain the day after, so it’s time for a feast.” Bolg left then, Kili remaining rigid until the pale orc had vanished from the little field of light.

Behind him, a twig snapped. Kili whirled around, reaching for his sword that wasn’t there, nose crinkling in frustration. He could a flash of movement, an eavesdropper darting behind a nearby tree, and pounced, breaking into a sprint. With a snarl, he snagged the silent intruder by the elbow and pushed him up against the trunk, all shadows and angles in the gloom.

“Kili—” He drew back at the gasp. Ilzkhaal’s breathing was sharp and heavy, his body trembling under Kili’s hands.

“What the hell are you still doing here?” Kili hissed, brittle and on edge, wound too tight for surprises. “I thought you ran off.”

“I did – and then I saw Bolg was coming so – I tried to hide. I’m sorry – I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Kili relaxed his grip, but didn’t let go yet. His stomach was growing soft with the orc’s voice, a thread of hope woven through his mind. _He didn’t leave_. But he swallowed it all back, refused to smile, keeping his voice low and sharp. “How much of that did you hear?”

“E-Everything.” Ilzkhaal whispered. “About how he ordered you to do it, and where he wants to take you, a-and what he wants to do.” His free hand found Kili’s wrist, wrapped in leather, squeezing. “I had _no_ idea.”

“I tried to tell you, but you didn’t listen.” Kili muttered. “Look – I won’t keep you here. If you want to go, then go, I won’t stop you.” He stepped back, releasing his hold, peering through the shadows at where he thought Ilzkhaal’s eyes would be. “You’re right. I can’t justify this. I can’t justify anything I’ve done. I don’t expect you to ever understand what it’s like, Ilz. _Ishi,_ I hope you don’t. I hope that things like this always frighten and disgust you, and you don’t grow numb to it like I have.” Kili sighed. “I hope you don’t end up like me.”

Ilzkhaal was wordless, pawing through his mind, struggling to think of something he can say. It was such a shocking contrast to see him slump over and shrivel up the moment Bolg was out of his sight. There was a breaking point, when Kili would either go too far, lose himself completely, lose all trace of his brightness and heart and become something cold and soulless, or he would crumble, collapse under the weight of this heavy burden of brutality and fail in his duties to Bolg. He was walking on the edge, and he couldn’t balance himself anymore, couldn’t hold himself up, and Kili couldn’t throw his arms out for somebody to catch him. He had to fall. “But you know it’s wrong. And knowing it’s wrong—”

“Makes you a better person, yes I’ve heard it all before.” Kili started pacing now, back and forth, his boots shuffling through the decaying remains of leaves. “Nazarg gave me an earful of that horseshit already, months ago. He gave me a great long speech about how I could put everything Azog did behind me and move on and be a good person.” His laugh was chilling in the darkness. “Look at me. A murderer and a monster, all over again, with fresh blood on my hands.” There was a creak and a groan, as he sat down. “Knowing it’s wrong doesn’t mean shit. Even the best intentions are worthless without the actions to back them up, and I haven’t done anything good in so long – how can I be trusted to understand it? Hell, what does the damn word mean anymore?”

“I think you’re good.” Ilzkhaal blundered in the dark, bent almost at the waist with his arms stretched out, following the soft sound of Kili’s breathing. “Because I’ve seen you with Frûshkul, holding him and being gentle.” His fingers brushed hair and Ilzkhaal threw himself on his knees. “Because I’ve seen you smile and laugh and cry and I know that’s the real Kili, not this bloodied-up thing here. He’s not dead. You’re not dead.”

“You don’t understand.” Hunched over, Kili mumbled against his iron-clad forearm. “If you knew it all then you’d see.”

“Like,” Ilzkhaal leaned in, whispering at the very edge of his breath. “Like killing Azog?” He braced himself for the blow, shrinking away in his mind, but outwardly, he remained as stout as he could, his good hand on Kili’s shoulder, refusing to let him go. Kili sat frozen for a moment and then jerked quickly, a fleeting movement out of the corner of his eye, and Ilzkhaal could _see_ the fain gleam now, reflecting that distant lantern.

“What are you talking about?” He tried to fight it, but the tremor bled through in Kili’s voice.

“I’ve been going over and over it in my head.” The words came rushing out of Ilzkhaal now, a great stammering flood to try and drown Kili’s anger and shock and mistrust. “Why did you save Nazarg after what he’d done? He deserved to die but you had this whole elaborate plan, and put your own life at a horrible risk, for his sake. It didn’t add up and the only explanation I could think of was that he didn’t do it – it was _you_ , and he covered for you, to protect you.”

Kili listened in stunned silence, feeling the shock swell in his chest, flood to his fingers and toes, leaving them cold and tingling. Of course he figured it out. No matter how hard Kili tried to pretend that he was too stupid and young to understand, both to himself and others, Ilzkhaal was far sharper than he looked, always. “Damn you.” He finally croaked. “You’re too smart for your own good.”

“Is that why you feel guilty, Kili?” He spoke a little louder now. “Did you... did you _mean_ to do it, or was it an accident or...”

“Oh, I meant to.” It came out before Kili could stop them, and he backpedalled in his mind, trying to think of a way to solve this all, get out of it with his reputation intact. He wanted to tell Ilzkhaal everything – about his brother, about Ori, about Lake-Town and Thorin and everything that had happened. He wanted to talk about why he was really here. But he _couldn’t._ For all those differences that he and Ilzkhaal had worked through, the stark, fundamental fact remained that Ilzkhaal was an orc, he was on _their_ side, he had his home, his family, his friends, his life to come home to, and if he knew Kili threatened to jeopardize that, Ilzkhaal wouldn’t hesitate to turn him in, even if he had to carry that guilt for the rest of his life.

Kili remembered, thinly, vaguely, something Nori muttered to him back in Rivendell when Dori accused him of stealing. _If you want to make a lie watertight_ , he advised, _you have to_ _add in a little truth._ “I meant to.” Kili repeated. “I was stupid – still hopeful back then, still naive.” He leaned in to Ilzkhaal’s touch, the black void around them growing distant, somehow. “I was so close to my family after all those long months with Azog and – after we’d tortured Legolas together, I knew I’d had enough. So I poisoned him, wanting to go home. And when I found them—” Kili’s voice wobbled and he wasn’t entirely faking. “Wh-When I found Thorin, he humiliated me. He said it was my fault – _my fault_ – that this had happened. He couldn’t get over the fact that Azog and I were partners. He blamed _me_ for everything I had done and said I should have spared my family the shame and just died.” That wasn’t entirely true, Thorin had never said it out loud, but when Kili rifled through his memories, remembering his tone and expression and body language, it was easy enough to fabricate the grief that ripped at his chest.

“They threw me out Ilzkhaal, they let Thranduil and his goons take me because I wasn’t _their_ Kili anymore, I wasn’t worth trying to protect. My brother said he didn’t even know me anymore. My own _brother_ , the one person I thought would always be there for me. Fili’s face is the earliest memory I have, he carried me until I could walk and he helped me take my first steps he said he didn’t _know_ me! H-How could he? How?” Ilzkhaal leaned against him, forehead to temple. “I-I had to break out, they were talking about executing me and my family did _nothing_. I killed...” Kili swallowed. “ _him_ , for them, after they left me to die in the first place, and they just treated me like a meaningless stranger! Well _fuck_ them, fuck _all_ of them Ilzkhaal. I hope they die. I want to _watch_ them die. I want to-to kill as many of them as I can, especially Thorin and _especially_ Fili.” He went tense under the orc’s hold, hands over his face. Kili’s could feel the guilt bubbling and rising at his deception, an uncomfortable ache that he couldn’t force away. But it felt good at the same time to scream about them and almost cry, a weight lifting from his chest. “They were supposed to be my _family._ ”

“To hell with them then.” Ilzkhaal wrapped his arms tightly around Kili, trying his best to ignore the jutting pieces of bone. “They’re nothing. Nobody. They don’t deserve you and the sooner they’re gone for good the better off you’ll be.” For someone who had such a tight-knit and open family, one where they laughed and cried together, just the three of them, where they had no shame or secrets, the idea that a brother would be so heartless cruel seemed impossible. He couldn’t comprehend the heartbreak. Although Ilzkhaal knew that Kili hated his family, that he’d been thrown out, learning that he had killed Azog for them and risked everything for a chance to go home, only to have it all thrown in his face, it sharpened his pity to a knife-edge, one that cut into his own chest at this moment, and hurt.

“At least with Bolg, I know where I stand.” Kili mumbled through his fingers. Ilzhaal listened silently. “At least I know he’ll protect me, that he cares for me, in his own way. There are no surprises with him.”

“He’s still a brute. And – if this is what he’s going to make you do Kili, then are you sure that this is the best idea?” Kili stilled with that. “You don’t want to go to Mordor and serve him, do you? I could tell in your voice, you were sick at the thought.”

“You heard him, he’s not going to let me go. It’s not about what I _want_ , Ilz. It’s never been about that.” But Kili rested his hand on top of Ilzkhaal’s, the good one, feeling the web of knuckles and tendons. “He thinks there’s a lot of good I can do for your people.” There it was again, _good._ “I’m not going to make any promises that I’ll find a way to leave him and go home with you. That’s not fair. You have to go back to your family, and look after them, be with them.” Perhaps this was better – Kili could just say goodbye now and leave it like this. Perhaps it would hurt less for Ilzkhaal after Kili betrayed them all. “You understand, don’t you?”

“Of course I do, I’m not a child.” But he squeezed Kili tighter, terrified at the thought of letting go. “I won’t stand in Bolg’s way, I’m not that stupid. And I’d _never_ abandon Frûshkul, not for anybody. I know it’s not going to work.” He was so small and sad. The both of them sank into a contemplative silence, resting against one another, holding on.

“You should stay.” Kili blundered out after a few minutes. Ilzkhaal lifted his head. “Just for tonight. I know you’re scared out of your wits and you probably just want to go back to where it’ll be safe but – you should still stay.” His breath hitched. “Can you stay?”

It was a horrible idea. Ilzkhaal knew that he couldn’t keep _doing_ this anymore – he was exhausted and terrified and nothing could shake that unease in his stomach. Nothing could wipe Kili’s face from his mind, teeth bared, at _him_ , snarling like a beast at his prey. Kili was more wild and dangerous and yet still _vulnerable_ than he ever realised, but in that moment he knew that yes, Kili did need him. He wanted him. And for all his attempts to swallow it back and say that he knew it had to end, Ilzkhaal knew he wasn’t ready to say goodbye.

“Yes.” He breathed in, smelled Kili’s skin smothered beneath layers of blood and ash, fading, but still unmistakeably _there._ “I’ll stay.”


	99. The Last Time

Ilzkhaal had seen Kili at his lowest, explored the most intimate parts of him, seen his scars, seen him naked, seen him crying, screaming, laughing, fearless, afraid. He'd seen all those little pieces that had been stitched together like a child’s doll, clumsily made from scraps of sackcloth and old shirts that had worn down to holes, stuffed with straw and rags and bits of string, lopsided and uneven, rejected as a useless plaything by almost everyone, but to that one little child, was treasured and loved and held close at night.

It became clear to him now, more than ever before, just how ragged, how disjointed and torn and poorly put together that Kili was. He was so small, so scarred, and as Ilzkhaal knelt in the scrubby mountain-grass and dust outside the tent, helping the dwarf to shed his armour and reveal more of that pale, dirty body underneath, he could feel his heart swelling, beating harder and faster until it pushed painfully against his ribs.

It was love, and the longer he tried to dismiss it, put it out of his head, the bigger it grew. The word stung in his mouth, pulled at his tongue and tried to escape, but Ilzkhaal kept his lips closed as he wrenched Kili free of that iron-bone cage around his body, allowing only a small smile to come out. Kili shooed Nardur away and stretched out on the furs, barefoot and bare-armed, lying on his side with his head pillowed on a crooked elbow. Ilzkhaal shrugged off his jacket and boots and climbed in beside him, his face half-lit by the single lantern. He stretched out and ran his hand along Kili’s side, from shoulder to waist to hip and thigh, up and down, tracing a soft loop against skin and leather with his eyes never leaving Kili’s face.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathed in Westron, so it seemed less jarring and clumsy on his tongue. Kili’s grimy, black-grey face cracked in a smile, the whites of his teeth showing, breaking into a soft laugh, abashed, and in that moment, Ilzkhaal was sure he’d never seen such a sweet smile in his life. He leaned in, and as their lips met, it was like being bathed in midsummer sunlight, flushing across his skin and getting down into his bones.

There was a painful sense of finality in the air, the both of them knowing while they did it that this would be the last ever time. With Kili being at Bolg’s right hand and destined to kill his uncle-king personally, and Ilzkhaal an untrained, front-line footsoldier (now with an injured hand to boot), history suggested it was incredibly likely that one, or both, would be dead as the sun set in two days time. And even if they beat the odds and lived, even if Bolg crushed Erebor and finished his father’s work, it was silently accepted that they would be torn apart anyway. Ilzkhaal thought Kili would be carried away under Bolg’s arm to live in tyranny and bloodlust, and Kili… Kili didn’t know what was going to happen to him.

Afterwards, they both lay down with Kili resting his head in the crook of Ilzkhaal’s neck. Kili wasn’t all that much of a cuddler – he tended to roll over, lie with their sides touching, hold hands. Cuddling was something he did only when he or Ilzkhaal were visibly upset – for consolation and safety, rather than pleasure. But he snuggled close now, forehead under Ilzkhaal’s chin and an arm encircling his chest.

“You’re perfect.” He drew both arms around Kili, holding tight and never, ever wanting to let go.  He never did get used to Kili’s body, how short and stout and bulky it felt,  how broad his ribcage was and how dense and heavy his arms were, stretched across him. It was so different, the smell and weight and feel of him. Kili left an imprint that nobody could ever erase. Hate swirled around in his gut, hatred towards Bolg, towards Kili’s family, Mautor, everyone that had forced his to happen. “You’re just so perfect. I-I—"

"Don't." Kili whispered fiercely, lifting his head. “I know what you’re going to say, and don’t." Ilzkhaal held his breath, frozen. “It won't do either of us any good."

So he didn’t say it.

* * *

“Thranduil, we have a problem." Fili liked to think that the two of them had moved beyond stiff, formal introductions and awkward titles. He liked to think that perhaps Thranduil regarded him with a similar measure of respect that Fili did for him.  As Thranduil looked up from his book, those stern brows knitted in a thick frown, his confidence and self-assurance faltered for a moment. He had to pause for a moment, caught between apologizing and simply pretending that nothing had happened. Fili went for the latter.Tauriel hovered behind him and Dís, frustrated and powerless. “Where’s Bard?”

“Left a short while ago to put Bain to bed.” Thranduil sat his table, an open book lying face down. “What’s going on?”

“Tauriel, you need to find him.” Fili’s mane flew as he spun on his heel. “ _Now._ And Gandalf – someone has to find Gandalf too.”

“What is going on?” Thranduil repeated, standing up now. “You look terrified.”

“Fili, sit down and tell him.” Dís squeezed his shoulder. “I’ll go and find Gandalf, and Tauriel Bard.” Fili nodded silently, approaching the table as the other two left, Tauriel bewildered and Dís standing on tip-toes to whisper in her ear.

“Bain – is with Ori.” Fili pulled out the spindly little chair and sat down. “He’s too frightened to say anything himself.” He gestured at Thranduil’s chair. “Please.” Thranduil sat down slowly, eyes never leaving Fili’s face. “He was just trying to help when he... Did you know he can speak to thrushes?” He changed tack completely, catching Thranduil off-guard.

“Bard told me.” He spoke through set teeth. “I thought the gift had vanished from Girion’s line, he thought it a childish flight of fancy. It wasn’t until Smaug’s death that anybody took him seriously. But I thoroughly believe it, yes.”

“Well – a thrush just warned him of an impending army of orcs in their thousands.” Thranduil was very still, apart from a quiver in his throat. “They’re coming down from the north and they’ll be here soon Thranduil. Very soon. They’re coming for Erebor. Maybe for revenge, maybe to take a share of the gold, I don’t know.” Thranduil muttered something under his breath in his mother tongue, eyes downcast. When he looked up again, there was something distant in his expression, as though his mind had travelled somewhere very far away. “We have to do something Thranduil. I’ve been thinking – we could be trapped in these valleys and if we don’t move now, there’s no way we can get out in time, they’ll cut us off. I’m not sure the dwarves could withstand an army so large in Erebor, not now. We’re predominantly short-range fighters, and whatever siege weaponry that Smaug didn’t burn is rusted and rotted. We have to talk to Thorin and Dain, if we try and work together inside Erebor, we could push them back. It’s a risk, I know, but it’s the best chance we have of saving as many lives as we can."

Thranduil looked up from the tabletop, eyes less distant now, alive with a spark of fear. "Do you honestly think they would work with us? Thorin is too proud to accept our help. He would rather die defending Erebor. He _wants_ to die for her." He looked Fili in the eye. “And if he did accept our help, what is there to stop him instigating a war inside Erebor’s walls? In their element, the dwarves would easily win.”

Fili shook his head. "No. Dain might suggest that, but Thorin is too honorable.  He wouldn't slaughter us. I _know_ he wouldn't."

"He could see it as a fitting retribution," Thranduil's voice had an unfamiliar edge to it, hard and bitter, and it left Fili with a very distinct sense of unease. "After all, we stood back and watched Smaug burn Erebor to the ground. Thorin hasn't forgotten and he never will."

The thought hadn't occurred to Fili. He swallowed hard and shook his head again, but this time he lacked that unwavering confidence. "He's not bent on vengeance nearly as much as think he is. He just wants to regain what was taken from him."

"What's this I'm hearing from Dìs?" Gandalf's sharp voice broke through the tent. "Orcs again, and right on our doorstep?"

"I wish it wasn't." Fili stood as Gandalf and his mother entered. "But I believe Bain. He wouldn't play a joke like this."

"All the same, I'll be sending my fastest scouts to try gather what intelligence they can. Meanwhile we have to consider our options here. If we left tonight, we could retreat to safety in time. Fili, however, has other ideas.” Thranduil looked over Fili's shoulder as Tauriel entered alone.

"Bard went to find his son. He said he'll side with you, whatever you decide, Your Highness." Thranduil mulled it over in his head.

"We need to act extremely quickly." He gestured for the others to take their seats. "Fili believes we should work with Thorin and Dain, and that together we could present a united army, protected in Erebor and strong enough to eradicate the filth for good. I'm… less certain that Thorin's goodwill extends that far.  What say you two?"

Gandalf took off his hat and set it on the table. "I think I know who will be leading this army. Bolg, son of Azog, he would have taken command after hearing news that Azog had died. It's quite likely Azog summoned him months ago. He will be set on completing his father's work and wiping out every dwarf of Durin's Folk he can lay his hands on. Fili, you in particular won't be safe. If we break from Erebor and head south toward Esgaroth, we will not be pursued." He studied Fili beneath his bushy eyebrows for a moment, mouth wrinkled in thought. "However, I am not a coward, nor do I allow orcs to wander in wholesome lands when there’s something that can be done about it. I say we ask Thorin tonight. If he refuses to instantly accept an alliance, we retreat while there's time. We can't be caught in these foothills, we'll be slaughtered, and it will take a day at least to get everybody to a safe distance."

Dís chewed on the inside of his cheek. "He won't trust us. He'll think it's a trick and refuse to let us in until his own ravens confirm it, and by then we won’t have the time. Even if Thorin did believe us, Dain will get in the way and stop him from doing anything. I don’t care if it’s dishonourable, stepping one foot towards that gate is a waste of time. The earlier we leave, the more distance we put between ourselves and the brutes.”

Fili felt cold. “None of you trust him.” He looked around the table, finding only three reserved faces, three closed mouths. They refused to say a word. “You’ve all written him off, but you haven’t even _asked_ him!” Fili cried. “I _know_ Thorin better than all of you, even you _Amad_ , and I know he wouldn’t abandon us. You might think I’m being a naive child, but I’m not. He’s not as heartless and cold as you all say, not at all.”

“Fili—”

“Will you even take the time to ask him? Or are you all going to just leave now, before you give Thorin the chance to redeem himself, and let your suspicions stand as fact?”

“We’ll go.” Thranduil picked up his little book and closed it. “Just us, no soldiers.” His gaze was fixed on Fili, hard and challenging. “He’s right. We should give Thorin the opportunity to absolve himself before we condemn him.”

Fili swallowed hard, realising that he was totally alone in his faith. Even his mother had stopped believing in Thorin. But he didn’t back down. He nodded, hoping with every fibre of himself that his uncle would have the decency to help them. “He’ll trust us.” His voice was strong and clear, without a hint of uncertainty in it now. “He’ll believe us, and he’ll help us, I know it.”

* * *

When the alarm sounded, Thorin was eating alone in his little room. He ate alone most days and nights now, tucked away not in the apartments he shared with Fili once, but a warm little side-room just a few minutes from the entrance hall that used to house several clerks and messenger-boys. The desks were still there, pushed up against the wall, the wood warped and fading. The coal supplies held steady for now, but in a month or so, they would probably have to be burned. Thorin slept on a canvas stretcher heaped in mouldy old furs and blankets that left his nose itching in the far corner facing the door.

He sat now on the edge of the low bed, just a foot from the stone floor, still hungry, his shoulders aching and head feeling rushed and distracted. This room was close enough to hear the low hubbub of activity in the entrance hall, voices echoing down hallways and thrumming against the stone. Thorin sighed and leaned back, slumped against the wall with his legs stretched out. Erebor didn't feel his, not like this.

"Thorin," Balin knocked softly on the sagging door. "Thranduil is at the Gate with Dís and Fili. They're saying it's incredibly urgent."

"At this time?" Thorin rose to his weary feet. "What could they possibly want?" He followed his old friend, straightening his clothes. They'd found Thrór's crown, in amongst the sea of gold, and Dain insisted that his cousin wear it. It was like stepping into a pair of boots that were a little too big – heavy,  clumsy,  and prone to slipping. Thorin was learning to walk like a king again, keeping himself straight and stiff and rigid. Made of stone.

So when he took his place beside Dain, overlooking the valley at the top of the Gate, Thorin looked every inch a king who had been on the throne for years, to those who didn't know him. Fili saw the tightness in his jaw that meant he was gritting his teeth to stop his mouth from shaking, and Dís saw him briefly twist his ring before pressing his palms against the stone ledge.  "What brings you to my doorstep at this late hour?" For all the gleaming armour and weaponry, what shone brightest in the light of the moon and the lanterns was Fili’s hair, freshly braided, curls streaming over his shoulders. It had grown in these last few months, and his beard had come in again, long enough to curl. He looked almost close enough to touch.

"We've just received word from the thrushes that there is a very large army of orcss approaching Erebor.” Thranduil cut through, not bothering for a moment with any greetings or vague attempts at pleasantries. “They will be here the day after next, Thorin.”

He held his breath. Knuckles went white on the stone ledge and Thorin held on, as though the floor would crumble beneath him. "What proof do you have of this."

"Just our word." Fili stepped forward. "Thorin, we could be trapped in here if we don't leave. Tonight." He locked eyes with his uncle.

"Then go!" Dain called from Thorin's side. "Leave us then! Or are you still clinging to that foolish hope that we would indulge your fantasy of reparations?"

"No, not at all." Fili's younger cousin stood at Dain's other side,  leering down at him, cruel and proud and arrogant. Fili tried to ignore him, voice rising as he spoke. “We are here to seek an alliance. Neither of us could drive them back alone, but together we stand a chance, don't you see? We could finally defeat the orcs, and they won't be breathing down our necks anymore. We could do it together, finally take that first step. We’re putting ourselves in your hands Thorin.”

“And we’re to trust the word of a traitor and a liar? Let’s see what the ravens report first, then we’ll consider this paltry offer of yours.” Dain mocked Fili, sneering over the edge.

“We don’t have time.” Dís had her hand on Fili’s shoulder, in a gesture of comfort or restraint, it wasn’t clear. “You can send whatever messengers you want, and if they don’t find anything you have the right to send us away, but we _must_ join Erebor tonight.”

“How convenient,” Dain sneered, but a low rumble in Thorin’s throat made him cease. Thorin straightened his shoulders, staring right down at his sister with a sharp, impassive face.

“I was told the men of Dale lost their command of the thrushes tongue.” He accused, thinking, hoping, he had found a flaw in their plan. “How could you possibly know what it is they said?”

“Not all.” Thranduil retaliated. “Bard’s son and a descendant of Girion still has the gift. He—”

“A child!” Thorin thundered down at him. “A petulant, mischievous boy! Do you blindly trust his words without an ounce of proof? How do you know this isn’t a child’s game? How do you know for certain he can even speak to the birds at all?”

Thranduil’s lip curled. “Bain is the very reason you still stand in this Hall at all, Thorin! He was the only one who knew of the hollow patch in Smaug’s left breast, and he risked his life to tell his father while Lake-Town burned. A child he may be, but I trust his word more than I trust yours.”

“Look – it doesn’t matter.” Fear seized Fili. One of the worst things Thranduil could do was call Thorin a child. “We believe him. We trust him. And we need you to trust us, Thorin. Trust _me._ I would never deceive you.”

“Wouldn’t you?” Dain spat. “You already deceived Thorin! You plotted and schemed, you tried to turn one of his most loyal subjects against him, you attempted to overthrow him and hand this kingdom over to Thranduil, you stand there with one of our sworn enemies as your ally and protector, and after all of this you ask us to trust you?” Fili did his best to ignore Dain, staring right at Thorin, begging, pleading with his uncle.

Dís was vicious. "Thorin do _not_ listen to him!  Fili is the only one on this side of the wall who has any faith left in you. He is the only one who thought you would even begin to consider letting us in. Do you think you can trust Dain? He has had his eye on that throne ever since our grandfather was killed, just waiting for us to fail so he can call himself king."

"How dare you—"

"Shut up Dain!" She pointed her finger at him. “Don't pretend for a moment you had any other intentions! You never wanted Fili to take the throne, you named your son after Thorin because you wanted him to be his heir! This is all playing right into your hands and you keep poisoning Thorin against us, speaking for him and treading over his rule." Thorin listened in a stunned silence. He knew all of it, of course he did. Dís echoed his fears, shouting at the top of her lungs.  "You think you can't trust Fili, Thorin? He is the only one left who still trusts you!"

Thorin closed eyes for a moment, as the force of his sister's words rolled over him. Was it true? Did Fili really still trust him, even after being banished, after having everything ripped away from him? He brought his hand up to his face, pushing a long braid over his shoulder. His wounded heart was cracking again, an old fracture that hadn't healed, breaking further with every heavy beat. Oh, Fili. The temptation stung – one word, one nod, and he would have his family again. He could finally repair and rebuild the ruins of his home and his heart.

But he was a traitor. The thought refused to leave Thorin alone. Fili was a thief and a liar and he could never, ever be forgiven. Just thinking about it was absurd of Thorin.  How could he open his arms and doors to someone that tried to overthrow him? How could he forge an alliance with these people? Thorin could just imagine what Dain and the rest would say, how he would be remembered. A terrified king, who shirked his duties and sought aid from his enemies rather than fight for his homeland with his honour intact. A coward, who kept his nephew around even after an attempt at treason. A weak sham, who never deserved the title of King Under the Mountain.

With his stomach boiling, mind spinning, a coppery taste spreading across his tongue, Thorin slowly stepped back. His eyes never Fili’s hopeful, pleading face. “Balin, fetch me a ladder.”

* * *

They both lay there, listening to each other breathe, feeling heartbeats beneath hands, the distant laughter and chatter of voices rupturing the stillness of the night. Ilzkhaal could feel Kili shivering and fumbled for covering. As he drew the furs over the both of them, though, Kili’s shaking seemed to grow. Ilzkhaal wanted to stroke his hair, tell him not to cry, to kiss his tears away, but whenever he opened his mouth to speak, he found his nerve failed him. Because if he didn't say it then maybe it wasn't real just yet, and he could live in this forever-moment for just a little longer.

“I’m going to miss you.” Ilzkhaal finally choked out, his voice cracking. “I wish you didn’t – I wish you could stay with us.” Kili didn’t say anything, just stared, with his eyes shadowed and mouth drooping downward, wet and red but no longer leaking. “I wish I could…” Ilzkhaal wouldn’t let himself finish the sentence. He couldn’t entertain the thought, not for a moment. It wasn’t fair to.

“You have a family to go home to.” Kili’s voice was very low. “You have a life waiting for you at the other end Ilz. I’d never ask you to abandon that for my sake. I don’t want you to.”

“But you’re going to…” He had to stop, feeling the pressure rise in his throat. “Look at what Bolg wants to turn you into. Look at what he wants to do. You can’t want this for yourself.” Kili paused with his mouth half open, looking sideways down at their legs, his toes touching the orc’s calves.

“I haven’t lived any other way in a very long time.” Kili shuffled so they lay beside each other, eye-to-eye on the folded spare clothes he used as a pillow. “I feel sometimes like… I’ve forgotten how. For months now, I’ve been in this constant fight for survival, just keeping my head down and listening to orders, being on my guard every moment of every hour of every day.” He stretched out, finding Ilzkhaal’s good hand. “And I know I can’t keep going on like this. I’m still so young, I’m not even of age, everybody thought of me as a kid  back home, but I just… I feel so old, and tired. Everything is working up to what’s going to happen in just two days and… I don’t know how to go on after it.”

“Come back with me.” Ilzkhaal begged, knowing it was pointless, hopeless, a waste of air. “You could run - hide for a few months, disguise yourself, make people think you were killed in Erebor. We could go together even, spend a season in the northern wastes and go back in the summer. Bolg doesn’t own you Kili.”

“You’re being ridiculous.” Kili ran his fingers along one of Ilzkhaal’s ribs, jutting out like a thick seam in heavy leather. “Even if I could somehow disguise myself, I can’t just run from him. Do you know what this is?” He got up on one elbow, rolling the tooth between his fingers. “It’s not just a symbol of protection, it’s ownership too. I belonged to Azog, like a warg or a servant, and now he’s dead, it passes along to Bolg. I wasn’t free then and I’m not now. He does own me. I don’t have to like it or agree with it, but I know at least he won’t let any harm come to me. I’m too valuable for that.”

“Do you know who he reminds me of?” Kili shook his head. “Well, two or three years ago now, I met this brick of a thing in a pub down by the eastern wells back home. He was a real looker, big and broad, covered in scars and missing a few fingers and an ear, but he still had all the important bits left. I hadn’t really… _been_ with anyone yet, I’d fooled around once or twice, but never all the way, I always had terrible timing. So this fellow, he buys me a few drinks and says he wants to take me back to this room he’d rented out. I was over the moon, y’know, it was _finally_ going to happen, and with someone as good-looking and rugged as him, I thought it would be perfect.”

He drifted off for a moment, half regretful and half nostalgic, caught up in the memory before stumbling back into reality. “So – just as we were about to go, Akash came in with a few friends and lost his head. He reckons he won but he lost four teeth and had his wrist broken. He won't let me forget it, either. I was furious, it took a few days for me to realise what could have happened, and when I thought about it all, it was just, well, the way he looked at me the whole night, this pleased smugness, like he knew he had me, he was going to take me and rip me apart and have fun with it and it terrified me, and... Kili, that’s the way Bolg looks at you.”

Kili rolled over onto his back, staring up at the dim tent-ceiling, still toying with the tooth, very grimy and yellowed now. “I know.” He spoke quietly. “Like I’m a roasted leg of lamb he just can’t wait to sink his teeth into.” Ilzkhaal found his free hand, squeezing tight. "He would literally eat me if he wanted too, he's already threatened it."

"Why do you let him control you, then?" He whispered in the dimness. Kili looked over at him, his grey face in a little frown.

“He doesn't control me. He wishes he could, but he's no Azog. I'm smarter and older than I was last summer. Bolg is nothing compared to his father." He smiled again, but this time, there wasn't a trace of that beauty. He looked cold and malicious. “I had him from the moment he set eyes on me. I made him take an interest in me, and like me, and respect me in a way. He even trusts me now.”

Ilzkhaal’s grip relaxed. “You’re very good at making people like you.” He slipped his hand free and balled it underneath the blanket, resting over his thudding heart. Kili got up on one elbow again, his frown deepening.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” It was hard and accusing. Ilzkhaal licked his lips and glanced over at the dwarf, holding his breath for several seconds before slowly letting it out. Inside he was screaming at himself to shut up, to just hold his tongue and not spoil things even worse. They had only a precious few hours left before Kili disappeared forever, why ruin it?

But the words were coming out of Ilzkhaal’s mouth automatically, tumbling like water over rocks and he couldn’t control it. “Just that – that you are so proud of this mask you’ve put up, how you’ve managed to manipulate and fool Bolg and Mautor and everybody else – you’ve tricked them all and you’ve said it again and again and I just – I’m terrified, Kili. I’m terrified that, well, what I see _here_ is just another act,” Kili sat up now, the scars shining silver on his chest. “Like…” He steeled himself. “Like I’m just somebody else that you’re using and manipulating.”

He expected a blow, shouting, denial. Instead, Kili drew his knees up to his chest, taking in a rapid breath of air that hollowed his cheeks. He stared down at his kneecaps as he spoke, voice toneless, giving nothing away. “What do you think I’m using you for.”

It was the last possible response Ilzkhaal expected, and the openness of it left him quite stunned. He sat up as much as he could, keeping the blanket over himself, eyes locked on Kili’s hunched figure. “I think that… You like having somebody adore you. You like intimacy. You like me because I’m young and weak and I’ll never be a threat to you, so it’s all right to keep me close. You want me to be completely devoted to you," he tried to collect his fractured, scattered thoughts, "but at the same time, you're too guarded to ever be truly open with me. You want me to love you blindly, you want me to lie at your feet, and at the same time, you can't completely trust me, and I don't understand why. I don't understand what more I have to do to show you that I trust you with everything I have, that I want to help protect and save you and I-I love you." He choked on the last words, finding his hands shook. “There, I said it. I love you Kili and I won't take it back, never. I love you and I don't want to let you go. And it just makes me so _angry_ that you’re giving yourself up like this, when it’s so unlike you in every way. I’m terrified because deep down, you think you want this, you _want_ to be some sort of partner or lieutenant or something for Bolg.” Ilzkhaal paused for air, trying to clear his swimming head. “M-Maybe you think I’m stupid or something, I don’t know, but I just don’t get it. I don’t get any of this.”

Kili curled in a little further on himself, wrapping his arms around his knees and resting his chin on them. “I did use you." He mumbled against his forearm, looking away from Ilzkhaal. “And -- you’re right, in a way. I do ask a lot of you, don’t I? What right do I have to demand you trust me implicitly, to expect you to love me when I remain so distant?” He was coming to the end of this dream, it was time to wake up and for the both of them to come back to reality. Kili hurt at the thought of being alone, he couldn’t think of anything more frightening, and yet, he knew it was the price he had to pay for safety, both his and Ilzkhaal’s. How many times had he wanted to lay himself bare, explain it all to him, and how many times had he remained quiet? “I don’t think you’re stupid.” He ventured after a few silent moments. “I think you’re quiet, and a little shy, and people misplace that for stupidity.” Kili rested his cheek against his folded arm. That was a quiet advantage.

"Then tell me." The poor orc’s voice was shaking, and the little wobble got right under Kili’s skin, into his veins and nerves and bones. It hurt. “Tell me what’s going on. You can trust me Kili, I’d never betray you to anybody.”

“Really?” He lifted his head. “What if you were hanging from a tree-branch with a pack of starving wargs snapping at your toes? What if you had your bones broken, one by one until they finally ended it and snapped your neck?” Ilzkhaal couldn’t breathe. “What if they did to you what they did to Nazarg? Would you endure it with a still tongue?” Kili stared right at him, his soft brown eyes shadowed with inexpressible pain. “Knowing that there was nobody to come for you, nobody to save you, and the only thing that could possibly make them stop would be to tell them everything you know.” He gripped Ilzkhaal by the arm, rooting him in place. “Would you withstand it without breaking?”

He couldn’t respond – they both knew the answer to that. Ilzkhaal scanned Kili’s bare chest, the shapeless patches of scar tissue almost a hands breadth across in places. He remembered the countless marks across Kili’s back, ones he’d seen and touch so many times now. The memory slipped away and broke as Kili grabbed at the back of his neck, getting up on his knees so their faces could meet, his head brushing the top of the little tent. Ilzkhaal was spellbound. The whites of Kili’s eyes shone in his face, all shadows and hollows and hard lines as he panted for air. He was utterly feral, fingernails sharp as talons in the side of Ilzkhaal’s throat.

“It’s not that I doubt your heart or will, Ilzkhaal.” His grip was painful on Ilzkhaal’s arm. “You know why I can’t trust you? Because you’re weak. You’re weak like I was six months ago when I snapped like a twig in front of Azog.” His breath hitched at the painful memory and he caught himself. “You already know too much.” Ilzkhaal wanted to cry again, and this time the burning in his throat growing too big to swallow. Kili was so far gone, so bound up these head-games and politics that he couldn’t separate Ilzkhaal from it. He couldn’t love him. “Fuck, do you know what they would do the both of us if they knew that I killed Azog and you covered it up?” Ilzkhaal nodded silently. He could guess. “Keep your head down and stay quiet. Pretend to be stupid, it’s the smartest thing you’ll ever do.”

So that was why Kili told everyone else he was worthless. Ilzkhaal opened his mouth, but he couldn’t speak a word. Kili’s hold on Ilzkhaal’s neck loosened. He didn’t feel angry, or afraid of Kili just then. He felt terribly, achingly sad. “You don’t need to lose what I lost, I won’t let them. I want to protect you. I _will_ protect you, I’ll do everything in my power to do it. But if you want me to protect you too, you need to stop asking me questions. The less you know, the safe you will be. And you need to understand this – I can’t trust _anybody_ Ilzkhaal. Not Bolg, not Mautor, not anybody.” His eyes flashed again, dark and wild. “Not even you.”

 


	100. Part of the Family

Thorin didn’t look over his shoulder at Dain, still perched on the Gate and frowning down at him. He kept his eyes forward, a knot in his throat that bobbed with every swallow. Everything he had ever said to Fili was echoing in his head - every insult, every curse on his name. Thorin still couldn’t look at him without that sting of betrayal in his chest. He couldn’t forgive or forget, not ever. He looked from Fili, to Dís, to Gandalf, and then to Thranduil. That division between heart and head, between his blood and the crown, something that Thorin had always so proudly maintained and advocated - that razor-straight line seemed less clear when he looked at his nephew and sister.

“What do you have to gain from helping us?” Thorin locked his piercing stare on Thranduil, two crowned kings in finery watching each other in a wasteland. He couldn’t help but remember their last isolated meeting, when he was a prisoner in Thranduil’s halls, powerless and captured. There was almost no trace of that aged dwarf now. Thorin was straight-backed, proud, asserted. Most importantly, he held the balance of power now, and he knew it. “Why not just leave us to fight the filth and save yourselves?”

“I have had orcs tiptoeing around my borders for centuries, pushing, testing their luck.” Thranduil didn’t speak in that normal grandiose tone. He was quiet, almost solemn. Now he had Throin, now that he appealed to him, it was like speaking to a different person. Perhaps the elf wanted to appear homely, trustworthy and approachable, but the appearances left Thorin on edge. It reminded him just how good an actor Thranduil was, and how he could never be sure of what was true around him. “They’ve never been this bold until- until now.” He stumbled, and for a moment, Thorin wondered if the mask had really cracked. “I know it was you who brought them near my home, Thorin Oakenshield. You strung them alone through Mirkwood and they are here again to seek you out.” His face was dark, shadowed in the low fire of the torches. “But now they are here, it is for all of us to fight them. This isn’t a fight just for dwarves and orcs. You know that.”

Thorin kept a cool tone and expression, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “And what makes you think I will give you shelter? Is that truly what you deserve, after the way you treated us when Smaug first attacked?” There was a fire now, smouldering away in Thorin’s ice-blue eyes, and it left Fili sick with nerves.

“If you wish to bring up old wounds, Thorin, I have far more than you.” It was like nobody else existed in that moment. Even Fili was a distant glimmer on the edge of Thorin’s vision. It was just him and Thranduil, surrounded in dust and darkness. “I have seen what happens when alliances crumble. You don’t want to wish that destruction on yourself.”

Thorin was taken aback for a moment. He stood in a frozen silence, almost afraid to speak. He paused, making sure the tremors had fallen still before speaking. “And how am I to know you won’t turn on me, once I have housed you all safely?”

Thranduil was flat and level. “How am I to know you won’t, either?” They could back-and-forth like this for hours, until the dawn broke over them and that small window of escape disappeared, and Thorin wouldn’t change his mind. Thranduil wouldn’t give anything more away.

Thorin looked over his shoulder for just a few seconds, staring back at that hollow shell of his home, filled with only ghosts and strangers. He dared to look at Fili again too, at that desperate, desperate hope written all over his face. His mouth was dry but his palms slick. This was it - the moment that would define his entire life. Azanulbizar, Smaug, Dunland, Ered Luin, everything else that had come before was swallowed up. Was this the same terror that Fili had felt, the night he decided to betray Thorin? Did he have that same fear and uncertainty in his gut, weighing up what he thought to be right against everything he had ever known? But while Fili was young and naive and foolish, Thorin was aged and weary. He knew better. He couldn’t blame this on bad blood or the folly of youth. This was a cold and calculated move and _he couldn’t let his heart rule his head_.

Slowly, Thorin opened his closed eyes. His heart. His heart bound in iron, guarded and impenetrable, held fast. Chained. Tired blue eyes looked over Thranduil’s shoulder at Fili, standing with his hands clasped, pleading silently. Thorin had done the right thing by his people for nearly two centuries. He followed his father and grandfather’s rules, long after they were dead. He put their pride first. He rooted out the black rot among his subjects - they were his family but he still did the right thing and cast them out. He did everything that he was ever supposed to do and here he stood, utterly alone. He had protected his kingdom, his throne, but in doing so, he had doomed it all to fail. Thror’s line was ending, preserved only in a single old dwarf and a handful of traitors. He wanted to scream at the injustice of it.

“Gather your soldiers.” Thorin finally opened his mouth. Everything was too tight now, overwound, on the edge. “Bring them in, before it’s too late.” Fili gasped audibly, a sudden, jerking sound that made Thorin’s heart jump. “I’ll arrange sleeping quarters for you all, and in the morning, we’ll hold a proper council.”

His ears were ringing. Thorin climbed back over the gate, to where Dain and his son waited expectantly with Balin and Dwalin. “I hope you told them where to go.” His cousin snarled, eyes piercing through that fog over Thorin’s brain.

“I did indeed.” Thorin finally spoke. His voice rasped. “They’ll be bringing in their soldiers shortly.”

“ _What!?_ ” Dain bellowed, livid. “Thorin, you _didn’t_ -”

“I did.” Thorin cut over him, struggling to keep his voice level. “It’s too risky with the threat of orcs hanging over us. This isn’t the time to play politics anymore.”

“Did you think this through, Thorin?” Dain, too, was trying to keep himself in check. “What if it’s a trick? We have no reason to trust Thranduil, not after everything they’ve done to us. And Fili...”

“This doesn’t change my relationship with Fili.” Thorin tried to reassure him. “He and Dís are still traitors. I won’t speak a word to them unless it is absolutely necessary and I will not let them anywhere near any meetings and counsel. They are nothing and I will make sure they know that.” Dain stared at him, flat and even, mistrusting. “I know what I’m doing, Dain. We are offering them protection and this changes nothing about our position on the gold. Double the guards on the hoard and don’t let any elf or man near it.”

“Then why?” Dain had to know. “Why even let them in at all? Why not stand back and let the orcs destroy them, the way Thranduil watched Smaug raze the mountain?”

“Because,” Thorin gritted his teeth. “I am better than Thranduil. I’m not a coward like him. I have _honour_ , Dain.” He darkened then, in a heavy, ugly scowl that twisted up his face. “And if _anybody_ is going to have the pleasure of killing Bolg, I swear on my grandfather’s grave that it will be me. I am going to end him and avenge the terror he has inflicted on my family, and I would gladly work alongside a former enemy to achieve that end.”

He turned his attention to Balin and Dwalin now. “Give them the streets near the mines. It’s relatively unscathed compared to the rest of the city, and at least they’ll be out of the way.”

Balin frowned. “The miner’s apartments? They’re awfully cramped, Thorin.”

“If they don’t like it, they’re more than welcome to leave.” Thorin turned away from the pair. “I’m going to bed. If they need anything, tell them to wait until morning.” He needed to get away from this. He needed to rest. He needed to sit in silence. Dain shot him an uneasy look as he walked past, and Thorin tried his best to ignore his cousin, and the growing uncertainty that had planted roots in his own writhing stomach.

In his room, he closed the door and leaned against it, holding his breath and checking for silence. Nothing. Thorin sat on the edge of pallet of rags and furs and reached for his pack, sifting this gems and gold, rings and arm-bands, all the priceless family treasures that he had managed to pick through and stow away for safe-keeping. Near the bottom, he found the tiny mithril token on a broken length of cord. The two tokens, Fili’s and Kili’s, were made from his grandmother’s betrothal ring. Thror had held on to it ever since she had died, and it survived Smaug, survived Dunland, survived Azanulbizar. An intricately-carved band of mithril set with a huge ruby, the ring was one of only a few treasures they had left, one of just three things that hadn’t been stolen or traded for food and shelter - her ring, Thror’s, and Thror’s massive bejewelled axe, that crossed the world on Dís’ back and now lay in this very room, ripped from her hands when Dain declared her a threat.

Thorin remembered sitting awake the night Dís came to Ered Luin, holding the ruby up to the gold-white embers and watching the light shine through, dark as old blood. He knew they needed something, his little nephews. They were the descendants of kings, his heirs. Thorin wasn’t content with taking some cheap silver and fashioning a seal for each of them. It had to be from Erebor, mined from deep within the bones of the mountain. But there was so little left. Thorin held the ring in his hand, bowed down with grief and sorrow, staring down at the last remnant he had of his grandmother, the only sign that she had ever existed, as though this was her very heart, preserved and petrified and set in mithril.

Dís slept on his bed, pale and exhausted, with Fili nestled in beside her, brown and gold spread out over the pillow. In his wicker basket and swaddled in linen and wool, Kili stirred, a soft, gabbling whimper. Thorin lifted the infant out before his cries woke his mother, sitting back on his stool with Kili in his arms, gently rocking him back and forth to lull him to sleep. Kili stared up at him with those strange, dark eyes. One hand escaped, the fingernails as small as flaxseeds. Kili held Thorin’s little finger, his tiny hand not making it all the way around, and Thorin was breathless, clinging to the baby, at something so small and defenceless, so perfect. _This_ was life, here in his arms. In that soft, firelit moment, all the gems and gold in Erebor were meaningless.

It took two days to make the pendants. Mithril had a higher melting point than iron, platinum, even titanium. Thorin shovelled coal all night and day to get enough of a white-hot burn, and the heat of the forge left him dizzy. Getting the intricate detail of the seal down to a scale small enough to fit on a thumbnail-sized lead seal was painstaking work that left his head throbbing. But at the end, he had a new treasure - two tiny pendants, forged from the bone-marrow of Erebor and laced over the hearts of his nephews, growing warm against their skin.

Thorin held the pendant now, gleaming white in the light of his lantern, as his foggy mind inched towards the present. He crossed both arms over his midsection, trying to hold on to those ghostly remnants of that familiar weight against his chest, a body, a life so small it fitted in his arms. He had his trinkets back, more rings and necklaces, more harvested fragments of preserved blood and marrow from the mountain, memory-pieces of his dead, dusty family that had long ago rotted to brittle bone.

His head was searing. It was beyond words, this ache that rolled throughout his body, getting down into the deepest recesses of his mind and soul. It stirred in his gut, flourished outwards, coursing through his fingertips. This wasn’t what he wanted. He didn’t want to sleep alone, surrounded by family heirlooms and trinkets. He wanted life, in his arms.

They had all made mistakes, Thorin, Dís, Fili and Kili. All four of them had done the wrong thing, at some point in time, tarnished their names and made themselves enemies of one another. They had all done this. They were all traitors, in some way. They broke promises to one another, to their people. They hurt each other, for gold, for pride, for honour, for freedom, for the basic, raw instinct to survive. 

Mahal, let the morning come. Thorin both dreaded and anticipated it.

* * *

Normally, Ilzkhaal had to be poked and prodded out of bed, shaken roughly awake and wrestled free of his nest of blankets. The world could fall down around him, his mother loved to remark or something like it, as she draped his dirty clothes over one arm, picking up after him, and he would still sleep straight it.

But this morning, he awoke early. He didn’t feel groggy or tired, either. It was sharp, abrupt. He felt as though he’d been running or just taken a dip in a chilly river. Ilzkhaal lay on his back with his eyes open, listening to the soft hum of air in the tent. Against his left arm, Kili breathed slowly, curled away on his side with the furs pulled over his shoulder. Curious and aching, Ilzkhaal stretched out and brushed his fingertips over Kili’s back, feeling the basket-weave of whip scars stretch from the curve of his shoulders right down to the small of his back. He wished he could peel it off and expose the secrets that lay underneath.

“I wondered when you would wake up.” Ilzkhaal jumped at the murmur, withdrawing. Kili rolled over onto his back, head pillowed on one arm. “Sleep well?”

Ilzkhaal shook his head. “U-Um, not really.” He found Kili’s hand, broad and small, the knuckles littered with sparse hairs, and laced their fingers together. “You?”

Kili was silent for a moment. “Do you ever feel like you have thoughts that aren’t yours? And it feels as though somebody else has put them inside your head?” He’d had another dream again. It was the third night in a row this had happened - or the fourth, it was getting hard to tell. He was on the battlefield again, on his knees, with blood and bone-fragments all over his bare hands. Stretched out before him was the dead body of a dwarf in brilliant, gleaming mail and armour. His face had been mutilated, a sinking, flesh-coloured pit, the only familiar sign a tumbling mane of gold spilling out over the bloodied snow. Kili awoke with bile in his mouth, heart pounding in terror and disgust. It was getting worse with each passing night. He kept dreaming of killing his brother, the fantasies growing more explicit and disturbing, and he didn’t know why. It wasn’t what he wanted - not at _all_. Why did he feel like this?

“Huh?” The genuine confusion in Ilzkhaal’s voice make Kili’s chest constrict. The kid never had a bad thought in his life, how could he ever understand what Kili meant? “You mean, dreams?”

“Dreams are what you could call them.” Kili murmured. “But they feel… sharper. As though I can touch and taste and smell everything.”

Ilzkhaal frowned in dark. “What do you dream about?”

Kili froze, his grip tensing and then falling lax around Ilzkhaal’s bony fingers. “About… doing things I know I would never do.” He swallowed, wishing he could tell the whole truth. These secrets were burning a hole inside of him, through organs and bone and flesh. “Mutilating and hurting people.”

“Well, you have done that.” Ilzkhaal unhelpfully reminded Kili, voice quiet. The dwarf breathed in sharply, nails biting into grey skin. “Sorry - I didn’t...”

“I have.” Kili sat up, hands clasped in his lap. He swallowed hard, shoulders hunched over. “I have.” He stared at the lumps of his knees through the fur, his stomach knotting up at the uncomfortable memories. That must have been it - he had just superimposed Fili’s face over another victim’s body. It still didn’t comfort him.

“It’ll be dawn soon.” Ilzkhaal curled up on his side, staring at the arch of Kili’s scarred back against the warbled grey of the tent. Kili made a soft, non-committal noise response, resting his chin on folded knees. “I-I have to go.”

Kili let out a choked gasp, almost like a sob. “I know.” Ilzkhaal sat up, curling his longer, leaner body around his, resting his chin on Kili’s shoulder. “I’ve got something for you.” With a little jerk, Kili leaned forward, reaching into his pack. “I was going to give it to you before, but then that mess with Throquûrz happened and…” He sighed. “But anyway - here.” Quite clumsily, he thrust the leather bracelet he had made into Ilzkhaal’s open hands. “The braiding is a secret dwarvish thing, so you won’t find another one like it.”

Ilzkhaal ran his fingers over the leather, a lump in his throat. “You made this?” It was impossible to think how something so intricate and finely-crafted could come from those bulky little hands. Kili let out a half-laugh, reading his thoughts, nodding in the gloom.

“Here, let me…” Kili found his wrist and tied it, hoping he got the size right. It fit perfectly. “I know it’s not much but I thought I should give you something.” His hands lingered for a moment, feeling the sinews and muscles beneath soft, hairless skin.

“It’s beautiful.” Ilzkhaal hugged him tightly, trying not to think how this was a goodbye present. “I know we can't be together again, but maybe…” His breath was whisper-soft, daring to dream. “Afterwards, we could - just for a few minutes-”

“No.” Kili’s voice was flat and dead now. He’d already torched his own nerve-endings, made himself numb to it. It was the only way he could cope. “There won’t be an after, we’ve been through this.” He extracted himself from Ilzkhaal’s desperate embrace. “Get dressed, Ilz.”  

Ilzkhaal wiped at his face, hoping Kili wouldn’t notice in the dark, groping for his clothes. He could feel himself collapsing, breaking apart from the inside out. It wasn’t fair - he had lain awake for so long last night, picking over everything in his mind, trying desperately to understand why Kili was resigning himself to a future he didn’t want, a living nightmare that he would never rouse from. It was so obvious that Kili was keeping things from him - he told Ilzkhaal that there were secrets he was hiding, something so horrible he couldn’t trust the only person who still loved him to keep it.

He worried, a lot, about what Kili could be doing that was so awful and secret. Ilzkhaal put together the splintered pieces he had, and the half-formed picture he got left him terrified. Kili had lied to everybody except him about Azog. It left Ilzkhaal wondering what other secrets could be locked away in that strange little head. But the longer he thought, the more it hurt, the more terrified he grew and so he tried to push it all away, tried to just have this, this one last night that ticked away, trying to delay that inevitable goodbye in the morning. But it was here, and he wasn’t ready. He would _never_ be ready to say goodbye. They walked slowly, holding hands, giving each other sidelong glances, unsure of what to say. The sky was the colour of ash.

Kili rubbed his arm and winced. “It’s going to rain today.” Ilzkhaal stared up at the sky, streaked with clouds but not suggesting a downpour and back at Kili, sceptical. “My arm hurts. It always hurts when it’s about to rain, ever since it was broken.”

“I didn’t know you broke your arm.” Ilzkhaal tried to remember. “How did that happen?”

“Azog.” Kili replied tonelessly. “He…” Kili let go of the orc to make a breaking motion with his hands, as though he were snapping a carrot in half. “Back when I was foolish enough to think I could just run away from him.” He shivered at the memory, rolling the shoulder in its socket.  Ilzkhaal squeezed his arm, the good one, trying, and failing to conjure up some words of comfort and consolation.

There was more silence. Ilzkhaal was too miserable start a conversation and Kili was at a real loss for words. Nardur trotted along beside the pair, dashing forward when his nose caught a scent, waiting with tail wagging for his master to catch up, and bounding off again.

He tried to raise Ilzkhaal’s spirits. “I don’t regret this.” Ilzkhaal swallowed. “Really, I don’t. It helped me, Ilz. You helped me. A lot. I know it’s hard to understand and you feel left out, but trust me, I would be so much worse without you, I know it. You kept me holding on." Kili looked at him, the dawn light making his hair light up in threads of fire-red, glinting with sparks. He looked beautiful like this, framed in brass and gold. Beneath the ash, his skin would have looked the colour of rich honey in this light, rose-blushed at the cheek and nose. Ilzkhaal’s stomach softened, imagining it. Kili opened his mouth to speak, pink and white flashing in the mask of grey, before thinking the better of it and sealing his lips.

They walked in a stiff silence. Kili found a quiet space down the bottom of a rugged little hill.  Their backs were to the Lonely Mountain, the size of a thumb on the horizon. With Nardur nosing around and eventually stretching out along the ground, Kili found a stout rock, led Ilzkhaal over and stood on it so they were at eye-level.

He got in before Kili could speak. “I know, you’ve already decided I can’t handle this.” Ilzkhaal toyed with the bandage wrapped around his hand. “Maybe you’re right.” He fixed his gaze, staring at Kili. “But you said, that night, that you used to be just like me.”

“ _Exactly_.” Kili gripped his arms. “I was and look at me now. You don’t want to be anything like me. You can’t. I wish I could be like you and have a family to go home to, and see my mother again and not constantly be on edge. I wish I could just leave all of this, but I can’t. If I try to walk away from Bolg, I am dead. He will hunt me down and kill me, Ilzkhaal. I’ve already gone through this with Azog. I didn’t have a way out, six months ago. There was no escaping him for so long, and even when I tried, the damage had been done to me. I was… already dead, in a way. I’d become a different person. I was like you, I was just as young and pig-headed and naive as you are now, and if I had the chance to go back and undo this, I would in a heartbeat.” His words grew rushed, tumbling out of him. “You have a way out and you _need_ to take it. I never should have brought you anywhere near here. I should have ended this before we ever left, before I hurt you.”

His fingers brushed the bandages on Ilzkhaal’s wounded hand. “You’re going to walk away and come out of that battle tomorrow alive, a-and you’re going to go home and see your little boy.” Ilzkhaal was breathing rapidly, those short, sharp little breaths that foretold a bubbling panic. “Don’t be scared. I have faith in you, all right? Do you remember all the moves we went over that night?” Dumbly, Ilzkhaal nodded. “Good. Just - keep your head. That’s the most important thing. Don’t panic, just try and shut off as much of your brain as you can.” Kili had him by the elbows now, holding him in place. “Don’t stop, ever. Keep moving, even if you think you’re safe.”

“What if we lose?” Ilzkhaal whispered. Kili stared at him, mouth half-open and a tiny pulse throbbing visibly in his throat. He forced a smile, clapping him on the bony shoulder.

“Then you run. Run as fast as you can, and don’t stop.” Kili’s tiny smile faded, as quick as it came. He threw his arm around Ilzkhaal’s neck, bringing their foreheads together. “Go home. Go back to your family, Ilzkhaal. Nothing is ever more important than family.”

“And you?” Ilzkhaal drew back, so he could study Kili’s face. “What will you do if we lose?” Kili stared back, silent and closed-mouth. “What if Bolg… doesn’t make it?” Ilzkhaal lowered his voice to a whisper. “Would you come back with me, then?”

“Stop looking for hope.” Kili’s voice was harder than he intended it to be, and he winced, pausing before continuing, softening himself. “I’m not going to even pretend that it could happen. That’s not fair for either of us. You need to let this go, Ilz. You need to accept that it’s over.”

“How can you be so heartless?” He hissed and tried to draw back, but Kili held firm. “I-Is it that easy for you, is it? To just-just forget all about me, a-and let go of everything we had and just move on?”

Kili frowned. “I never said I would forget you. I couldn’t. You were the first...” He trailed off, staring awkwardly up at the sky. “You know. And I’m glad I said yes to that, really. I would have felt so _alone_ without you, Ilzkhaal. Having someone I could be close to, I needed it more than anything else.”

“Close to?” Ilzkhaal felt a flush of anger at that, indignance rising as though Kili had slapped him. Was this close for Kili, the secrets and mistrust? He thought he got there last night, that Kili would finally let him in but he just ran into another wall, one too high to climb and to sturdy to ever tear down. “ _Close to_?” So he took this chance, the last chance he would ever had, and ran with it. “Kili, all you have done recently is push me away.”

Kili froze. “I didn’t-”

“You won’t trust me. You keep secrets from me, you use me as somebody to keep you warm at night but you won’t care enough to let me in here.” He pushed at Kili’s chest, over his heart, hard. Kili wavered on the rock and almost fell, grabbing him for support. “I have told you _everything_ about myself, Kili, and you won’t even give me a few crumbs. It’s not fair.”

“How can you say that?” Kili was genuinely shocked. “I let you in on my biggest secret.”

“You didn’t ‘let me in’, I figured it out. There is a _difference_.” Ilzkhaal licked his lips, bracing himself. When Nazarg first begged him to look after Kili, to protect him from himself, Ilzkhaal thought he had gone mad from torture and imprisonment. Kili was wonderful, he was perfect. But the longer this all went on, the more he learned, the more tangled up Ilzkhaal became in his life, that dark side of Kili was starting to show itself, growing larger and larger and threatening to swallow up the Kili that Ilzkhaal thought he knew whole.

“I’ve said it over and over, Ilzkhaal, I’m just looking out for you-”

“ _Stop_!” His hands circled Kili’s wrists. Ilzkhaal wanted to scream until his throat was hoarse. He’d pounded and pounded against those walls until his hands were broken and bleeding, but it was so obvious now that he was never going to get in. “Don’t give me that bullshit excuse again. Do you even realise what you’re doing? Do you understand how much you are hurting me? I love you, I would do anything for you, and you just think that I’m some stupid kid who’s in way over his head and doesn’t deserve to be let in. Admit it.” Kili stared silently, biting down hard on a quivering lip. “You can’t treat people like this. I’m not a _plaything_. I have a heart a-and you’re breaking it.” He stopped to breathe, his chest heaving as it all spilled over, the frustration and heartache and terror at letting Kili go, the pain of being cast aside like this, after being held at arm’s length for so long. “If you have an ounce of respect for me, then you will be honest. Just for five fucking seconds, Kili, be _honest_ with me.”

Oh, why did he have to say all of this? Kili helplessly stood there, feeling sick. What was he supposed to blurt out and say? _I’m going to kill Bolg and save my brother?_ or, _I’ve been a traitor this whole time?_ There was no way that Ilzkhaal could ever be near him after that. He would hate Kili, dob him in to Bolg or Mautor, and Kili was too close to risk everything. There wasn’t anything he could say that would make this better. It hurt to be cold. It made him sick. But even though he knew he was being awful last night and this morning, Kili was Had he really been so awful? Kili tried to retrace the last few weeks, the wavering footsteps of their short relationship when they first met, to their cavorting around town, their nights spent together, the march. Cold realisation set in as he realised the only times he ever sought the orc out was when he wanted something - an alibi, a distraction. Had Ilzkhaal picked up on that?

Kili shook his head. “I can’t-” But Ilzkhaal didn’t wait to hear it. He pushed Kili away, the dwarf losing his balance and falling hard on the ground, sprawled out in dust and tussock-grass. Nardur got up on his haunches, rumbling in a growl with his ears flat and teeth bared. Kili got up one elbow and called him down, quickly, his command a short, sharp rasp in an otherwise silent morning. Ilzkhaal whirled around and tried to walk away but his knees weren’t working right, his head swam and he knew he was too close to breaking down to go anywhere right now. He sank down onto the same stout rock, head in his hands as the frustration and heartache became too much, the tears broke through.

He cried from sadness more than anger. He was so close to having something good and perfect, something that could actually last, but Kili had ruined it, ruined everything with his distance and heartlessness, and he didn’t even know _why_. Ilzkhaal hated what he'd become, knowing - hoping - that somewhere down in there was the dwarf who left him speechless with love, who was warm and funny and had just an edge about him. That was all he'd ever wanted.

Kili rose to his feet, brushing at the dust on his trousers. He stared at the hunched figure on the rock, every muffled sob like another shard of glass sticking in his chest. He sank to his knees before Ilzkhaal stretching out to touch his leg, but as soon as he made contact, Ilzkhaal pushed him away.

“Don't touch me." He sobbed,  keeping his face hidden.  “If you're n-not going to tell me the truth then just- go. Go back to Bolg and be his heartless assassin and leave me."

"I don't want to leave you like this." Kili’s voice trembled. “I'm so sorry Ilz.” He settled down at the rock my Ilzkhaal’s feet, as close as he dared. He blinked quickly, fighting the sting of guilt. "I'm sorry I used you.” Kili said, very softly. "I'm sorry I'm not what you thought I was."

"I never deserved to be treated like this." Ilzkhaal looked up from his splayed fingers, breath still heaving. “I'm not a piece you can move on a board, Kili."

"I know.” Kili sounded defeated. Everything was collapsing. He felt horrible for what he had done, his gut burning with self-loathing and guilt. Was he so wild now,  so emotionally damaged and gone that he couldn't even get close anymore? "I really care about you."

"You know what the saddest thing is? I know you actually do. This was you doing your best to love somebody." His head sank into his hands again. "That's so messed up." Dawn had broken over the horizon, staining the sky red. Erebor was black against the waves of fire, a broken, jagged piece of coal in the embers. Kili stared until he could pretend the stinging was from the bright light, listening to Ilzkhaal’s ragged breathing over his shoulder.

“I won't make it tomorrow." Kili finally spoke. The harsh gasps stilled. “I just... hoped, I guess, that things would be better if you just thought I'd be leaving."

"How do you even know that?" Ilzkhaal mumbled, feeling exhausted, wrung out. “Nobody knows that. You just want me to go away."

"No." Kili twisted to look up at him. "I don’t want you to go anywhere. You saw both sides of me like and still loved me. If I could, I would just stay with you, go back and just... be happy." Ilzkhaal listened in silence. "I hate being like this, feeling like there's something else inside of me. I know I'm a bad person but I would try to be better. I want to be better. That's all I want for myself."

"That's all I want too." Ilzkhaal reached down, touching one of the few spots that wasn't girded with iron and bone, the back of his neck. He felt pity at that point, after crying out his anger and hatred. It was a battle that he had lost, fighting for Kili’s love. He was too worn-down and hurt to feel anything other than pity, for himself, for Kili. Ilzkhaal pitied Kili’s heartlessness, his cold, emotionless detachment from the world. It was so inexpressibly _sad_. “There was so much more I wanted to do with you. So many places I wanted you to see, like the steaming pools and the ice-bridge and the tunnel-maze beneath the town. You didn't get a chance to meet any of my aunts or uncles or other cousins or old Gran. They would have loved you Kili, they would have welcomed you as part of the family, dwarf or no."

Part of the family. Kili drew up one knee and rested his chin on it, staring at the distant mountain. He was so close to his brother, there were just a few miles between them, but in his heart, he felt painfully separate and apart from Fili. His life was mapped out from here - he was a prince, and when the time came he would be a king, he would lead them to greatness and be everything that he was ever destined to be, and Kili… Kili was a criminal, a murderer who slaughtered innocent people and fled in the night, who was chased for weeks across the desolate wastes, who resembled an orc more than a dwarf. They wouldn’t want him. Thorin would most likely hand him over to Thranduil or the men of Lake-Town and let them exact their punishment. Even if he had the grace to spare Kili from an execution he justly deserved, what kind of life could he even lead there? He found the old necklace at his throat and pressed his thumb against the sharpened point, feeling Azog bite into the callused flesh. He was wild now, a savage, a monster. Everything he was terrified of becoming.  

The temptation burned, making the blood rush. Part of the family. Being loved again after the months of imprisonment, the isolation from everything he had ever known lit a fire inside of Kili. It had filled him with hope that maybe he could be saved from this. That there could be, somewhere, a home for him to go to. Home wasn't in Erebor. It wasn't with Fili, no matter how hard he wished for it. Was there any way for him to have it both ways? Kili was breathless. Could he save his brother and still come back here? Was he smart enough to make that happen?

 _Fuck your brother,_ a little voice whispered in the back of his mind. _He left you for dead, he renounced his kinship with you. He doesn't even deserve to be saved, not at the cost of your own life._

 _Shut up!_ Kili pressed his fingers over his eyes until they blossomed white and throbbed, hoping the voice would go away. Fili stood up for him, believed in him. Fili was his brother and he wouldn’t jeopardise him for anything else in the word. He would let a thousand Ilzkhaals go if it meant saving Fili’s life.

“I wish things were different. I wish I had the strength - the heart, to do things differently.” Kili whispered. “I just hope that… when all of this is over, you’ll still be able think well of me.” Ilzkhaal looked down at him, roughly dragging the back of his hand over his wet eyes. “Promise you won’t hate me?”

Ilzkhaal slowly crawled down into the dust beside Kili. “I couldn’t ever hate you.” Terror blossomed in his chest at the words. Why was Kili so adamant on all of this? Why was he scared that Ilzkhaal would hate him? “Come here.” The suspicion which had started out as a niggle, a twitch, was a throbbing roar, but he couldn't let this be their goodbye. He couldn’t let it be bitter and resentful. With his heart breaking, he angled Kili’s face towards his own, with the chin tilted up, jaw cradled in both hands. Ilzkhaal kissed each of Kili’s closed eyes in turn, softly, lightly, getting a powder-thin trace of ash on his mouth. “I still think you're beautiful.” He breathed against Kili’s lips. “I hope you can live to see that, Kili. You don't have to be like this." It was a sad, wistful kiss. Kili threw his arms around Ilzkhaal’s neck, feeling the press of his warm body through his own exoskeleton of iron and stolen bones.

“If you change your mind afterwards, come and find me." Ilzkhaal’s voice quivered as Kili pulled away. "I'll always let you in, Kili. Always. Just... let me in too, if you do."

"I don't deserve it." Slowly, Kili stood up. He held out a gloved hand to his friend, looking sombre, trying to elegantly side-step Ilzkhaal’s offer. "If I do miraculously make it out tomorrow, I won’t ever forget you, Ilz. You stopped me from falling apart."

 _Did I?_ Ilzkhaal held his tongue and took the dwarf's hand, unable to resist touching him one last time, a hand on the side of Kili’s neck. He felt the tendons shifting as Kili swallowed, feeling like a failure. If this was what Kili considered a victory of his heart, what had happened before? He crushed Kili in one final, desperate embrace, his chin on top of the dwarf’s head. “I mean it.” He mumbled into Kili’s hair. “If you change your mind - _always_.”

Kili didn’t believe him. How could he? He pulled back carefully. Already, he felt strangely distant and separate, watching as Ilzkhaal stared down at his shoes, his skinny shoulders bowed with grief. “Go be with your cousin.” Kili rasped. “Get through this and go home,Ilzkhaal. I’ll just get you hurt again, you have to see that. I’m not worth it.”

“G-Goodbye, then.” Ilzkhaal choked on the words. Kili squeezed his hand for the last time, trying and failing to smile.

“Goodbye.” They spoke in Westron, their voices soft and quiet. Ilzkhaal shoved his hands into his pockets, shaking his head slowly as he turned. Audibly he sighed, the breath breaking into a sob that he couldn’t swallow back. He stopped to briefly stroke Nardur’s ears, looking back at Kili, who stood with his hands loose at his sides, willing back the returning sting that threatened to leave tracks down his cheeks. They saw the misery reflected in each other’s eyes, the grief that ached like a death.

Kili sank down on the rock as Ilzkhaal walked away. His hands were shaking and he could feel it all welling up, about to break through, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He hated himself, his heartlessness, his merciless distance and coldness. Ilzkhaal was right - he really was broken. He’d fucked this up himself, thinking he could have it both ways, wanting closeness but never treating him right, never trusting him, never letting him in. He sat with his shoulders hunched, resting his elbows on his knees with his head bent. The watery sun seared his closed eyelids, but there didn’t seem to be any heat behind it. He felt frozen.

Nardur came up to him and rested his giant head in Kili’s lap, licking half-heartedly at his wrist. Kili stroked his ears where Ilzkhaal had before, soft as rabbit's fur and flecked with mud and dust. “I am horrible, aren’t I, boy.” He whispered, rubbing at his eyes before the tears could fall. “I didn’t deserve somebody like that, not after what I did.” Kili stared at the mountain now, so distant and yet closer in a way than ever before. He’d made his bed now, and it was cold and empty.

It was such a risk. Kili thought about everything he had told Ilzkhaal, both consciously and unconsciously, how much the kid had picked up on, how close he came to possibly figuring it all out. It was so, so, risky, and yet Kili felt in his heart that it was worth it. Even though he didn’t love Ilzkhaal that way, even though he had done things that filled him with shame, it was still worth it to Kili. He wouldn’t have gone back and done that differently. Other things, yes, but not that. As stupid and selfish as it was to say, Kili needed it. Ilzkhaal was right, being alone was awful. It was terrifying.

The hardest part was trying to convince himself that he did the right thing, in letting Ilzkhaal go. He _wasn’t_ one of these people - he was on Fili’s side, he was good, he wanted to kill Bolg and bring an end to this blood feud between the two houses, and this was the only way he could do it. Bringing somebody else into it, bringing love into it and everything that came along behind, that wasn’t part of the mission. Shit, he was heartless, thinking of it like that, as though Ilzkhaal was just a distraction, a passing indulgence. He wasn’t. He was the closest thing to happiness Kili had felt in months.

Part of the family. The words wouldn’t leave him alone. Kili stood up and stared very hard at the empty space where Ilzkhaal had vanished. He would have been happy. He would have loved and been loved and had a home. That was what hurt so much - seeing that tantalising future before him, having the elements of everything he ever wanted, just in a different skin, and turning away from it.

He just had to remember who he was doing this all for, and hope with every fibre of his being that he wouldn't fail. Coming so far, being as close as he was and knowing there was nothing for him at the end filled him with a sort of emptiness. This was costing him everything - the love and trust and friendship he had carefully built with these people, his freedom, his happiness. And he did it all for Fili. The ache of regret in his heart seemed insignificant compared to that flooding warmth of those memories of his brother. It was worth it, Kili told himself. He would let rivers run black with blood to save Fili, slaughter every last orc between here and the southern reaches of the world if that was what it took, or die trying, and he wouldn't regret a thing, not for a single moment.

He held on to that thought repeated it over and over in his head, like a hypnotic chant, in the hopes that eventually he could somehow enchant himself into completely believing it.


	101. Heartless

They were given a few streets near the entranceway to the city, in one of the poor suburbs that Dís was never allowed to go near as a dwarrow. Thorin had disappeared, and it was Balin who directed them and oversaw the occupation. He didn’t look at her. Dís walked down the street now, watching elves and men trying to cram themselves into a holes made for creatures half their height, stooping and muttering, picking through the remnants of these peasant homes and trying to light the long-dead fires with whatever coal hadn’t been burned up.

Thranduil had what would be called the best building in the street, an old pub with five rooms above it. They pulled the tables to one side and lined the pub with makeshift beds. Upstairs, Thranduil took a room for himself and Legolas, leaving one for Tauriel, one for Gandalf and Bilbo, one for Bain and Bard, and one for Ori, Fili, and Nori. Dís stood in the last little room, on ethat struggled to fit three, which had a single bed, a chair, and a fire. It was a tiny garret, the smallest of the four with a sloped ceiling that Gandalf or Thranduil couldn’t even crouch in and a window as small as a dinner-plate overlooking the street, missing a pane of glass.

It was Thranduil who mentioned that it was illegal for a dam to sleep in the same room with a male who wasn’t her husband or immediate family, and that Dain would be aching to find something to hang her for. Dís had completely forgotten, they all had, and infuriatingly, she knew the elf-king was right. Nori and Ori were willing to clear out their room and sleep down with the solder (although they didn't want _Ori_ ), but it was Tauriel who stepped forward and said she had the space.

They had been circling one another, curious and unsure. Each saw in one another a possibility, a what-if, and it was frightening, in a way. They found one another intimidating in their utter differences. Tauriel was a captain and a warrior, who had never stepped foot outside the ancient Greenwood before these last few months, Dís a wife and mother who had crossed the world all on her own. They undressed for bed with their backs to each other and curled up under their furs and blankets, as far apart as they dared in the cold.

“Thank you.” Dís finally murmured as they lay distantly side-by-side, watching the lanternlight shift on the sagging ceiling beams. “You didn’t have to let me stay.”

“Makes sense for the girls to stick together.” Her sardonic voice made Dís smile in the underground night.

Near the the dawn, Dís awoke from a short, fitful sleep. She lay awake and felt the body near her breathe in and out, low and heavy with sleep. The room was black as pitch, and she could smell that old, dusty cave-air, could feel it fill her lungs, and empty, and fill again. She thought, or perhaps imagined, she could smell smoke, charred wood, skin and hair and bone.

Yes, this was Erebor.

Dís worked by touch, feeling out dwarvish mail and heavy furs against light linens and leather, the heavy and bulky from the graceful and air-light.  She dressed blindly and made her way downstairs, fingertips brushing polished stone, listening to the warped floorboards creak beneath her feet.

The front room was thick and dim with sleep, so Dís made her way to the kitchen in the back, hoping that the fire they lit last night still clung stubbornly to life. Thranduil was already there, alone, crouched like a praying mantis on a low dwarvish stool, his thoughtful face ember-red. He didn't wear glittering robes or mail, just a cream-coloured shirt rolled at the sleeves, made from silk and a pair of emerald breeches. Dís hovered awkwardly in the doorway, shadowed, unsure if she should stay or go.

"Close the door behind you, you're letting the heat out." His voice was rich as honey, slick as oil. It was easy to see how he had such a handle on her son. Dís shut the door behind her and remained standing, palms splayed near the rusty stove top. "This part of the town is remarkably intact. You'd be forgiven for thinking its inhabitants simply packed up and left one morning."

"Smaug was interested only in gold." She could see fire, imprinted on her closed eyelids.  “There was none of that to be found around here." A little pot of water steamed on the iron stove. “These holes in the mountain are so small, I doubt he could get a claw in." The door was charred and burned, though,  a barricade from the flood of fire Smaug poured down the street over a century ago.

Thranduil looked right at her now, blue eyes gleaming in his flame-kissed face. "There's nothing anybody could have done to stop him."

Dís nodded, feeling as dry as dust. “I know."

The water bubbled. Thranduil made tea,  a pinch of leaves in two squat clay cups.  Dís accepted it with a silent nod and leaned in, steam furling over her face. It was as brown as mud, coursing into her belly like liquid fire. They drank silently. Thranduil ran his thumb over the carving of interlocked squares and diamonds over the rim.

While they drank, Fili trudged down the staircase, exhausted, joints aching, but unable to sleep. He hoped to stoke the remnant coals, maybe get some water from the one pump that still worked and brew some elvish tea. There was a rim of red light under the door, indicating someone else had the same idea. Fili clutched the brass knob when Thranduil’s voice filtered through the wood, making him freeze. “Do you trust Thorin?"

Dís swallowed her tea, thinking on it for a moment. “Why does it matter what I think? You don't want to put _me_ on the throne."

Thranduil sighed. “Don't be combative, please, Dís." She simply stared down at her tea. “It’s a shame. If you were an elf, or perhaps even a woman, I would."

"You would what?" Licking his lips, Fili pressed his ear to the door, listening in with shallow, silent breaths.

"I would put you on the throne. Queens have ruled alone before, or above their husbands." Dís looked at him, wondering just what game he was trying to play. It was hard, with Thranduil. Going on the offensive with him just meant she would get shut out and sneered at, but she didn’t want to get too close. Any piece of information she gave Thranduil now could easily be turned against her down the line. "You would have been very good."

"Kings have a habit of dying before their time.” She remained cold, unforgiving at his words. “If you’re trying to flatter me, Thranduil, you’re going about it the wrong way.” But she did wish, sometimes, that she had been born a boy. It seemed as though it would have solved so many of their problems, if she could stand at Thorin’s side, a brother and an equal, rather than a sister, a lesser, someone to be locked away and protected (she called it _caged_ ) and hidden from the world. Sometimes she wondered what would have happened to them, but one thought always dragged her back to reality, made her realise that she wouldn’t have changed a single thing if she had the chance. “I’m a mother to Fili and Kili. They’re everything to me, worth more than any gold or power or freedom that I could ever imagine.” Dís gulped down the last of her tea. “And before he left, Thorin swore the same thing to me. He swore he would retake this mountain for Fili’s sake. He swore he would protect Kili at all costs. Nothing were more important to him, he had said, than those boys.” There was a lump in her throat as she lifted her head, swelling with the rage and injustice of it all. “He’s broken both promises.”

Thranduil, unable to keep maintaining that gut-wrenching stare, looked down at his shoes, knees drawn up almost to his chest in the low stool. “I know him better than he knows himself. I want to trust him. But no, I can’t. I love him, still, and I think I always will in a way, no matter how many sons and brothers he takes away from me - but can I trust him to put Fili or Kili ahead of his throne? Can I trust him to look beyond that gold and shake the ghost of Thror from his back?” She shook her head. “Trusting Thorin Oakenshield is a death wish.”

“Then why are you here?” Fili’s hand was slick with sweat on the doorknob. It was growing hard to hear them talk over the vicious pounding of his heart. Did his mother really think that? Was she so done with Thorin, so utterly jaded, that she thought him beyond redemption? Fili wanted to rush in, scream at her, shake her until he saw sense.

“The same reason you are.” Dís stretched out her short legs, curling the toes and rolling the ankles. “For Fili. We’re both trying to advise him, although your motives are less noble. If he has the chance to reconcile with his uncle, be it in counsel or on the battlefield, it can only possibly work in your favour. Thorin won’t try to attack us in here, we outnumber him too much and our archers would shoot through their front line. No, this is about Fili. If he succeeds in regaining Thorin’s favour, then they are allies and you will get your deal with no more arguments. If Fili loses, you think he will renounce all love he had for Thorin and your allegiance with him will be stronger than ever. And if Thorin dies in battle, you can put Fili on the throne and make sure he does exactly as you tell him.”

Thranduil looked amused as she laid out his supposed plans. “What if _Fili_ dies in battle?”

Dís’ eyes flashed. “You won’t let that happen. He’s too valuable.”

Fili listened through the wood with his eyes shut, torn between fleeing before he heard anymore and bursting in, telling them they were both wrong, wrong, wrong, and they knew nothing about him. “So, assuming you are right,” Thranduil drawled the word for emphasis, although he knew, and Fili knew, and Dís knew, that she was very close to the truth, “Do you think Thorin will reconcile with Fili?”

“No.” She didn’t hesitate, didn’t need to think it over. “Attempted treason is a hard charge to forgive, and Thorin was never known for forgiveness. He will carry that hurt until the day that he dies and he will never let it go. Even if he were to overcome that hurt, he can’t publicly pardon Fili for planning to overthrow him.”

“So why did you agree to this, if you think it’s futile?”

“He thought this was the right thing to do,” Dís was as hard as iron, unrelenting, “and I’ll support any decision he makes.”

“Fili values your advice above all else. You could have discouraged him if you thought he was making a mistake.” Thranduil was giving her that icy, concentrated stare that he was so well-known for, trying to size her up, pick her apart.

“He isn’t a mouthpiece, Thranduil.” There was a sharpness to her voice, one that made Fili’s heart swell through the door. He pressed his ear harder against the beaten wood, feeling the shift of the grain against his fingertips. “He’s a grown dwarf who’s come this far on his own. You won’t have to worry about him being a Mama’s boy who comes running to me for constant counsel.”

“You were less accommodating when you found out how much gold he’d promised to me.” Dís stared through the slit in the stone oven at the red-hot coals, biting on that soft, open flesh on the inside of her lip.

“I was angry.” Dís kept her voice low. “Angry and tired. I’m tired, Thranduil. My brother and eldest son are at war with one another, my cousin reaching out for our throne, my husband’s people want to take Fili away, and my youngest son has made enemies of everyone in this mountain.” Fili listened with half-lidded eyes, wishing he could reach through the wood and touch her, comfort her, protect her. “I never, _ever_ wanted this. I was happy to stay in Ered Luin forever. I was content with what we had.”

“But Thorin was greedy.”

“No.” Dís shook her head, that softened edge hardening again. She came too close to giving herself away. “It wasn’t greed that caused him to do this. It was desperation. Do you think he did this for gold and glory? Thranduil, the reason Thorin did this is still camped out in that valley, refusing to let go. You’re just like everybody else. You think Durin’s Folk are greedy and gold-mad and heartless. We are _not_. Thorin, Fili, Kili and I, we all loved each other once, more than we could ever love this dead mountain and her empty promises.” She grew in a ragged breath. “I am sick of people accusing us of being heartless.”

Thranduil fell silent then, and Fili lifted his head away, realising that the pair were done talking. He stepped back, retraced his footsteps back to his shared room with the darkness thick as a woollen blindfold over eyes. The indignance of being talked about like that, of his mother saying he thought was wrong for trusting Thorin, was cloaked in her final words. They weren’t heartless. This wasn’t about the gold in the beginning. It was about keeping their family together. Fili stopped and leaned against the passage wall in the darkness, temple against wood. Just because they had had fallen apart, with Kili missing, with Fili and Dís traitors against the crown and Thorin losing sight of himself, it didn’t mean they couldn’t be put back together, did it?

Fili had always refused to let go of the idea that they could heal, all four of them, and now that Thorin was letting them return to Erebor, now that they were tentative allies, it could be Fili’s chance to regain his uncle’s faith and trust. His mother might have thought Thorin beyond reconciliation, but Fili still held on. He still believed, however vaguely and distantly, that the three of them, at least, could still be here together. He believed, honestly, they could still be a family.

The others were still asleep. Fili lay down on his pallet as quietly as he could, listening to Nori and Ori breathe through the thick darkness. He missed Kili then, so fiercely it left his chest aching. He had pretended that Kili was still here, that he would be back any day now. But the weeks stretched out into months, late autumn into midwinter, and it was getting harder and harder to pretend that Kili wasn’t gone. All he had was one grimy little picture and eighty years of memories. It wasn’t enough.

Fili slept briefly, dreaming that he ran through a dense forest of gnarled pinetrees and jagged valleys with Kili’s voice in the distance, screaming out for help, but no matter how fast Fili ran, his brother’s voice grew further and further away.

* * *

Kili was right. It rained around mid-morning and continued for several hours, occasionally turning sleety. The dusty ground turned to mud beneath them and steam rose in massive clouds as the army of orcs continued in their relentless march towards Erebor.

Alternating between riding Nardur and walking alongside him, Kili was very quiet. He was thinking about home again, his old home in the west, with _Amad_ and his brother and uncle and all his friends. Pieces of his former life filtered through in odd, disconnected fragments and images. He was reminded of the oddest things, like his collection of minerals from picking around in the seams of exhausted mines and at the shores of underground rivers and lakes, several dozen in unusual shapes and colours - pink and amethyst quartz, amber, turquoise, jasper and malachite. Thorin, with his critical dwarvish eye, said they weren’t worth anything but Kili polished and kept them, thinking the streams and layers of colour more beautiful than the glass-clear gems everybody else fussed over.

Kili liked the big, fist-sized stones, solid and hardy. It was Ori who liked to pick at and examine the little things, like the snail-shells he and Ori used to sometimes find when they went out into the forests for drawing and archery practice. They were made of paper-thin bone, mottled brown and green and black, the snails inside long ago picked clean. Ori used to draw them, fascinated at the spirals that curled outwards, the rings of white and yellow in those deep earthy colours. Kili was too heavy-handed and careless, he would accidentally step on the empty shells, or drop them, or hold them too hard until they cracked. He felt like those shells now, fragile and empty. Wallowing ankle-deep in the mud, Kili kept his eyes low, not wanting to look at the sky, the mountain, Bolg.

His silent broodiness was interpreted as plotting by a certain enemy of his. Grishthak kept an eye on him, suspicious and mistrusting. He was convinced now that there was something else, something Kili was hiding, borne out of an arrogant desire to be proved right as much as his skepticism of Kili’s allegiance to Bolg and to the orcish movement. He was still deeply rattled by the events of last night, with Kili murdering Throquûrz and Bolg just sitting there, pleased with what the dwarf had done. The message was clear - don’t fuck with Kili. Bolg was too involved now to see it, too intent on using Kili to break Thorin Oakenshield, beating that dwarvish king to death with his own severed arm.

He had seen dwarves broken before, many times. He’d seen the young prince, the brother of Thorin, reduced to a senseless, screaming lump of meat. He’d seen, helped, the base reduction of proud warrior-dwarves who had been pulled out of hunting-parties and scout-missions on the edges of the Misty Mountains and then broken down with weeks and months of slow, meticulous torture until they’d lost their minds. He’d seen Thrain. He knew what a broken dwarf looked like, and Kili wasn’t broken. Azog had been either brilliant or foolish, building Kili up instead of breaking him, keeping that spark alive and feeding it, cutting away that dwarvish life and filling him up with something else. It seemed incomprehensible that Azog, fearless, cunning, unshakeable Azog, would meet his end by someone like Kili, that his project would turn on him and outsmart him. Maybe that was why everybody was so ready to accept Kili’s fealty to Azog and Bolg. Nobody liked to think of Azog, even more glorious in death, as imperfect.

If Kili did turn out to be a traitor,  Grishthak would be the first to convict and punish him for it. Maddeningly,  he could do no more than that,  watching and waiting and nursing his suspicions. 

* * *

They ate breakfast and mingled in the front room, passing around buckets of ice-cold water from the wells and drinking deep with those squat little cups, splashing over their hands and freezing their mouths and bellies and fingers. It was one of Dain's soldiers that came bearing summons - Thorin's diminished Company were too close to the traitors, too susceptible to contamination. The armed dwarf bowed to Thranduil and Gandalf, scowled at Fili and his knot of turncoats, and left.

"They hate me." Fili whispered as Thranduil popped the seal on the parchment. Silently, Dís squeezed his arm.

"Esteemed greetings, new dawn between our people, building of friendships through adversity... He is going on."

"Balin probably wrote it then." Dís remarked. "Thorin never had the patience to bow and scrape in his letters." Thranduil's lip twitched in a half-smile, one he quickly smoothed out.

“Ah.” Thranduil’s eyes flickered up to Fili for a moment. “Here we go. I’m to meet him in an hour in the Hall by the Front Gate, with- hm.”

“What? What is it?” Dís’ grip on Fili’s arm tightened.

“I am welcome to bring Gandalf and Bard, of course, but that’s it. Thorin will not accept any outside parties into any negotiations.” Thranduil folded the letter neatly in half. “No Fili.”

“Oh, that _stubborn_ old fool!” Dís stepped forward, snatching the letter. “Let me see that, surely he doesn’t come out and ban him from coming.”

“Not outright, but the implication is there.” Fili stared at the floor, crushed. “He doesn’t consider Fili part of this counsel.”

“Are you going to listen to him?” Bard sat with his arms folded over his knees, hunched over in the too-small chair. Dís scanned the page quickly and held the finished letter out to Fili, who read it with his brow furrowed.

“Giving Thorin an excuse to break it off before it’s begun is dangerous.” Gandalf was cleaning his pipe. “It may not be wise to toy with his ego.” Thranduil stared at the letter in Fili’s hand, picking over the words in his mind and trying to work it all out. “We shouldn’t disobey his wishes."

“We won’t be.” Thranduil had a biting edge to his voice. He expected this, waited for this, and now he was ready for everything to play out. Dís insisted Thorin still loved his nephew. Fili was insistent that he could make Thorin see the light. Well, now it was time to find all of that out. “Gandalf, Bard and Fili, get dressed. No obvious weapons, we can't go in looking like we want a fight."

“You want me there?” Fili remembered Thranduil and _Amad_ in the early hours of the morning, the distrust in Thorin. “I thought you would want to spare me the disappointment.”

“Disappointment? Fili, you’re the only one capable of making him see sense. Go, get ready.”

" _Amad_ , you're coming too. I won't do it without you." Fili pulled at her arm, but Dís’ face had gone tense, and she gave a little shake of her head.

"No." She couldn't, not after the way she had left things with Thorin. Dís knew he would fly into a rage when he saw her, and she would respond in kind. She had been speaking the truth this morning when she said Fili was old enough to make his decision. She couldn't be there, holding his hand. "This is your fight. You don't need me there, Fili. You'll be fine on your own."

Fili couldn't speak. He wanted to protest - he  _needed_ her there, needed her advice, but as he looked at his mother, he realised she was right. He needed to face Thorin by himself. "Well," He swallowed hard, trying to sound confident. "I’ll see you soon." Fili ran upstairs, getting his head around it all. It was so disobedient of Thranduil to do this - it was evident from the letter that he didn’t want Fili there. What was he going to say when he saw his nephew trying to sneak in through some loophole? Surely, they must have known Fili wanted to go. Why didn’t they outright say he couldn’t?

Unless…

Fili dared to hope. Perhaps it was some sort of secret message, slipped right under Dain’s nose. Of _course_ Thorin wouldn’t be expected to invite somebody who tried to overthrow him, that was ridiculous. Was Fili just reaching here, clinging to the delusion that Thorin still loved him? Maybe he needed to give up. Maybe his mother was right, he was never going to be forgiven for what he had done. How could he expect to, after his inexcusable treason?

”I hope you know what you're doing." Gandalf warned before making his own way to his room.

"I'm not excluding Fili. He's the only one with any sway over Thorin. I saw Thorin looking at him last night. He regrets what he's done."

"You think you can pull enough at his heartstrings." Dís understood. This wasn't about Fili, not really. This was about getting a handle on Thorin. Thranduil wanted to play them against each other. Dís held the letter now, turning it over and over in her hands. “Do you honestly think it will work?"

Thranduil fixed his gaze on her, piercing and still with those impossibly blue eyes. She was starting, very quickly, to hate it. "You're the one who insists Thorin Oakenshield isn't heartless."

* * *

Thorin ate his breakfast alone in that little room, with Fili’s necklace stowed safely away in his pocket. He ate slowly and procrastinated as he got dressed, as though he could slow down that incessant march of time. Perhaps the world would wait for him to come to a solid decision and this uncertainty wouldn’t plague him like this.

Balin knocked on the door as Thorin brushed the last of the crumbs away, sitting with his head between his drawn-up knees. “Enter.” He mumbled, listening to the soft scrape of Balin’s leather shoes, the creaking of ancient hinges.

“Are you ready?” Thorin didn’t look up. He felt like a sulking child hiding from a punishment. “Dain and his son are waiting already. The others will be here any moment now.”

“As ready as I’ll ever be, with two parties fighting for my crown and no possible way of appeasing both.” He didn’t sound confident. Thorin looked up at Balin, watching that old, lined face.

“Thorin...” Balin sat down beside his king, wincing as his knees creaked. “Whatever decision you make, I will stand beside you, and fight with you, to whatever end you dictate. Nothing shall ever sway my loyalty.”

That was Balin’s way of telling him he was in the wrong. “Tell me.” Thorin felt Balin’s warmth seeping through his clothes, hot as a furnace after these days, weeks, of endless cold. “Do you think I did the right thing? As someone who knows me, knows Erebor and my father and grandfather and Dain, have I taken the right path?”

Balin tugged at his beard, wrestling with the question for some moments before tentatively replying. “You haven’t been yourself for some weeks now. The others think it’s about the Arkenstone and dragon-sickness and what have you, but I know better. It’s because it’s changed, the reason why you’re here. You can’t give this to Fili and you need something else to fight for. You were doing all of this to protect your family and now that they’re gone, you feel lost.”

“I didn’t ask about them.” Thorin’s voice was tight, and Balin knew he struck a nerve. “I asked about me.”

“There’s no separating them from this. This has _always_ been about them. You didn’t change when Smaug died or when we entered Erebor. You changed the night we thought Kili had died, when you lost someone who swore to protect with your life, who you loved more than the gold or the crown.” Balin brushed his cheek, remembering that old wound. “You were never the same after that, Thorin. You let that drive you and Fili apart, ever since Mirkwood.” Thorin listened silently. “And when we failed to help Kili and we… had to let him go, I could see how that hurt you. It was really the beginning of the end.”

“The end of what?” Thorin looked at him, searching for answers, begging to be let in.

“Of the old you. Of the Thorin we all swore to follow.” He spoke very softly now, aware his words could be interpreted as an insult, or worse, a threat.

“I had to be our king, Balin.” Thorin’s voice rumbled, and Balin knew he’d gone too far. “I had every right to protect our sovereignty from armed enemies at our doorstep. I will never apologise for that.”

“I would have done the same. And if Fili had come to me instead of Dwalin, I would have turned him in too.” Balin wasn’t trying to just placate Thorin, he really would have. There was no doubt in Balin’s mind that Fili had been in the wrong, that he was foolish and naive to think that he could assume his uncle’s title and power and expect to get away with it. “Thranduil is just trying to bully you out of your wealth and you shouldn’t let him. You can’t put a price on our resilience and honour, and there’s no amount of gold, big or small, that he can try and buy his peace with. Let him fight inside Erebor, but don’t promise a farthing yet.” Balin stopped speaking, letting that all sink in for Thorin, hoping his encouragement was enough to pull his king out of this awful funk.

“So, yes, you did do the right thing by Erebor.” Balin rested a hand on Thorin’s cloaked shoulder. “Thror would be proud if he could see you.” Those words were all correct, but there was a hollowness to them. Thorin didn’t feel proud or gratified. Balin was right - he was the king that Erebor needed, the king Thror would have been proud to call a successor. He had done everything right by his grandfather’s memory, but it was a cold comfort to him now. “There’s only one question you can ask yourself, Thorin. With all this politics and bad blood and scheming, is there anything more important than being King Under the Mountain?”

Thorin’s mouth was dry, his voice as soft as a whisper, as though he’d been screaming for hours and hours, until his throat was raw and hoarse. “I don’t know, Balin. I don’t know anymore.”


	102. The Peace-Maker

It was a broad table, a solid slab of granite that had been carved out of a protrusion in the roch, smoothed and polished to a sheen. If Thorin lay upon it and stretched out his arms, he still wouldn’t meet it end to end. He stood with his hands behind his back, studying the lines embedded in the stone, carved three inches deep, some broad as brushstrokes, some as thin as a hair. It was one of the marvels of Erebor, this initially simple-seeming piece of stone. Those carved lines were the lines of her body, a picture and a map of every slope, every known tunnel and stream, every ridge, every underground street and cave. Her skin of snow and had been peeled off, exposing her insides in a cross-section, a spider’s web of hair-thin lines leading into the valleys at her feet.

Thorin ran his fingers along the River Running where it welled up beneath the body of the mountain and bubbled forth, winding through the foothills and coursing over the edge of the dwarvish world. Thorin’s mouth felt dry as he stared it, memories coming back to him of barges and trade-ships groaning under the weight of silks and wine, of strange mechanical inventions from the East, of perfumes and spices that left his head swimming. This map was a lie; they weren’t alone in this world. It wasn’t cut off at the edges. He let his hand fall over the edge of the table, down into the darkness of a flat, unmarked floor.

The metallic clink of Dain’s ironshod shoes echoed through the room, a steady bell that tolled his approach. Thorin lifted his head and tried to assemble his features into something resembling calm. Beneath his beard, Dain’s face was tense and on edge. His son stood behind him, and Thorin found he couldn’t bear to look at him. Balin was hot on his heels, looking deep in thought, distant and fractured. He wondered what his old friend was thinking. “They’re here.”

Thorin pressed his palm over the part of the stone map that bore the throne of Erebor, inlaid with fragment of opal to signify the glittering Arkenstone. The seed-sized gem pressed against the fleshy web of tendons between thumb and forefinger. He drew strength from it. The throne, the Arkenstone, the gold, the mountain, it was all still his. “Let them come in, then.”

They filtered in like tiny riverstones. Thranduil, Gandalf, Bard, and _Fili._ Thorin drew his hand back in his shock, leaving the image of the throne exposed and unprotected. Dain, who had obviously already seen his treacherous cousin, stood at Thorin’s right side with an ugly, smouldering expression. Balin stood on the left. Thorin caught his eye, silently demanding answers, but Balin had no explanation for this.

“Why is he here.” Thorin wouldn’t look in Fili’s direction or address him by name. “I said Thranduil, Gandalf and Bard only. I don’t have time to speak to traitors.”

“Fili is here as a close friend and ally.” Thranduil towered over the stone map, standing at the northern point on the compass. The room was filled with lanterns and candles, the light a burning yellow. “You understand why I consider him extremely important in these negotiations.”

“He has no place here.” Thorin’s voice trembled, and they all heard it. He stopped short for a moment, feeling shame flood his stomach at his faltering weakness, and took a deep breath before continuing. “Allowing him to stay condones his treachery. I can never allow that.”

“If Fili leaves, then so do we.” The elf-king refused to toy with Thorin or beat around the bush.

“Then go, and face the orcs exposed in the foothills!” Dain spat. “Don’t pretend you have the upper hand in this, Thranduil. _We_ are housing _you._ ”

“Peace, Dain.” Thorin locked eyes across the table with Thranduil, trying to read that piercing stare. “It’s far too early in the day to resort to ultimatums.” What was Thranduil’s game here? Thorin refused for a moment to believe that his defense of Fili was in anyone’s interest but his own. Fili had no real power, no armed forces of his own, no gold to trade. He was a failure and an outcast, whose only possible route to success lay in Thorin’s failure and defeat. Having him around set Thorin on edge for a number of reasons. The heartsick feeling of loss when he saw that flash of gold on the edge of his vision, the cold press of all those countless memories of love and light that crowded in his head, they left him feeling hypersensitive and fragile. He couldn’t keep his mind clear with Fili here because all he wanted to do was both embrace and slaughter him.

Thorin lowered his eyes to the tabletop, staring at the tiny flake of opal set in the stone. “He stays, then.” He allowed himself a brief look at Fili, taking in his braided mane of spun gold, the softened edge of his bearded jaw, eyes the deep blue of a river at dusk. Thorin bore the torture silently in his heart, listening to Dain’s low rumble of anger at his elbow. “If that’s what you think is best, Thranduil, I won’t fight you over such a small matter.” He tried to make Fili sound insignificant and unimportant. It almost worked.

“Thorin Oakenshield, the Peace-Maker.” Thranduil’s voice was cool and tense, and Thorin knew he was saying it ironically. “It's good to see you have sense once more. You know you can’t rule this mountain in isolation.” He was browbeating Thorin into accepting defeat. Defiance swelled in his hardened heart and Thorin stood with his shoulders thrown back, high and indignant.

“You’re not going to bully my gold from me.” It wasn’t about keeping his treasure whole. It was _never_ about that, despite what Thranduil and his lot thought. It had become about pride and honour. Thorin could have lost half his wealth and barely felt the effects, so massive was that gold-hoard that lay in the halls of Erebor. This was about holding his own, and about not giving in, about looking Thranduil in the eye and staying on his level. “I won’t give you a _thing_ while you stand there and talk down to me, when you threaten force upon my home and my people. Not a brass farthing.”

“You _greedy_ , bitter old fool!” Bard brought a fist down on the stone tabletop. It hurt, but he did his best to mask the pain. Thorin recoiled as though he himself had been struck, gripping the edge of the stone map. “This isn’t about the damn gold! Is your head so far up your own backside that you can’t _see_ what is going to happen to us?" Bard tried to get some control over his voice. Thranduil was hissing at him, telling him to shut up, but he was too far gone now, he had to get it all out. “You sit here and call yourself a king, as though the blood in your veins sanction what you’ve done, and yet you have brought nothing but misery upon us! Your greed cost me and my people our _home_ , but you wash your hands of us and say that it’s not your problem! What kind of king holds such little regard for an entire town? You spoke in our finest hall of establishing trade once more, that boats would be in danger of sinking under the weight of the gold brought down from the mountain. You _lied_ to all of us. We gave you everything you needed and in return you caused fire to rain down on us.” He panted, feeling the words all rush out, all that pain and frustration and grief, mourning for what he had lost, for the life he could never go back to.

“I would have helped you if you’d asked.” Thorin shot back. “But you didn’t - you called upon my doors in arms and threatened me. You throw your lot in with _him,”_ he pointed at Thranduil, “a known enemy of mine, and expect me to treat you as a friend? After everything he has done to me and my family, my people, do you think I would trust anybody who allied themselves to his cause? We were imprisoned by him, Bard! He threatened and abused us and then afterwards had the gall to label _us_ as criminals. Thranduil imprisoned us illegally, conspired against us and tried to take our wealth by force.” Thorin could feel that anger rising, the anger he had been fighting, trying to push down and ignore for the sake of diplomacy. “How can you stand there and claim that _we_ are in the wrong for protecting our sovereign property?”

“Don’t play innocent, Thorin _._ ” Thranduil was sharp and vicious. “I restrained you because knew this would happen. I knew you would bring destruction upon this part of the world, and I was right. Not only did you rouse Smaug, but you dragged that black filth along behind you through my lands.” He leaned over the table, so the pair could look eye-to-eye. Thranduil’s mouth shook. “Your nephew _tortured_ and mutilated my son.”

“Don’t go there, Thranduil.” Thorin warned him. “Don’t bring that up.” It was an open, unhealing wound in Thorin’s heart. “He is nobody to me anymore.”

“Refusing to acknowledge Kili’s existence doesn’t undo what he did.” Fili felt the stab in his heart at Thranduil’s words. He still hated Kili, still sought vengeance. Of course he did - Legolas still wore a sash over his head, a helm when he was in his armour, still kept that mutilation hidden. He would bear the scars, and Thranduil hold on to that resentment, for the rest of their long, immortal lives. “For all your protestations in my halls that your nephews meant more than anything else to you, Thorin, you were remarkably willing to let them go.”

“How dare you.” Thorin hissed, teeth bared. Thranduil hid a smile, getting the exact reaction that he wanted. It was so easy to push Thorin, make him react. “That was before they betrayed me and threw everything I gave them back in my face!” He still didn’t look at Fili. The young dwarf suffered silently beside Thranduil, hands in white-knuckled fists on the edge of the vast stone map.

“Just answer me one question, Thorin, and I will drop the matter.” Thranduil didn’t break his gaze. “If you really attempted to retake Erebor for the sake of your nephews, as you so firmly claimed, then why are you now refusing to let go of even a single gold coin, now that they have left you?”

“That’s not fair.” Fili protested behind him. Thranduil didn’t look back.

“I won’t let you break me with accusations.” Thorin argued, but it was weak and faded. He felt so close to that already, cracked and splintered, on the verge of shattering. He’d been waiting, hoping that he could wait Thranduil out, that he would prove the stubborn and stronger in will, but that fight had reached a dreary stalemate a long, long time ago. Neither of them would give up.

“Fili, if he truly cared for you, he never would have thrown you out to be claimed by the Ironfists and then remained to stubbornly attached to his throne.” Thranduil raised his voice. “He’s lying. He’s been using you as an excuse for months. This was never about protecting you from your father’s people. This was about reclaiming his lost gold. That’s all it ever was.”

“That is _not true!”_ Thorin cracked, unable to take the horrible accusations any longer. “I set out from Ered Luin with the intention of reclaiming this mountain for Fili, but then _he_ betrayed _me_. He broke that loyalty between us!” But that panic boiled in his gut as he remembered why Fili had done what he did. He did it out of love for his uncle, thinking he knew best, just wanting to bring an end to the fighting. Thorin had looked Fili in the eye, beneath Mirkwood, held him and said Fili should never let anybody else tell him what was right and wrong, not even Thorin. He had invited this betrayal himself, when he gave Fili that freedom to draw his own moral conclusions. That was a mistake. He never should have done that. “I would have sacrificed Erebor for Fili’s sake if he were still loyal to me. I would have laid down my life to save him, without a moment’s hesitation.” He finally shifted his gaze to Fili now, staring into those deep, dark blue eyes. “But his treachery has irreparably severed that bond. There is nothing he can do that will make me forgive him.”

“Then what are you fighting for?” Thranduil pressed, trying to drag the truth out of Thorin, to get into his head and get the dwarf to admit what he himself had been suspecting for days now. “Why are you still holding on?”

Thorin stood very still, his tongue feeling prickly and swollen as he struggled for words. Because he was king, he wanted to shout. This was his home, his life. This was what he had longed for ever since he stood in singed furs at the mouth of the valley and watched the mountain smoulder, a broken blade in his hand and a burn on his cheek. He held on because he was a son of Durin with an iron will that would never be broken. He fought for his homeland because it was all he ever knew how to do - against Smaug and Azog, against the Ironfists, against Thranduil, against his own searing conscience. This wasn’t about pride or honour or money. This was about showing the _world_ that Thorin Oakenshield was not afraid of any elf, orc, man or beast, that he would fight for his people, whatever the cost, until the air died in his lungs and his body returned to the dust of the earth.

All these grand declarations swam in his head and remained unuttered. Thorin was still staring at Fili, at the dwarf he had dedicated the last eighty years to raising, sheltering, and making into a perfect heir. But he wasn’t perfect, and neither was Thorin. Despite Fili’s flaws, his insecurities, his utter disregard and even contempt for what Thorin had prized most dear to him, Fili had something Thorin didn’t, a light that had been snuffed out in Thorin the day Smaug burned down his home and Thranduil left them to die. He still had hope. Thorin mistook that hope for ignorance and stupidity and naivety, beaten down after his long, constant struggle in isolation and doubt. Their mismatched flaws were what had set them at odds months before when they first lost Kili. Kili was their buffer, absorbing Fili’s rage and Thorin’s disappointment, and it was only after he was gone that those secrets they were keeping started to come out, and their relationship began its slow, agonising unravelling. The silence stretched on, growing stiff and painful. Thorin’s hand had instinctively clenched over the tiny carving of his throne again, hiding it from view.

“Thranduil, enough.” Gandalf finally stepped in, the only one who could hope to rein in the elf-king. His sharp words broke the tension in the room and Thorin visibly sagged, feeling defeated and broken. “We’re here to discuss the army of orcs on our doorstep, not point fingers.” A growl rumbled in Thranduil’s throat, but he slowly drew back, straightening himself and looking down at the row of dwarves across the table. “I propose that we all promise to make no mention of the gold, or of any past disagreements over it, until the matter regarding the orcs is sorted.”

“Fine.” Thranduil’s voice was short and clipped. “I can consent to that.” He would have plenty of time afterwards to pick Thorin’s brain and drag the truth out of him. “Thorin?”

It was hard to speak. Thorin opened his mouth and for a moment, nothing came out. Thranduil’s gaze was fixed on him, cold in his victory. “It appears to be only way we will come to any decision.” He briefly looked at Balin, who inclined his head in a very slight nod. He had no plans on dying in here, after everything that had happened, for want of an effective battle plan.

“Excellent.” Gandalf gripped his staff. “I think we should get along quite well until then. Nothing is worse than orcs, after all. I think we can all agree to that.”

“There is no creature I have ever hated so much as Azog the Defiler.” Thorin’s voice shook in a white-hot rage, weathered, ancient and impermeable as mountain-rock. “He has cost me the lives of my father and grandfather, my brother and my nephew.” Thorin thought of Kili as dead. Kili had always been dead, ever since he’d slipped away at Beorn’s home. The possessed, savage creature that roamed the wild lands in the distant north was a monster who hollowed Kili out, slaughtered his soul and now wore his decaying skin. “He is gone but I will rid this world of his blood. I will end his line, the way he tried to end mine.” _Tried._ The irony of it was as sharp and bitter as bile on Thorin’s tongue as he stood alone on his side of the table, flanked by an elderly advisor and a cousin who had looked down on Thorin and his people for decades but now stood to inherit everything. Azog _had_ destroyed Thror’s line. He murdered Thror and Thrain and Frerin too, he’d taken Kili away and corrupted him, had forced a loss upon Fili and Dís that turned them against Thorin. Azog had already succeeded.

“These are notes from the reports that our ravens have gathered.” Balin pulled the folded papers out of his pocket and carefully laid them out on the table, brisk and businesslike, hoping to keep Thorin on track, to light that fire inside of him which had been slowly and painfully burning out. “They are very close, closer than we first thought. They will be here tomorrow before noon, earlier if they march through the night. The ravens estimate five thousand orcs, of varying arms. Half of them appear to be well-shod, with heavy armour and weaponry, and about a thousand are on wargs. The rest are simple rank-and-file conscripts, no armour and homemade weapons. We should work through them relatively easily.”

“Ranged attacks?” Bard stood at the edge of the table with his arms folded, frowning.

“Yes, there were a number of arrows and crossbows.” Balin spared a look at Dain, who looked as though he’d been forced to drink something very bitter and unpleasant, and along to his son Thorin, who was nothing short of furious. “The ravens were able to get a glimpse of the inner circle before bats chased them away. It’s almost certainly Azog’s son Bolg. He has his father’s colour and bearing. He appears to have his own son in tow, or some small youth, and nine or ten generals, several very well-decorated. They may know us from Azanulbizar.”

“If it’s mostly on foot, we will certainly have the upper hand in here.” Thranduil stared at the stone map now, the outlines that showed the Front Gate, the narrow valley around it. “This fortress is impenetrable.”

“Ah, unfortunately, they have sensed that.” Balin shuffled the pages of notes a little. “They are carrying two large battering rams, forty orcs on each. We will need to have a plan in case they break through our first defence.”

“It won’t end us.” Thorin ran his finger over the front gate. “There are a dozen points of retreat where we can hold their attacks at bay.” He pointed three of them out. “Many of these passageways have large gates we can use to cut them off.”

“We could even lure them in.” Thranduil leaned over the table, squinting a little to take in the detail. “How good is the access from the upper balconies to the entrance hall?” He was stiff and strained, despite Gandalf’s call for peace. Their argument over Thorin’s intentions would not be easily forgotten.

“For archers? Good. There are stairs here and here.” He pointed them out, sensing Thranduil’s plan. “If the front stairs are blocked with rubble, the back can be used as a point of retreat. The upper balcony will take you through here and eventually come out in the throne room.”

“Yes, yes, that would almost work.” Gandalf stroked his beard, looking at the map of Erebor’s skinless insides. “If we could cut them off in sections and fight hand-to-hand, then we could stand a good chance of beating them.”

“The passages are very narrow. I don’t know how many elves and men could walk abreast.” Dain finally offered input, glum and surly.

“Then won’t orcs have the same problem? Azog’s lot were always bigger than us.” Balin shuffled through the papers. “I don’t think they mentioned size in particular…”

Fili stood at the edge of the table as the group did their very best to put their earlier differences aside. The valley between the Front Gate and Dale was narrow, the slopes almost impossible to climb. They were safe in here, barricaded inside with layers and layers of protective stone and iron, but there was no running away. Even the escape passages, those that were marked with dwarvish runes and inlaid with thread-thin gold, would never be enough for their patchwork army.

Defenceless. The bottom dropped out of Fili’s stomach in a cold moment of realisation. They were safe in here, but there were a hundred dwarves out in the valley who were exposed, stubbornly refusing to leave, probably still completely unaware of the orcish army that by tomorrow morning would be on their doorstep. They would all die. Even now, if they were warned, there was no way the Ironfists could get to safety. The only way out would lead them through the foothills, straight to where the orcs planned on pouring in. _Oh no_. Even though they were bastards and monsters, they still didn’t deserve to go like that, being cornered and murdered. They couldn’t _all_ be like Fíak.

He kept staring at the secret passages as the others talked about formations and numbers, poking at the stone map. They didn’t need his input. He was a nobody. Somebody remarked they needed tokens or models to sort it all out properly. Fili half-listened, struggling to concentrate but at the same time wondering what the hell he should do about his kinsfolk (they were, he couldn’t ignore that now, no matter how much he tried) who were sitting ducks out in the valley, unwittingly waiting to be slaughtered.

* * *

Ilzkhaal finally found his cousin late in the morning, bogged down in the mud and shivering. His ruined boots were tied together and strung over his neck, head bent and eyes downcast. He approached the older boy but before he could reach out and speak, Akash lifted his head.

“I wondered if you were going to show up.” Ilzkhaal started, drawing back.

“How did you see me?”

“I didn’t see you, I smelled you.” He wrinkled his nose as though the stench was putrefying. “You’ve got to be the only orc in Middle Earth who reeks of sex _and_ dwarf, idiot.”

“I don’t reek.” He mumbled, sniffing self-consciously at his arm. All he could smell was the the heavy earthiness of the rain-soaked mud.

Akash snorted. “Yes, you do. You probably can’t smell it anymore but you definitely reek.” His expression was dark and there was an intensity around his mouth and eyes that Ilzkhaal didn’t like. “I was starting to think you weren’t coming back.”

“Of course I was coming back.” He reached out with his good hand, briefly squeezing Akash’s elbow. “It’s over, all of it.” He felt the arm jerk under his grip, pale eyes widening. “He’s…” Ilzkhaal took in a deep breath, wondering how, or even if, he could explain it. “He’s not what I thought he was, I guess, or not what I wanted him to be. To be honest, he was quite a bastard. He broke it off this morning and said we couldn’t see each other again, ever. He said it was to keep me safe, but…” He shrugged, rubbing his thumb over the bandaged wound on his left hand.

“That prick.” Akash spat. “I said he was using you this whole time. I should-”

“No.” Ilzkhaal cut his cousin off before the threat could come out. “I mean - he _was_ , in a way. He admitted that he was using me, but not for the reasons you think.” They walked slowly, falling a little behind in the march, keeping their voices low. “He wanted a friend. He wanted someone who he could trust, who didn’t want to use him as a tool or a soldier. Going further and getting into bed, that was all me. But when it came down to it, he wasn’t ready to trust me enough.”

“He didn’t deserve you then.” Akash tried to sound off-hand, not really knowing what else he could say. He’d been in this situation several times before, usually nursing some sort of bloodied nose or bruised fists, with Ilzkhaal howling at him, calling him a heavy-handed fool and an idiot and a bastard, but this was quiet sadness was strikingly different. Akash was used to his cousin’s rage and later repentance. Seeing him heartbroken like this left him aching with second-hand guilt. “So… you actually loved him, didn’t you?”

“I did.” He murmured, staring down at the intricate weaving of his new leather bracelet. “I was terrified of him, but I loved him to pieces. He was violent and angry - not at me,” Ilzkhaal added quickly, watching Akash’s face grow tight and angry, “at others. Bolg, his generals, his family. Never me.” That was a lie. Ilzkhaal remembered being pinned, Kili shouting at him, saying he was never leaving. He’d been trapped in the dwarf’s grip, a prisoner for a brief flash, and just a few hours later, cast aside forever. Was that what Kili was afraid of, if Ilzkhaal stayed? “It wasn’t that which scared me. It was…” He trailed off, trying to put it into words.

“You know, I asked him once what he was like when he was a proper dwarf in his proper home. You know what he said?” Akash shook his head. “He said he was just like me.  Really, he did. He said he was a jokester and the baby of his family and he was stupid and thoughtless but he had a heart of gold and everybody loved him. I can’t think of anyone more _unlike_ me than Kili as I saw him, especially when he’s around Bolg and that lot. He must have so different back then. And… for someone to change so much, and to become an exact opposite of themselves - isn’t that scary, Akash? Isn’t it terrifying to think that so much of yourself can be changed, all those bits that you think make you as a person?”  His voice grew louder,  stumbled, until it was on the edge of a shout. "To be so... stripped away. It's like they ripped out his heart and replaced it with something else."

"Azog was fucked up. He fucked Kili up. And if you stayed, Kili would have fucked you up, too." Akash offered his own interpretation, blunt and succinct. “You’re better off here.”

"Do you think that's why he left?" Those wide stone-black eyes were fixed on Akash, desperate, searching for answers. "Because he thought he would wreck me?"

"I wouldn't give him the credit." Akash snarled. “Look, the last three blokes you were with before Kili were the same - six feet tall and built like brick shithouses. You didn’t like Kili because he was handsome. Fuck, no. You liked him because he was different. You’ve _always_ been like this, ever since we were babies. You’ve always wanted more than what we had, that’s why you begged and begged to get work outside the mountain, even after what happened to your father, and you have all these grand ideas about how things should change and why you always hassle any passing merchant who’s had a whiff of the outside world. You saw something nobody had ever had before and you wanted it.”

“You’re so cruel.” Ilzkhaal felt betrayed. Maybe that stung so much because there was a seed of truth at the heart of it. It was curiosity at the beginning as much as desire, to get inside Kili’s head as well as his clothes and map out what lay beneath. He’d wanted to see how a dwarf thought and spoke, and yes, how he loved too. Kili was a link to another world. But it didn’t go on like that - the more he got to _know_ Kili, really know him better than anybody else had since his nightmare had begun, the fiercer that love grew. He needed more _time_. It was hopeless now. He hadn’t managed to fix Kili, to save him from himself or the world he’d resigned to live in. It seemed like the end of his fall, the complete destruction of something that had been so pure and good.

And in that moment, nursing that frustration and outrage, Ilzkhaal began to realise what had been consuming the ageing leader of his little outpost home for decades. The way he felt about Kili, mourning the loss of something innocent, was what they had been through as a people, an age before. Orcs had suffered their own irreversible corruption and made enemies of the rest of the world. What came afterwards was a natural reaction to that inescapable darkness and hatred. They were hated for existing, backed into a corner and then labelled monsters for trying to fight their way out. That was why Mautor wanted Thranduil and his woodland elves. He wanted revenge. He would sacrifice the blood of his people for it. He would die for it.

Alongside him, Akash walked with his eyes on the ground, trying to pick his way through the mud without damaging his feet, exhausted and bitter. He wasn’t a soldier. He was a boy who was too far from home and going in the wrong direction. Neither of them deserved to die for this. Ilzkhaal wasn’t interested in bloodshed or revenge. Let the rest have it if that was what they wanted. Mutilating Thranduil seemed the only thing that would soothe Mautor’s impotent rage at his own creation. He wanted to meet violence with violence, but Ilzkhaal reacted differently, lying with Kili in his arms and listening to him breathe, feeling his heart beat through his scarred, beaten skin.  They had something that ran deeper than race and creed, something half-formed, ancient and yet somehow ageless.

The bitter sting of loneliness had got into his heart and taken root, even as Kili’s wild, dwarvish scent still lingered on his skin. He didn't see how he could go on in this empty space, feeling open and cavernous, utterly devoid of life. He'd lost the first person he'd ever loved like this, with a depth that went beyond that physicality, beyond skin and flesh, beyond even mind, and down into his soul. Ilzkhaal felt, in that muddy moment of isolation, that he couldn't ever love again in quite the same way.

He didn't expect Akash to understand. He was too exhausted to even try to vocalise that yawning emptiness. The pair sunk into a deep silence, absorbing the low mutters around them with their eyes downcast. Looming closer than it ever had before, the dwarvish mountain beckoned in the east.

* * *

They weren’t friends. They all tried to deflect that tension, push it down and ignore it, tried to pretend that they were eight allies rather than two camps of four, remaining divided, staring at one another across the massive stone map of Erebor. There were squabbles, disagreements and insults, but they all respected Gandalf’s wishes and made no mention of the gold-hoard, Smaug, or what happened beneath Mirkwood. Reluctantly, they cobbled together something that looked like a plan and a couple of hasty alternatives in case it fell through.

Thorin walked along a knife-edge, trying to keep his mind on the task at hand at all times and never, ever looking at Fili. He couldn’t stomach it. Something just ripped in his gut whenever he did. Thorin could deal with Thranduil and Gandalf and Bard, he could deal with Dain and his son, but he couldn’t deal with Fili. Thranduil’s cruel words were like salt on that open wound, digging in, making him burn. He _had_ placed his nephews above all the gold in Erebor, yet here he was, alone, with Kili lost and Fili exiled. Thorin had been blaming them for this, tell himself and anybody that would listen that they had done this. They were the traitors. He had been blaming them, blaming Azog, blaming anybody else he could for so long that he was almost able to forget that in both cases, he was the one that forced them into that awful position where they felt there was no other choice. He had left Kili to die in the wilderland, had humiliated him in Lake-Town for his twisted relationship with Azog and then decided not to defend him when he was imprisoned. And Fili… that was becoming too difficult to call. Fili was foolish, yes, and certainly wrong in his actions, but there was no trace of malice in what he had done. He genuinely thought he was doing what was best for Erebor, believed so strongly in the cause that he was willing to suffer the harshest of punishments for it. He was, if Thorin were to believe his sister, the only one left to had genuine trust in him. He was the one who convinced Thranduil and Gandalf that Thorin really would open his doors to them.

He felt as though he was being physically beaten. Thorin tried to pull himself together and focus on what he knew would be the battle that defined him as a king, as a dwarf, as a leader of Durin’s Folk in the face of the harshest adversities. This alliance with Thranduil, however brief it would end up to be, was already a concession that just a few days ago he never would have considered making. Gandalf was right when he said there were things more important. That hatred of Azog’s son, that cold desire to see that filth finished and finished _properly_ , that overrode everything he felt towards Thranduil and his motley crew of half-kings and princes. He had to do this, not just for himself, but for the memory of his missing father and beheaded grandfather, his poor, dead little brother who had been brutally torn apart. They haunted him.

Really, it was quite remarkable that they had come as far as they had. The most strained relationship was the one between Thorin and Thranduil, the two figureheads of each movement, who had such a long and bitter history between them with son and nephew brought into the fray. It was an immense struggle for the both of them to lay that past aside and come together, and Fili could tell that despite all his anger, Thranduil had a genuine respect for Thorin that morning. With Thranduil’s cunning and Thorin’s iron will, they could together be unstoppable, if given the chance.

As they looked like breaking up for the day and returning to their own soldiers to plan and prepare and bark out orders, Fili took a chance. Although Thorin had looked at him once or twice, he had never addressed Fili directly, all day. He had only spoken _about_ Fili, as though he wasn’t there, or he couldn’t hear them. It was maddening. Fili thought he understood why Thorin was being like this, that shutting him out was easier than having to deal with him, and the longer he was there, the warmer Thorin seemed to get, tempting Fili, giving him hope that perhaps his forgiveness wasn’t unattainable after all.

“Thorin, I have one final request, before we go.” Thorin froze, leaning forward with his palms flat on the stone. Fili went over the words in his head, all in hot flashes and run-on sentences that seemed to bear no meaning. Shame curled in his stomach already, and he tried not to think about Ori, who stood with flushed cheeks and whispered _Fuck Thorin_ in the winter’s night, and what he would say when he heard all of this. Ori would say he was being weak. Ori would say he was giving up.

Ori was wrong. Fili looked at Thorin now, in Thror’s cloak and crown, in his gilded armour, and he knew that he wasn’t ready to be a king. He couldn’t do this, couldn’t put himself in Thorin’s shoes and shoulder the weight of this massive burden. He didn’t want to overthrow Thorin - he _never_ wanted to overthrow Thorin. He wanted to stand beside him and be his prince and heir. He wanted things to go back to the way they were, or as close as they could. Thranduil’s attempt to break Thorin down earlier had hardened Fili’s resolve. Thorin wasn’t blind anymore. Something had changed within him, in those long weeks they had been apart. Fili could see it. He wasn’t the same dwarf who cursed Fili’s name and tore his necklace from him. Perhaps, by being alone, by realising the magnitude of what he had lost, Thorin finally had to the realisation that something had twisted, knotted up, inside of him, that he was doing this for all the wrong reasons and that he had lost sight of why he was here at all.

“Very well.” Thorin muttered stiffly after a moment of silence. This wasn’t unexpected. The issue of Fili’s loyalty wasn’t ever going to disappear. Thranduil watched Fili carefully, wondering what he was going to do, if this would finally be it. After his talk with Dís that morning, he had little hope that there would be any reconciliation between the pair, no matter how much Fili apologised and begged for forgiveness. There was an intensity in Thorin’s face, a new hardness that came over him with Fili’s penitent request. Everybody knew that Fili was going to try one more time for forgiveness, and everybody knew that Thorin would refuse it.

“You know that despite what I did, I never for one moment doubted your honour and duty to our people.” Fili’s heart pounded in his chest as he looked at his unforgiving uncle, a cold trickle of sweat snaking down the back of his neck, pooling at the knot in the top of his spine. Thorin stood with his hands still on the stone and silently waited. “I have only ever felt love and respect for you, Uncle.” The word dropped between them, a fast-sinking stone in still, deep water, rippling outwards, rocking. Thorin swallowed hard, keeping his shoulders square and proud inside his grandfather’s magnificent cloak. Fili took a step closer to his uncle, clinging to the edge of the table.

“What I did, I did out of that love.” Fili tried to ignore the violent racing of his heart, tried to just breathe through this and keep talking, with his voice clear and head held high. Fili took another step around that table, and another, until he was halfway across. All eyes in the room were on him. “I was concerned about the consequences that your refusal to negotiate with Thranduil could have on our people. I was concerned for _you_. I realise now that my actions were misguided.” He tried to be as humble as he could without physically grovelling, even if it meant he had to lie. Fili’s insides withered in shame as he spoke, trying to tell himself that this was for the best. “I understand that I have broken your trust, and to ask you to forgive me now is foolish and unreasonable.” He licked his dry lips. “But Thorin, I will do whatever it takes to regain that trust. I don’t want to fight you. I never wanted to fight you, and I know you don’t want to fight either.” Fili stepped closer. Thorin was now within reach. “What you’ve done today with Thranduil, that shows what I have always insisted, even when everybody else said I was wrong. You are a good person, who loves his people. You know what is right for Erebor.”

“Fili,” Thorin croaked, finally addressing him as his legs grew weak. With a short, choked intake of air, almost like a sob, Fili threw himself on his knees at Thorin’s feet. Thorin stared down at him, not trusting himself to speak or move or think or even breathe beyond shallow gasps. It was the most wonderful, terrible thing he ever could have imagined.

“Give me the chance to redeem myself.” Fili spoke with his head bowed and eyes shut, trying to block the rest of the world out. “Let me fight alongside you tomorrow morning and avenge the death of our family. Let me prove to you and to our people that I am truly loyal to the crown.” He opened his eyes, staring at Thorin’s boots. “I am in your service, Thorin, until the day I die. And know that whether you accept my plea or not, I will never, ever do anything to hurt you ever again.” Finally, Fili lifted his head. “I won’t fight you for the crown. I have nothing but regret for ever putting myself in that position. I let myself be driven by fear and manipulation and for that, I am sorry.” Thorin was staring down at him in frozen shock, his mouth half-open. “If you reject me, then after tomorrow’s battle, which I’ll still fight in your name, I will leave Erebor and never return.” There was a low sound coming from behind Fili, one that sounded like a groan or a grumble. It sounded like Thranduil.

Fili held his gaze. He didn’t need Thranduil’s protection anymore. He didn’t need protecting from Thorin, from the Ironfists, from himself. “I leave my fate entirely in your hands, Uncle Thorin.”


	103. The Fight

When Fili threw himself at Thorin's feet and begged for forgiveness and a second chance, it set off a chain reaction in Thorin's belly.  The hot, shaky terror rose in his chest to his head, flaring along his limbs, down to his toes and fingertips. Fili's somewhat gabbled pleas broke against his deaf ears, and he could only make half of them out over a heavy rushing that pounded against his head in waves. He kept his eyes fixed on that bent head, the falling mane of liquid gold that streamed over his bowed shoulders. When Fili lifted his gaze and their eyes met, however, everything fell silent, the rushing, the sound of his breathing, even the dull throb of his heart. The world grew silent.

"I leave my fate in your hands, Thorin." Fili spoke quietly now, as though he was unaware of his audience. The sense of privacy in this encounter felt violated, with all these other eyes on the pair of them, looking in from the outside, from a distance.  Thorin wished his nephew had done this when the two of them were truly alone. Only vaguely did he realise that he would never have allowed that to happen because he was afraid of this occurring. Fili was taking his only opportunity.

Oh, Fili. _Fili._ Thorin wanted so desperately to believe in his humility and penitence. He wanted Fili's apology to be real, not just mechanical lip-service. But he knew Fili, and he knew his morality, his sense of will, was better than this. He didn't think he had made a mistake the night he tried to overthrow Thorin. Fili had always stuck to his own convictions, no matter how much it set him at odds with his uncle. That inner fire, which for so long had filled Thorin with admiration and fury, it still burned behind this apology. It was insincere because it bound Fili to a set of beliefs that Thorin knew simply wasn't true. It had been such a long, vicious battle of wills between them, one that seemed inevitable in its bloody end.

He couldn't believe Fili, not even now, when he prostrated himself before Thorin and swore that the was a changed, loyal dwarf. Thorin knew in his heart that Fili was only saying the things he knew Thorin wanted to hear. He felt almost at the point of tears as he stared down at his nephew, at the last bit of family he had left, realising that there was no possible way that he could welcome him back to his side. This wasn’t just about saving face, about doing the right thing by his people. This was about trust, and Thorin’s had been completely broken. Nothing could ever fix that.

Thorin's voice creaked as he spoke, like sagging floorboards in an abandoned house struggling under a heavy weight. "Stand up." Feeling that weakness in his voice, he tried desperately to keep his speech short. "Get off the ground."

Fili obeyed, his heart in a precarious limbo between hope and despair. His hands were shaking and he tried to hide them in his sleeves. Thorin wouldn't meet his gaze now. “I can’t forgive you because what you have done is completely beyond any possible redemption.”

Despair consumed him. Fili felt the earth sway beneath him and his knees almost buckle as he realised Thorin wasn’t going to welcome him back. "I-"

“Even if, by the slimmest, most impossible chance that I could look beyond the damage you have done to my reputation and yours and to the political strength of Erebor, even if I could tear down the laws which have stood for thousands of years and let a traitor back into the fold, even if I could disobey the will of my people and of my ancestors for your sake…” Thorin didn’t feel like he was going to cry or scream anymore. He felt dead to everything. A heavy, dull acceptance seemed to have crushed him, left him limp and paralysed. Fili had forced this decision on him, and to Thorin, it was devastatingly clear that he had only one option.

“Fili, I cannot trust you.” Fili was blinking very rapidly, his breath a shallow pant in his slack mouth. "You were the most important person in the world to me. I loved you with everything I had and reclaimed this mountain to house and protect you. I trusted you to lead our people after I'm gone and preserve the honour of the Thror's line. What you did violated that trust." The colour had almost  completely drained from Fili’s face, his cheeks bone white and eyelids sunken and greyish-purple. Thorin tried to do this gently, with composure. He was beyond shouting and flinging curses. There was no emotion in this encounter, and it was all eerily similar to the way he felt when he announced he was letting Kili go.

"I..." Fili's  voice cracked and he  stopped, rubbing a shaking hand over his face as  Thorin reopened the wound. This was worse, this detached coldness that Fili now knew so well. he knew Thorin was done with him. He'd already cut Fili out of his heart and moved on. Fili had renounced his allegiance with Thranduil for nothing. "Is this your final decision?" His head swam, desperately sifting through any last possibilities, anything he could say that would change Thorin's mind.

"Don't ask me again." This was already such a familiar process to him. "I thought you could do this. I don't know if it was my own failure in raising you, or if there really is more of your father in you than I thought there was, but-" He had to stop then, almost choking on his words. "You're not the prince I can trust you to be."

"But nobody is." Something broke inside, and panic and outrage seized Fili, his blue eyes wild and alive. "That is a myth, Thorin. You weren't perfect, Dain and his son aren't perfect, and I am sure Thor and Thrain weren't perfect either. You've spent your life chasing this impossible ideal of what a king of  Erebor should be and I just don't understand why."

Thorin froze. He didn’t any response to that, because he knew, deep in his heart, in some long-lost chasm that hadn’t been touched by his pride and greed and anger at the world, that Fili was right. Thorin had spent his life chasing something that he knew he would never reach, an ideal, a fantasy of a person. Thror wasn’t perfect. He had been too deep in his greed, too embroiled in gold-lust that he brought a dragon down on their heads. Dís had said it again and again in their simple home in the west, used it as a deterrent against Thorin ever returning to this mountain. Thorin had carried that fear for decades, a fear that he would succumb to the same failings. He nursed it, kept it secret, and at the same time held his grandfather with the highest regard possible, wanting to be just like Thror, wanting to be as powerful, respected and honoured amongst their people. It was a maze, a trap, with no way out. It wasn’t just that Thorin expected the impossible of himself. It was that his people expected the impossible of _him._

“You have no right to criticise anybody in this room, Fili." Dain stepped in, bursting with insults and accusations, struggling to keep it all back. He sensed that faltering in Thorin, that momentary questioning of everything he had known and done, and he firmly stamped it out. "How dare you speak about Thorin and I and your ancestors with such shameful arrogance!”

"I'm not being arrogant, I'm being honest." Fili begged. "Thorin, for all your condemnation of me, you know I'm right. One thing you always admired in me was my honesty and conviction."

Thorin took in a deep breath, bracing himself for that final, inevitable plunge. "Leave, Fili." Thorin felt so empty as he stood there and pushed his nephew away without any heart or compassion. He'd never, ever wanted it to end this way, but this was the parting Fili had wrung out of him. There was no way he could do something this awful without being heartless. The worst part about this was it _wasn’t_ what he wanted. "I won't indulge this any more. You are unfit to rule Erebor, whether it be tomorrow or a hundred years from now. You are a danger to the crown and our people." Fili had his hands over his mouth, not trusting himself to speak.

He left with his head held high and eyes bright and stinging. Fili didn't look at Thranduil, who he knew would be blonde with fury, or at Gandalf and Bard. He kept his head up until he left the room, until the critical eye of his uncle was no longer on him. His legs nearly gave out as soon as he was alone in the passageway and Fili leaned against the wall, temple against the stone, struggling to stay upright.

"Well I hope you're happy with yourself." Thranduil snapped over his shoulder. "Did you really think theatrics and ultimatums would change his mind?"

Gandalf rested a hand on Fili's shoulder, his bony hand broad and heavy. "Thranduil..."

"You knew he was going to say no. When our alliance is as fragile as this, did you really think it appropriate to bring all that up? Why not wait until afterwards, when victory would have softened Thorin's ill will?"

"Thranduil!" Gandalf's voice rumbled  dangerously. "Leave it alone." Thranduil opened his mouth to respond, until a choked gasp of air from the dwarf made him cease.

Fili buried his face in his hands and tried to breathe through the disappointment and blinding terror as his world came crashing down all over again. He honestly thought that he had Thorin, that he had torn the veil from his uncle's eyes. Thorin had looked so, so very close to forgiving him, but it seemed like there was nothing that could ever change his mind. The shame and anger at Thorin's rejection smothered him, made it hard to see and hear and speak. His eyes stung and prickled, nose burning as pressure built up in his throat, on the verge of breaking out.

He cried quietly, humiliated that he was falling apart like this in front of somebody like Thranduil but unable to stop it. He was so _angry_ at Thorin, at Thranduil, at himself, at everything and everyone that had caused all of this to happen. Fili saw himself as everyone else would have in that room - naive and short-sighted, unable to comprehend the consequences of his actions and placing a hopeless trust in somebody that had already given up on him. But beneath that, beneath his gut-wrenching disappointment in Thorin, in his embarrassment at being rejected so publicly, Fili burned with frustration and an almost childish indignance because he _knew_ he was right. He saw that uncertainty in Thorin’s eyes for a moment before Dain broke over him. That was the most agonising thing of all. Fili’s relationship with Thorin had become nothing more than a negotiation, a political alliance that had soured with mistrust. The fact that he was Thorin’s nephew seemed now to mean nothing.

“Let’s go.” Gandalf was trying to be fair, but there was a firmness in his grasp that made Fili wince. He’d upset the wizard by bringing this all up again. He upset everybody. “There’s still a battle to fight, and even with our allies numbers, we can’t be sure of any victory.”  

Thranduil muttered a response, softer than before, sounding almost like an apology, but Fili wasn’t listening. The battle. It was the furthest thing from his mind. He’d promised to fight in Thorin’s name but it now felt like the last thing he wanted to do. And afterwards - he said he would leave and never return. He couldn’t stay here as a friend of Thranduil, as a potential claimant to the throne. Fili had exiled himself when he put the ultimatum towards Thorin. He signed his own warrant. He had nowhere to go, nobody to protect him. He was an outcast, a disgrace. He was dangerous.

Fili wiped at his face and blinked back the stinging wetness. Tears were for children, for the fearful and the weak. He wasn’t afraid. He couldn’t allow himself to be. Fear, Fili realised, was one of his failings. It was something that had been weaponised and used against him. Thranduil and Thorin had both used fear to manipulate Fili in their battles against each other. Thorin had shamed and threatened Fili repeatedly for the decisions he had made, and Thranduil had forced Fili into a promise of gold that he never should have agreed to.

Fuck Thorin and Thranduil. Fuck Erebor. Fili was completely exasperated. He couldn’t handle the disappointment and rejection again. He couldn’t keep playing these stupid petty power games anymore. He couldn’t be like Thranduil, playing people against each other and double-dealing, he couldn’t be like Dain, setting Thorin up for failure so he could swoop in and pick up the pieces, and he could never, ever, be like Thorin, who gave up everything he loved to rule Erebor alone.

Ori was wrong when he said Fili was the one to rebuilt Erebor, to change it all for the better. Fili had failed before he even had the opportunity to try because he was already entrenched in a system which fought so desperately against any change. He was defeated.

* * *

In the midafternoon, the rain let up and most orcs stopped to clean off the mud in the swollen river. Unarmed, Kili sat on the edge with his trousers rolled up to the knee, bare feet churning the water. The river ran like a vein from the lonely mountain, a distant, foreboding shadow on the horizon, already murky and clouded from the orcs upstream, the foot soldiers and conscripts bathing and playing and pushing each other into the water. Soon, it would run with blood from orcs and dwarves - not red or black but a muddy inbetween, the brownish, congealed colour of an old wound.

His fears were starting to haunt him. Kili had made friends and enemies of both sides, had made two homes, and now he couldn’t belong to either of them, couldn’t align himself with one without betraying the other. A month ago, Kili would have found the concept of carrying any genuine feeling towards these people utterly inconceivable, and yet now he felt oddly guilty as he pondered the day ahead. These people were going to die, and Kili hoped to be the driving force behind it. There were going to be casualties, people he knew on both sides who would be wounded or killed in the ensuing battle, and Kili couldn't save all of them. He wasn't even sure he could save Fili.

He clenched one hand into a fist, running his thumb over the massive jewel on his middle finger. Kili had grown used to the strange feeling of his grandfather's ring, and that gentle warmth, the tiny pulse he could only feel if he lay very still and breathed deeply, slowing down his own heart, it no longer concerned him. The concept of magic was a very distant one for Kili, whispered around fires and muttered behind cupped hands. Orcs had their brand of magic, black as tar. They used bones and entrails stained with their own blood to predict the future, and a great number believed in it. Azog did. He'd had his own life foretold in his youth, his rise to power, his victory and glory, and his downfall. The last part was a mystery to Kili, and he wondered if it had come true, if a dwarf of Durin’s blood had been foretold to end his ife. It explained Azog’s unquenchable desire to rid the line of Durin from the land, if he had been told that it would be the death of him.

But for dwarves, magic was remote, reserved for elves and wizards, an object of the past that was both myth and history. Thrain’s ring was part of that bygone age, passed down through his ancestors for so long that the origins were forgotten. There was something inside of it, something that gave it that warmth, that heartbeat. Kili remembered the damage he had done to Throquûrz, denting metal and crushing bone with his bare fists. Dwarves were strong, but never that strong. He had something now that nobody else did. He had power. Kili looked along the river at the white shape of Bolg, barking out orders, pointing and swearing. That was why, of course, he had been so eager for Kili to kill Throquûrz. He wanted to encourage that bloodlust. He wanted Kili to be stronger. Kili was his prize beast, trained to kill and listening to no other master. He never dreamed, never suspected, that Kili would turn on him.

"You look deep in thought." Kili started at the voice behind him and looked over his shoulder. Mautor. "What were you staring at?" Kili drew little circles with his feet in the water. He had the feeling the orc knew.  

"I'm thinking about tomorrow." That wasn't a lie. Mautor snorted and heaved his massive frame down with a sigh. He looked in pain.

"Squeamish?" Mautor sneered. "After what you did to one of Bolg's top generals?"

"Not squeamish." Kili found himself staring at Bolg again, his hands balled into very tight fists.

"Do you like Bolg?" He asked the question quietly, keeping an eye out for eavesdroppers.

Kili's mouth twisted in a knot. "Do you?"

Mautor chuckled. "I don't need to." His voice dropped even lower then, at least very edge of a whisper. "Do you want to go with him to Mordor and the South?"

Kili's head whipped up sharply. "It doesn't matter whether I want to or not. I'm a brother of Bolg and in his service." A gloved, grimy hand found the tooth at his neck and held on.

"For now." There was a smile on the old orc's face, stretched almost into a leer. "The other generals hate and fear you. The moment you slip up, they'll pounce."

Kili didn't look out at the water now. His eyes were fixed on Mautor, hard, almost black in the veiled light. "I don't slip up. The others can think what they like, it doesn't matter. As long as I have Bolg's protection, nothing can stop me." That hard stare narrowed in concentration. "What is it you want from me?"

"What makes you think I want something?"

"Ugh, don't bullshit me. I'm too tired to play along." Kili's piercing gaze broke for a  moment as he blinked, forcing back the urge to rub at his eyes.

“There are a lot of people who want Bolg’s head.” It was a shot in the dark, but Mautor was almost certain. “I’m making you an offer, Kili. If Bolg doesn’t make it tomorrow, come back with us.”

“I’ve told you everything about how Azog turned me. Isn’t that what you wanted, so you can do the same to Thranduil and his elves?” Kili lifted his feet out of the river, muddy water running in rivulets down his bare feet. “Why else would you need me?”

“I don’t need you.” The old orc stood up again slowly, joints creaking. “You need _us._ There are a lot of people who want to make you suffer and you won’t be able to run away again. They’ll hunt you down, and this time there won’t be a dragon to draw them away.”

“Are you offering me protection?” Something tightened in Kili’s heart, and it took a moment for him to place the strange sensation. It was desire. He peeled back the locks of rain-drenched hair plastered to the side of his face, giving Mautor a different, more open look.

“Yes.” And he could _tell_ that the dwarf wanted it.

* * *

He should have expected this. He should have known that Thorin was too far gone, that there was no going back to the way it was, that he was done with Fili and had no faith in his nephew to lead their people, not after everything he had done, not with these poisonous thoughts in his head.

But it still _hurt._

They all met in the front room of the pub, with the tables pushed back. The others were waiting with pinched, tense faces. His mother hugged him, whispered that she was sorry and told him it would be all right. Fili pulled back and saw her face, with her jaw locked tight, sucking in until her cheeks were hollow and a hard, almost vicious gleam in her blue eyes.

“You knew this would happen.” Fili accused her, pushing at her shoulder until she let go. Dís drew back, her heavy brows set in a frown. “You knew he wouldn’t take me back.”

“Darling—”

“Maybe you’re right.” Fili cut over her before she could speak. “Maybe I am a fool for thinking there was any love left in Thorin. Maybe I should give up on all my hopes of rejoining his side. Maybe I should just accept that he’s not the same Thorin who raised me.” Dís studied him in silence, that viciousness softening, growing dull and sad. “Maybe I should give up on everything here.” His heart ached. “Is that what you think? Do you think I was naive?”

“No.” She honestly didn’t. “I think you have more faith in Thorin than he has in himself.” A smile graced her lips, small and cautious. “He’s not as willing as you are to let certain things go.”

“It doesn’t matter now.” Fili lowered his eyes. “I gave him one last chance and he didn’t take it. I can’t stay in Erebor, _Amad,_ or Mirkwood, or the Iron Hills, or anywhere around here.” Panic bubbled in his chest again. He had nowhere to turn, no allies, nowhere to go. He didn’t want to be an exile and a vagrant, his wandering aimlessly, cut off from his people. He didn’t want to be his father. “I don’t know where I can go.”

“Er, begging your pardon,” Apologetically, Bilbo wrung his hands. “But I couldn’t help overhear that you’re at a loss. You know, and this goes for Nori and Ori too,” Bilbo looked over his shoulder, “all four of you are most welcome to come and live with me.”

“Oh, Bilbo.” Fili found himself smiling, despite everything. “We couldn’t impose—”

“Nonsense _,_ it’s not an imposition.” Bilbo waved him away. “I have rooms enough, and no one else to fill them. To be quite honest, I don’t think I’ll be able to settle down quite the same when I go home. I should be quite glad for some company. You shouldn’t feel like you don’t have a friend in the world. Bag End is perfectly cosy, and everything is made roughly for your size. It’s all quite comfortable. You’ll be quite at home.”

Fili was now grinning, the terror softened with Bilbo’s kindness. “Thank you so much. It does feel better, knowing we’re not entirely left in the wild.”

All the same, Fili knew it wasn’t really an option. He couldn’t wander into the West and fade away into obscurity. He couldn’t give up his right that easily. Thorin had taught him to be stronger than that, more stubborn, less ready to let go. Thorin taught him to never, ever accept defeat until the air left his lungs for the last time.

Thranduil had taken leave of the others several minutes before to brood in private. Fili marched up the sagging staircase now, bracing himself. He hadn’t spoken to the elf-king about this yet, not directly. He’d been too afraid to. Thranduil was the only one with any real power left that didn’t see Fili as an immediate danger, and now the situation had become untenable. Thranduil couldn’t protect him.

It was almost comical, seeing Thranduil hunched over the tiny table with his legs drawn up, scouring a piece of paper. Fili closed the door behind him without any introduction, holding his breath until he felt the blood throb in his head. Thranduil stared outward at the wall opposite for several moments, a muscle twitching in his cheek, before he rose slowly to his feet and towered over the young dwarf.

“I really didn’t think you were capable of something so stupid.” Thranduil hissed. “Asking for your uncle’s forgiveness, I can understand that, but promising to leave if he denies you? How could you be so short-sighted?”

“I thought the ultimatum would make him see sense.” Fili mumbled.

“Instead, you have nothing. No claim, no allies. You’ve cut off your own right hand, Fili.”

“Bilbo offered to house us in the Shire.” Thranduil’s expression darkened at that. “He thinks, and I think _Amad_ does too, that I should give up on this and just try to live comfortably.”

“I don’t give a fig what Bilbo Baggins thinks about the royal succession, and you shouldn’t either. Your mother never had any interest in retaining any of Erebor’s past wealth and glory, so it’s no surprise she wants you to give up.”

“This is your fault, too.” Fili accused him. “You put me in an _awful_ position, Thranduil. I might have had some chance of coming back, but when Thorin found out about the deal I made—”

“ _Stop!”_  Thranduil thundered, losing his temper. “If you want me to stop treat you like a child, then stop _acting_ like one!”

Fili gasped. “I don’t!”

“Stop masking your ignorance and naivety in misguided honour, Fili. It’s worn through. You blindly parade about with your intentions clear, expecting people to show the same undeserved trust that you give them, and cry foul when it inevitably goes wrong.”

“Having faith in people isn’t stupid!”

“It _is!”_ Thranduil took a wide step towards Fili, who pressed himself against the door in response. “Look at you! Look at what Thorin has done to you, repeatedly, and you still expect for mercy and forgiveness. You don’t _deserve_ to be a king of anything until you grow up and learn to stand up for yourself.” Fili swallowed hard, hands curling into fists against the warped wood. “I don’t doubt your heart and will, Fili. I just don’t understand why you let Thorin do this to you over and over again.”

“Because I’m doing the right thing.” Fili stubbornly refused to sway. “Even if I’m the only one—”

“Don’t feed me that line about being the last one with any honour. Don’t even _try._ ” Thranduil wasn’t angry so much as frustrated with what Fili had done, yet again.

“What do you want me to say?” The colour rose in Fili’s face. “I’m _sorry_ for having a moral standpoint? That I’m sorry for trying to be different than what everybody expects of me? That I’m sorry for having a _heart_ while everybody else acts so savagely?”

“You are not your father, Fili!” A bony fist thudded into the wall over Fili’s head. The dwarf froze, voice stuck in his throat. “If you want to prove to people that you’re honourable, you have done that five times over!"

"What would you have me do?" It came out weaker than Fili wanted, and he fought back the urge to wince at himself. "I can't undo this. I can't go back."

"Don't go to the Shire. Don't even consider it."  Thranduil stepped back. "Don't leave this place without a fight if you ever want a chance at taking the crown."

"You think I should keep fighting?"

"Until it kills you." Thranduil spoke plainly here, without a trace of his usual veiled sarcasm. "Fight Thorin until you are either  dead or king. Your cause isn't defeated just because he has rejected you."

"I can't go back on my word." Fili refused to heed Thranduil’s advice, but the cracks were starting to show. "I'm not a liar."

"Thorin deserves it." There was a gleam in Thranduil’s eyes, cold and dangerous. "Show him the same respect and love that he's shown you. Are you ready to give up?"

"No.” The cracks widened. “Never.”

Thranduil rested a hand on his hip, looking Fili up and down. "So then, what are you going to do?"

* * *

He waited until sunset before making a move. Fili distracted himself as best he could, sharpening his sword, fixing a broken bootstrap, braiding and unraveling his hair until it was perfect. He kept his hands busy but his mind was fractured and uneasy. It was as though he looked in at himself from the outside, in a muffled, murky world where it was warped and discoloured.

He told Ori, Nori and Bilbo to meet him at the mouth of eastern mine-shaft an hour after sundown, and to make sure they weren't followed. Fili showed up early and paced, fingering his immaculate braids. He wondered if he should have told his mother, if his reluctance to include her came from an urge protect her, to give her the benefit of the doubt, or from a fear that she would condemn him if she knew what he planned to do.

What did he plan to do? Thranduil’s words lit a fire inside of him. He wasn't ready to give up yet, it was true. He didn't want it to end like this, to slink away in obscurity and just be forgotten. He didn't want to resign his people to this fate. Fili remembered the way Ori looked at him when he swore his undying loyalty, with complete adoration, a steady resoluteness in his voice, with hope in his eyes. He wanted them all to look at him like that, like he was a true king.

Fili refused to see this as a compromise or a loss. He wasn’t sacrificing his honour by going back on his word to Thorin. It had become ridiculous to hang on the way that he had, clinging to this childish fantasy of forgiveness. Being cast aside by Thorin so publicly and harshly hardened Fili’s resolve, instead of pushing him to defeat. He realised now, how dangerously close he came to losing sight of himself, and of his people in the same hopeless quest to fulfil some sort of inward standard of honour. He’d almost done the exact same thing that he had criticised Thorin for. He repeated these thoughts to make himself feel rational and justified. Desperately, Fili tried to convince himself that this was the right thing to do. He needed to believe in himself before expecting others to believe him.

Ori came first. He gave Fili one of his small, shy smiles, squeezing his arm. Fili rested his palm over Ori's hand, a lifeline. "Do you still mean it, everything you said about following me until the end?"

"Of course."

Fili tightened his grip. "Even now?"

"Now more than ever." Ori shot him another smile, a little wider this time, more assured. "I don't trust Thorin's change of heart, or Thranduil’s acceptance it. I don't think either of them do themselves."

Fili nodded. "We have to do whatever it takes to keep fighting. No matter how desperate and hopeless it gets."

"Fili, I would follow you to the end of the world." Ori promised him. "I'll never give up."

Fili waited for Nori and Bilbo to arrive before he said anything. They stood not in a small room where they could easily overheard, but at the mouth of the mine-shaft, facing the passage towards the rest of the city. Fili stood with his hands clasped behind his back, deep in thought, with a frown on his brow. He looked like his uncle with that brooding, severe profile. It made Ori somewhat uneasy.

"I gave Thorin one last chance and he threw it back at me. I said I would leave if he said no and never challenge him again." Fili couldn't look Ori in the eye. "I said I would give up. But I'm not going to." A tremor crept into Fili's voice, and he did his best to shake it off. "I won't give up on Erebor, ever."

"So what are you going to do?" Ori breathed.

"I'm going to fight. Dain is using his family to support his claim," Fili bit his lip. "So I'm going to use mine."

"No." Nori's crossed arms fell lax at his sides. "You don't mean…” Fili nodded. "You're talking civil war."

Fili tried to remain calm. "It won't come to that,  Nori. I won't let it. There are other ways to fight without making people suffer. There has to be."

 _Yes_." Ori clasped his hands together, eyes shining in light of their single lantern as he realised the bones of Fili’s plan. "Do it, Fili. Beat Dain at his own game."

"I don't want hurt Thorin, but he's forced me to do this." Fili's heart lifted at Ori's bold agreement. "I know he's trying, but he's still so bound up in all these stupid, idiotic lies and pretenses. He still thinks he can be perfect." He used to think Fili was perfect. He said it all the time, over and over, to anybody who would listen. But Fili couldn’t dwell on that right now without a splintering in his chest, and he put that thought away. "He hasn't changed. I saw him today, and I know that despite all of his calls for peace and an alliance, he doesn’t really believe it, I can tell. I know him.” Fili was so disappointed in himself, and in Thorin, for allowing it to get this bad. “He will never change his mind. As soon as this battle is over, he'll go right back to the way things were and threaten ruin on Erebor, and Dain will stand back and just let it all happen.” Ori was hanging on to every word, Bilbo reserved and thoughtful and Nori warming at Fili’s words. “I _need_ you, all three of you, to help me do this. I don’t have Thranduil’s army or Dain’s sway over Thorin. I just have my blood and conviction, and no matter how right I am, I know it’s not enough anymore.”

He wasn’t looking at Ori or Bilbo anymore, who he knew he’d won over. Fili looked at Nori, shrewd, clever, cynical Nori. “Thranduil was right when I said I had to get my hands dirty. I think he wants me to do this. He wouldn’t say it outright, he’d never compromise himself like that, but he wants me to keep on fighting. And - in some way, it’s not just about that. It’s so hard to explain, Nori, but… they’re family, whether I like it or not, and I know they can’t all be horrible. I’m not that naive about them. I can’t keep running away from that half of my life and body. They need me and— and I feel, in some way, like I need them too.”

“Damn them all.” Nori smirked. “Let’s raise a little hell before they try and put us all away for good.” He gave Fili a gentle push on his arm. “It’s about time you grew a pair and bit back, you sod.”

Fili’s cautious smile faded as the nerves began once more to creep in. “I just hope I haven’t left all of this too late.”


	104. How It Was

It was a still, moonlit night, the valley cast in silver. Fili listened to the stones crunch under his feet like sun-bleached bones, eyes fixed on the distant flickers of red-gold light huddled near one of the sheer cliff faces.He'd left Bilbo at the mouth of the hidden entrance, an escape route that snaked out of the deep mines, up a rusting but still sturdy iron ladder bolted into the stone. It was better for Fili to seem as though he had allies so he took both Nori and Ori, shivering in the midwinter air. Air steamed from their nostrils and mouths, billowing several feet before dispersing in the moonlight.

"I hate to think how cold it must be for them." Ori mumbled through his scarf. "I don't think they even have fires, just a few candles."

"Stubborn bastards." Nori gave Fili a knowing look. "It runs on both sides."

"That's how my parents came so close to killing each other." Fili's face was pinched, a little frightened. "Neither of them would give up. They both fought to the end."

"And that's why you and Kili are so strong." Nori tried to lift Fili's spirits, but he remained quiet and apprehensive.

"I used to feel as though Kili got the best of our parents, and I got the worst, like they were divided up." Fili's voice was almost lost in the night. "Then everything happened and now..." He fingered one of the clasps in his hair. "He became a monster, and you know, it wasn't his fault. Kili just did what it took to survive. I don't blame him. I wish I could tell him that."

"You don't know what you're capable of until it happens." Nori stared at the ground now, watching clouds of dust billow around their feet. "It's not just an orcish or Ironfist thing. It's a peoplething. I think you'll struggle to find anyone who would honestly rather be dead than guilty of the sort of shit they do."

“I couldn’t go through my whole life like that.” Fili said. “I’d be so worn down.”

“You won’t have to.” Nori promised him, trying to smile. It was stiff and unconvincing. “It’s all going to work out, Fili. You’ll be fine.”

They walked in silence for a time, until they were close enough to see movement and silhouettes. There was a shout, a call for halt and the three of them pulled up short in their walk, hands on their heads.

“Who goes there?” A dwarf strode out to meet them, bearing a torch and an axe. “Explain your…” He fell silent as he spotted Fili’s mane of hair, shining yellow-silver. “Your Highness.”

Fili didn’t expect to be called that. The title made something knot up in his stomach -- disgust, nerves, pride, he didn’t know. He swallowed through it and regarded the soldier with a calm, collected expression, not giving anything away. “I need to speak to Fíak as soon as possible.”

Twenty feet away, the dwarf nodded. “Of course.”

* * *

Dís went upstairs for bed early, feeling wrung-out from the day, even though she felt she hadn’t done much. Perhaps it was just stress. She combed her hair and wove it into a thick braid at the back of her head, sitting on the edge of her low bed and toying absentmindedly with the end.

Fili had disappeared with Ori and Nori, and she didn’t know where. Dís tried not to worry, tried to tell herself that he had to battle his demons in his own way, he needed friends to reassure him, not his mother. But it was in her nature to worry and she fretted now, wondering if she should go look for him and reluctantly deciding she would only make things worse. She could sense his anger when he spoke to her, looked at her, and although he tried to hide it, she knew Fili was angry at her. Dís longed to hold him, whisper in his ear and tell him not to give in to that dark part of his mind, but she knew it would be fruitless.

After a while, she gave up and dressed down to her underclothes. They were too big for her in some parts and too small in others, made for dwarves instead of dams. Dís couldn’t wear a shift beneath her heavy battle clothes. She lay on the bed with one hand on her chest, feeling her heartbeat through the tight bindings that kept her body in check.

There was a soft knock on the door, breaking her reverie. Dís sat up with a frown. “Who is it?” She called, swinging her legs over the side of the bed.

“Lady Dís,” She made a face at the elvish voice. She hated being called _Lady._ At least when she was a princess, it felt like a title she had fought for and earned. “One of Thorin’s company is here to speak with you. He appears to be quite distressed and refuses to speak to anybody else or reveal why he is here.”

Dís crossed the room and wrenched the door open. “Dwalin.” She breathed, knowing instantly that it could be nobody else. The guard nodded in the doorway, pointing down the stairs. Dís thanked her and took off, head swimming. She was halfway down the stairs before she realised that she was in a state of undress and hovered in a moment of uncertainty. Hang it, Dwalin had seen much, much more, and around these elves and men, she wasn’t ashamed or afraid of her body. It felt like a lifetime since anybody had looked that way at her.

He stood in the front room with his arms crossed, staring down at the floor and shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other. The last stair creaked and Dwalin looked up, the colour draining from his face. “Dís.” He breathed with a soft reverence that was old and distant. He couldn’t help himself – he looked at her through the thin underclothes at that soft, sturdy frame he had committed to memory.

“Why are you here.” Dwalin flinched at her voice, cold and haughty, as though she struck him. Dís kept her head high and refused to yield to him, even as the violent rushing inside of her grew stronger and louder, and she thought it might consume her entirely. She could never forgive, never forget what he had done to Fili. Dwalin had made that choice, he’d chosen Thorin, and it cut part of him off from her.

“I wanted to see you.” They weren’t alone in this room, although the others were pretending, badly, not to notice. “Is there anywhere we can go?”

“Come with me.” She didn’t touch him. Desire still throbbed and burned within her, left her knees weak and she was terrified of touching him, of bringing those memories and that deep, fierce passion back to the surface. She still remembered the last night they spent together, deep in the bowels of Ered Luin, locked away from the world. She had promised to marry Dwalin, give him children when they stood side-by-side once more in Erebor’s halls. Dwalin had promised to wait for her forever. They had loved one another so perfectly and completely, and as she listened to him breathe behind her, Dís knew that love hadn’t faded for either of them over the passing of the seasons. It was just veiled now, a piece of silver tarnished and grimy, that just needed to be polished and wiped clean before shining as bright as ever, pure and flawless.

Dís walked back up the stairs, listening to them creak. She led Dwalin into her room and closed the door behind her and drew the bolt, sitting on the edge of her bed and staring down at her bare feet. “Please,” Dwalin whispered, crouching down before her. “Don’t be like this. Say something to me. Anything.”

“Say what?” She hissed. “Do you think I don’t know about you and Fili?” Dwalin drew back. “You _betrayed_ him. You promised to help him and in the last moment, you sold him out.” For a single, beautiful second, Dwalin’s infidelity seemed diminished, but when he knelt before her and assumed that look of penitence, it all came rushing back. Anger swelled in her chest, hotter now, growing painful.

“I know. I know.” Dwalin bent his head, speech thick and muffled. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Dís. I was weak.” One hand tentatively reached out, taking hers. She remained stiff and unyielding. “I was more afraid of Thorin condemning me than I was of the consequences of his actions. It was selfish and cowardly of me.”

“It was.” Dís breathed. Dwalin gripped her hand tighter, nails digging in. “Did you come all this way just to say sorry, Dwalin?”

“I would walk to the ends of the earth if it got you closer to me.” Dwalin lifted his face, kneeling on the floor between her legs. They had been in this exact spot before, in her home in Ered Luin with her boys sleeping in the next room, tiny dwarrows who were innocent to the world. Dís closed her eyes as the memory struck her, feeling that desire creep through her chest, through her heart and stomach. He had been her protection, her shelter. Dwalin had shielded her from the world for years with his passionate, relentless love, and he offered it again, hoping beyond hope that she would forgive him and take him back. “I would do anything to earn your forgiveness.”

It was so rare to see Dwalin like this. Dís was almost certain that she was the first one to witness this aspect to him, raw and fragile with his heart so open. It seemed almost beyond her control as she found herself pitching forward, sliding from the bench and onto the floorboards, almost in his lap. She felt intoxicated, enchanted.

“I love you.” Dwalin whispered. “Please _, please_ , Dís. Name it. Name your price and I’ll pay it. I’ll do anything. I’ll turn on Thorin, on Dain, on Balin, if that’s what it takes.” He would love her forever. Dwalin fumbled around in his pocket and brought out the jewel he had made for her when she was a child, when they both were children, when their home knew no darkness and shadow and Smaug was yet to exist for them. “I found this again after weeks of searching. It’s yours, if you want it back.”

Dís’ throat went painfully tight at the sight of the moon and stars in diamonds and white gold that Dwalin cupped in his heavy, tattooed hands. This wasn’t unexpected -- Dís knew that he would try to come for her again, but even she didn’t expect him to be quite like this, so desperate and wretched. Perhaps he was afraid of dying tomorrow and leaving this unresolved. She reached out and touched the diamond with the tip of her finger. Dwalin was different from Thorin, from Dain, from every other dwarf that got near her, in that he never once tried to put any pressure on her, force or intimate her. He worshipped Dís with every fibre of his being, refused to see past his blind love of her. She had thought, until very recently, that he was incapable of doing anything to hurt her. Dwalin was a perfect lover and companion, yet he had corrupted himself in choosing Thorin over her son. It had broken something inside of her, damaged that connection she had thought they shared so deeply. It disrupted her trust, and she wasn’t sure how he could ever get it back. She wished she didn’t still want to feel his hands on her. She wished she didn’t have this desire.

“Anything.” He whispered. Dís felt as though she were about to scream. Her heart was beating too fast, her skin crawling where he touched her. A second face flashed through her mind, a knife-wound in her belly. There was still one thing Dwalin could do to try and repair the damage that he and Thorin had done to her. One desperate, hopeless thing.

One arm wound around his neck, bringing their foreheads together. Dís felt possessed as she pressed herself against him, feeling that familiar hard weight of his body over hers, the muscles and bones. It was love that drove this, but Dís questioned her love in that moment, if she felt it for Dwalin as strongly as she once did, or if was that deeper, fiercer love for her children, twisted around and directed somewhere else. She kissed him deeply, feeling the softness of his thick beard against her jaw, the shudder in his chest as he gasped for air. Dwalin touched her face, the hollows in her neck, every part of her that he could and she ached for it. Dís was fiercely independent and refused to allow anybody to dominate her, but she could never deny how deeply she craved Dwalin’s touch and love.

“Anything?” Her voice was ragged as she pulled apart. Dwalin didn’t dare to speak. This was a new side to her, a dark, dangerous side. It showed how desperate she had become, how close she was to caving in to complete despair. “Bring Kili back to me. I don’t care what Thorin says or does to you. Find him and bring him home, no matter where he is, no matter how long it takes.” The grip around Dwalin’s neck was as tight as a manacle. “Bring our son home.”

 _Our son._ Dwalin’s heart skipped a beat. His hands trembled as he pinned the brooch onto Dís’ chest, right over her heart. He pressed his hand against it, felt the cool touch of metal, and behind it, the racing throb of her pulse. “Of course. I’ll bring him back to you or die trying.” He whispered his promise, their faces very close. She kissed him again, the hand at his neck sliding around into his shirt, touching skin and the hair. He didn’t need to think on it - it was such an instant gut reaction. Not just to prove himself to Dís and try to regain her trust, but because he wanted Kili back too, more than he wanted Erebor or Thorin’s loyalty. His failure to protect Kili twice now had been a crushing blow to his spirit, one that he felt as though he would never recover from. He felt in that moment that he would absolutely sacrifice Thorin, and everything that Thorin meant to him, if it meant having Kili back. There was no question about it.

* * *

The air was filled with growls, cheers and screams. A vast bear, chained to a stake driven deep into the frozen ground, swiped at one of the three wargs that circled it, blood and spittle dripping from open mouths. Kili watched the grisly scene in silence, picking at a skewer of roasted pork that oozed fat all over his fingers. At his side, Bolg was on his feet, shouting and snarling at his own warg, Azat, who had been pitted against the chained bear.

The poor creature had been plucked from the woods several days before, caught shambling through the trees by scouts in search of food. Kili remembered how, months, and months ago, Beorn had remarked in his woodland home that his shapeshifting people had been put to sport in scenes just like this. He kept his face blank, turning his thoughts away from that part of his life. Remembering how it was like just before he left, at Beorn’s, it was still too painful.

“At least they didn’t rope you in, eh, buddy?” Kili scratched Nardur’s ear, pulling off one of the gristly bits of pork to give him. The warg snapped his teeth at the treat and licked Kili’s fingers, a soft whine in his throat as he begged for more. “Oh, all right. I don’t know how much more of the stuff I can stomach anyway.” Kili gave him more, resting his cheek against Nardur’s ear.

A particularly loud roar from the bear made Kili look up. One of the wargs had managed to get at a lower leg and bite down. The bear swiped with its massive claws, turning the warg’s thick hide into ribbons and making him howl. Kili stared at the savagery that played out before him, seemingly interested, but his mind was drifting further away, shutting out the howls and screams for blood.

It was difficult to believe that in just a few hours they would be at the foothills of the mountain. Kili had been preparing himself for this for weeks, ever since he first heard about Bolg's plan to march upon Erebor, but he didn't know if he was ready, if he ever could be ready. He still didn't have a plan for just how the battle would play out. It was something that he couldn't predict. Kili only had his wits to rely on, and the hope of some luck. He felt like he was well overdue for a bit of luck.

And then Mautor had gone and made that offer of protection. It wouldn't leave Kili alone, because he knew he wanted to take it. He wanted to go back to that distant outpost town and become nothing. He wanted to live with somebody who loved him, become part of a family that accepted him with open arms, and if he couldn’t have that with Fili and Thorin… Ilzkhaal was such a poor second that Kili felt pathetic for even wanting it. He was so desperate to belong somewhere that he would pretend to be something he wasn’t twice over. But Ilzkhaal _was_ better than nothing – in some ways, he was almost better than Fili, because he ‘got’ Kili in a way that he felt no dwarf ever could. Everything about Kili that embarrassed and disgusted his own people had set Ilzkhaal alight and brought them closer together. If Kili hadn’t let it spiral out of control, if he hadn’t lost sight of himself so completely and descended into this chaos, then maybe…

He put his hand in his pocket, fingers closing around the secret hair-clasp. He hadn’t lost sight of himself. He hadn’t forgotten why he was here, and he never would. Kili stared at Bolg’s back as the orc stood up and roared, striding down to the dirt circle where only his own warg remained uninjured, dancing and snarling around the chained bear. _I’m going to kill you._ Kili promised silently, the corner of his hair-clasp digging a red mark in his palm. _I’m going to save Fili and then I’m going to kill you._

“Kili!” He jumped at Bolg’s harsh voice, ripping his hand out of his pocket. The wargs had withdrawn, limping, with huge gaping wounds in their sides and heads. Azat strained against his master’s hold on his spiked collar and snapping at the bear. Bolg spat on the ground. “Show these pathetic runts how it’s done.”

 _You can’t be serious._ Kili didn’t speak, though, as he pushed his way through the ring of orcs to the bloodstained dirt. He didn’t even consider going against Bolg’s words. If he was bored, it was far too dangerous to deny him entertainment. The bear was given a very wide berth, the chain pulled taught and straining against the stake. After a short silence, the crowd started to swell and roar, jostling in as close as they dared, getting a good look at this special show. The chained beast snarled at him, trying to lunge at Kili and being flung back.

Kili withdrew his scimitar slowly, scanning the ground, the bear’s underbelly, how much room he had to work with. One false move and he would find those massive jaws around his limbs or his head, and everything would be finished. He kept his weight light and moved forward, side-stepping to the left as the bear made its first swipe, about to strike in return when a familiar bark broke through the chorus of growls and shouts. Kili looked up to see Nardur straining to break free as Bolg held him by the scruff of the neck, half the size of the other wargs, his barking punctuated with high whimpers of pain as the orc-king pulled too tight.

“Nardur, _no! Krum!”_ He was caught off-guard in his shock. Kili screamed as the bear launched a stunning blow against his chest. The armour protected Kili from those massive claws, but the force sent him sprawling on the ground, the blade knocked from his hand. It took a moment for him to come back, for the spinning and rushing in his head to stop, and when Kili opened his eyes, he saw the bear about to lower his head, teeth aimed for his bare throat. He kicked out and caught the beast in the neck, backing away clumsily on his hands and knees as the bear recoiled with an angry roar.

Out of reach, Kili cast Bolg a desperate, angry look. _What the fuck?_ He screamed in his head, snarling at Bolg, nails digging into the bloodied dirt. Bolg simply looked pleased, restraining both wargs and making it look effortless. The blood raced as Kili snatched up his orcish blade and scrabbled to his feet. He wouldn’t be distracted a second time.

Sensing Kili’s renewed vigour, the bear retreated until it could stand on its hind legs, towering over Kili with warg-blood dripping from its mouth. Kili tried to go for the gut, keeping low, but had to jump aside at the last moment to avoid a nasty blow aimed at his head. The bear was lumbering and slow, but it was big, with a longer reach than Kili even with his scimitar. Kili couldn’t afford any more mistakes. He was too small to get near the bear’s head and neck and shoulders, and if he tried to slash at its legs, there was a very real fear that Kili could be crushed beneath it as it fell.

He’d fought worse on his own, Kili reminded himself. He’d fought of those awful spiders without any aid in Mirkwood, and again in the depths of the Grey Mountains. Behind the bear, he caught a glimpse of Bolg, his mutilated face pulled back in a sneer, his remaining eye gleaming. This was a show. And for all Bolg’s proclamations that Kili was valuable, that there was a real use for him, that he was worth more than his other generals, it was obvious here, right now, that Bolg had as much respect for Kili as he did his warg or sword. Kili was nothing more than a circus act, a trained beast let out of his cage to put on a show. He was a weapon.

It was hardly a revelation, but Kili still felt outraged, standing in the dirt with the massive bear towering over him. It was so different to Azog’s twisted, depraved and yet somehow protective manipulation that it seemed difficult to believe that they were father and son, bred from the same blood. Kili pushed the thought away and tried to concentrate, hovering on the balls of his feet with his eyes on the bear's enormous claws.

He couldn’t wait any longer. Kili struck, charging the beast with his shoulders low and head bent. There was a rising cheer from the crowd as Kili threw himself between the bear's legs, throwing out his right arm and slicing through hide and muscle, the bear stumbling and roaring in pain. Behind it, Kili whirled around and jumped. He hung on by a handful of thick hair as the bear struggled to rise once more to its feet, gritting his teeth. It tried to swipe at Kili, claws grating against iron with a screech that sent a shiver down Kili's spine. Grimly, he pushed the sword in with a bone-crunching force between the bear's shoulders, screwing his face up at the terrific howl that broke through the night, and jumped down as the bear fell. He landed clumsy on his shaking legs and clung to his sword like a guide-rope suspended over a sheer cliff.

The bear wasn't dead yet. Bolg let the wargs go as Kili staggered towards him, Azat rushing past and going for the throat. Nardur, however, ran to Kili and licked at his free hand, whining pathetically and wagging his tail so hard his flanks shook from side to side.

“I’m going to bed.” Kili stomped past Bolg, intentionally shouldering him as he went past. Bolg struck with a snarl, seizing Kili by the elbow and holding him in place, leaning down to whisper in his ear.

“Don’t you dare forget for a single moment, Kili.” he hissed in a voice that sent a chill down Kili’s spine, not with his normal snarling rage but with a cold, calculated cruelty that in that moment reminded Kili strikingly of Azog. “I _own_ you.” He knew about Mautor’s offer, then. This was a threat. Kili looked up at him, matching that coldness with a blank, restrained gaze, heart pulsing through his ears. “And you will do _anything_ I command of you without question.”

“Of course.” Kili croaked. Bolg’s snarl deepened.

“You are going to kill your uncle and brother. You are going to take that crown and the Arkenstone and cast them into the deepest chasm we can find. We will raze Erebor to the ground and tear it apart piece by piece, and you are going to do all of this because _I say so_.” In that moment, Kili realised that Bolg was most dangerous not when he was locked in one of his psychotic rages or enamoured with his insatiable bloodlust, but when he felt threatened. Kili had made him feel threatened.

“Of course.” Kili repeated. “I live to serve you.” He kept that same placid expression, but his mouth was bone-dry. This was a cold reminder that he couldn’t slip up tomorrow. If Bolg caught him after his disloyalty was exposed… Kili couldn’t think about it without feeling sick.

* * *

Fíak sat with his legs crossed beneath him, eyes fixed on the single candle in his low tent. Fili, Nori and Ori all knelt before him, their elbows and ankles touching, hands respectfully folded in their laps and eyes downcast, although Ori kept giving Fili little shooting glances out of the corner of his eye, trying to smile.

“Something’s changed.” Fili spoke first, watching the old dwarf study the pitiful little light. There was a drawn, tired look to his face, eyes dull and weary. “What happened?”

Fíak slowly looked up from the candle, looking like a skeleton in the shadows. “Vili is dying.” He said bluntly. “A sickness has taken in his chest and it won’t shift. He stopped eating and his breath is fading.” Fili sat very still. “I received the message yesterday morning. To be frank, he’s most likely already dead, and we haven’t got word yet.”

“Oh.” Fili gasped, not knowing what else he could say.

“He was far from young, you know that. I just hoped he could keep on a little longer.” Fíak raked a hand through his grey dreadlocks. “I hoped to be back with something in time.”

“What’s going to happen now?” Fili’s mind raced, wondering what this meant for him. They would be more desperate than ever.

“Now, we choose our sides.” Fili couldn’t look into those aged, sunken eyes. He looked instead at a spot on Fíak’s forehead, trying to collect himself and reorganise his fractured thoughts. “Why are _you_ here?”

“I’m here to warn you. To offer shelter.” In his periphery, he saw Nori give a tiny nod. “In the dawn, there will be an army of orcs at the mouth of this valley, crushing anything that stands in their path.” Fíak’s eyes flashed, finally coming to life. “You can’t escape an army of five thousand, Fíak. They’ll crush you.”

“So you’re inviting us into Erebor.” He tried to figure Fili out. “What do _you_ get out of this?”

“Thorin and Thranduil have reached an uneasy compromise for the sake of this battle tomorrow. It… doesn’t include me.” Fili’s toes curled inside his boots.

Fíak’s eyes narrowed. “He threw you out for good.”

“I threw myself out. I said I would leave if he didn’t accept me, and…” He gave a little shrug. “Thorin Oakenshield will never forgive me. He said so himself. He doesn’t trust me as a prince. He says I’m dangerous.”

“I like dangerous.” Fíak drummed his fingers against his knee. “Are you taking me up on my offer, then? Do the Ironfists have their prince after all?”

Fili drew in a sharp breath. “It’s not me.” He pushed his hair back from his face, finally looking Fíak in the eye. He was such a wild, savage-looking dwarf, it was difficult, at times, to remember the intense power he wielded. He was a king-maker. “I don’t want to rule you on a distant throne and you don’t want me to either. But I do want to help you, Fíak.”

“Help us.” He repeated, twisting Fili’s words and mocking him. “How can you help _us?”_

“I know what you think of me. You think I hate you all and I think you’re all monsters, and you deserve all of this. And… I did until recently. I feared and hated you. But…” Fili paused, wondering how he could put it into words, how much he should reveal. “I’ve seen what happens to somebody who has to live in that constant state of darkness.” Fíak listened with a frown. “I saw what Azog did to my brother, and he was somebody I thought couldn’t be corrupted. He was the sweetest, kindest person I knew, even though—” Fili caught himself in time, heart thumping. “Look, I just don’t think a whole race or tribe of people can just be born evil. I know it’s something you take pride in, but if things were different, if you didn’t need to be cruel and violent just to go on living, then you wouldn’t be, would you? You’d change.”

“How noble.” Fíak sneered. “You think you can save us from ourselves. How, if we acted more like the glorious and honourable dwarves of Durin’s Folk?”

Fili shook his head. “No. Never. If I were king of Erebor, I’d change things there, too. I’m not deluded enough to think Longbeards are perfect. I don’t want to try and change you into them.”

Fíak crossed his arms and looked intently at Fili, considering what he both said and implied chewing on the inside of his cheek. After a short, contemplative sort of silence, his gaze shifted to Nori. “Why do you follow him instead of Thorin?”

Nori snorted. “Because Thorin’s an unforgiving bastard.” He shrugged, as though it was something he’d never considered because it was so obvious. “He expects people like me to remain downtrodden peasants for our lives and never fight back. Fili’s different.”

Fíak digested his slowly with that same thoughtful look, before turning to Ori. “What about you?”

Ori bit his lip and stared at the ground, trying to disappear inside his scarf as he usually did when he was nervous. “Um… Thorin wanted to exile me.” He mumbled down at his knees. “For, um…” Ori tugged at the wool. It was stupid to feel like this. Everybody else knew, and the longer he kept being ashamed of this, slinking around and feeling guilty for his heart, the harder and harder it would ever be to accept it and be open about it. He sighed. “I fell in love with Kili.” Fíak raised an eyebrow. “Thorin didn’t like that very much.” Fili squeezed his shoulder.

“What a bullshit law.” The old dwarf rolled his eyes. “Trust Thorin Oakenshield to cling to it.”

Ori’s heart seized. “You don’t…”

“We have bigger problems in our lives than who people take to bed.” There was a tense look to Fili’s face, and his hand on Ori’s shoulder had gone white-knuckled, possessive in its tightness. “So these are your only allies? Criminals who don’t deserve to be?”

“I believe in Fili.” Emboldened, Ori pulled the scarf down from his mouth. “He stood up for me against Thorin, and I know he’d do it for anyone. He’s not afraid.”

“I’ll be honest.” Fili released his hold on Ori. “I’m here for a throne, but it’s not yours.” Fíak clasped both hands together and rested his chin on them, waiting for Fili to go on. “I _will_ be king of Erebor. It’s my rightful place, and I know that I deserve it, no matter what Thorin and Dain say against me. If you support me in this, then when I am king I will use Erebor’s resources to help you repair and rebuild the Ironfist tribe in whatever way you see fit.”

“What’s a hundred dwarves against Dain’s army of thousands?” Fíak pointed out, but there was a gleam in his eye that Fili hadn’t seen before. He was considering it.

“It’s better than nothing.” Fili rasped. There was a sick sort of throbbing in his head as he spoke, as the ramifications of what he was doing slowly hit him. He was doing something that nobody expected of him, least of all Thorin, and the thought, rather than filling him with guilt, gave him a sense of courage. He was very definitively breaking away from Thorin, and it was hard to fully comprehend it.

Fíak held out one hand, the corner of his mouth twitching in a smile. “You’re far less like Thorin than I thought, Fili.”

Fili smiled back, shaking the dwarf’s hand. “Thank you.”

* * *

Dwalin stumbled on like a drunk, a babe just learning to walk. If he closed his eyes, he could still see her, still smell her, still feel her in his arms. He didn’t have Dís yet – there was still a way to go, still a task to complete, but knowing that she still loved him had set him on fire. He found himself reluctant to leave afterwards, holding her close and whispering that he didn’t want to go. He wanted to stay in her bed all night, all tomorrow, forever. He never wanted to leave her side.

It was Dís who told him to leave before Thorin noticed he was gone. There was a flash of guilt in her eyes afterwards, as though she stood over him with his blood in her hands instead of his clothes, his nakedness an open, gaping wound that she had inflicted. He left her sitting on the edge of her bed wrapped in her blanket, bare legs sticking out, eyes on her feet.

Kili. It was a brand stamped over his eyes, searing, blinding him. Dís asked for the impossible and yet he knew he would never fail her. He would march straight into the depths of Morder itself, to the furthest reaches of the world, if that was what it took to bring his Kili home. _Our son_. It had been plaguing him and now as he walked alone it rose to a shout in his mind, a battle-cry that echoed over and over. It used to be a fantasy of his, so easy to indulge when Kili was small and featureless, dark-haired and dark-eyed, calling him _Adad_ because he didn’t know anything else, always trailing behind Dwalin’s busy feet. Kili was special to him and everybody knew it, but he never dreamed that Dís would share in that secret fantasy too. It had always been too sacred, too impossible to consider.

Dwalin thought he could slip back unnoticed. He was wrong. Thorin was pacing in the hall outside his room, hands balled into fists, his eyes on the floor. Dwalin stood at the end of the passageway, making sure the fastenings on his clothes were even, his hair and beard were smoothed out, hoping that his face wasn’t flushed anymore and his breathing was normal.

“Thorin.” His voice trembled. The footsteps ceased and his king whirled around, a stern and imposing figure with none of his usual fraternal affection.

“Where were you.” Perhaps Thorin could sense it by looking at him. Perhaps somebody saw Dwalin leaving, spied on him and reported back. Perhaps it was all a guess. But Dwalin looked at Thorin and he _knew_ there would be no hiding from him. Dwalin could never keep any secrets from his king. “I went looking for you.” Thorin strode towards him, voice rising. “I wanted to go over our position for tomorrow morning.” Dwalin didn’t speak. “Where were you!” He shouted the question instead of asking it, a wild, fearful look in his eyes.

“You know where I was.” Dwalin couldn’t look at him.

Thorin sagged. “ _Why._ ” Dwalin’s loyalty felt like the only constant, the rock he clung to as everything else crashed and roared around him, beating him, trying to sink him under. He thought, after Fili and Kili and Dís had been let go, that at least he would always have Dwalin.

“Because I didn’t want to die tomorrow without loving her.” Dwalin spoke honestly, head bowed.

That hard look softened, and Thorin felt a pang of something like contrition in his stomach as he watched his best friend suffer through a pain he had never experienced. He didn’t know how to be empathetic. “Still?” He finally choked out, fighting the sting of betrayal, feeling his nails bite into his palms as he tried to restrain his trembling fists.

“Always.” Dwalin whispered, but Thorin still heard him. “I’ll never deny that. You can’t ask me to stop loving her.”

“She’s a traitor.”

“She is your sister!” Dwalin took a step forward. “Thorin, she still loves you. She just wants to protect her children. How can you, of all people, condemn her for that? Is she supposed to abandon them for your sake, for Erebor’s sake? She gave _birth_ to them!”

“For the good of our people?” Dwalin recoiled as they locked eyes. “Yes, I do. I _did_. Why are you still clinging to this, Dwalin. It is done, I have issued my decree and there is no taking it back. I haven’t fought for a century to regain Thror’s crown to have it--”

“Thror is a bastard!” He snapped. Thorin fell silent and stared open-mouthed as Dwalin rounded on him. Hearing him speak like that about Dís, who had done nothing against Thorin but was declared a traitor all the same, even after everything she had done for him and their people, it was like the last fraying thread had snapped and now it all came rushing out, every heretical, treacherous insult he could think against his dead king, glorious in Thorin’s eyes and so deeply despised by Dwalin. “He _sold_ Dís, he condemned her to a lifetime of misery for the sake of a few gold coins, he rejected Frerin because he thought he wasn’t good enough and you stand there as though what he has done is honourable? Do you really want to aspire to a greedy, heartless old king who treasured wealth and honour over his own children? You are better than Thror. You are better than _this.”_

“Who are you to tell me what is honourable?” Thorin hissed, masking his hurt with hard anger. He thought if he could attack Dwalin it could heal his wounds.

“Who am _I_? Your most loyal of subjects, your closest and dearest friend who has _always_ been at your side.” Dwalin responded in kind, cold and vicious. “I held my tongue for years even as you destroyed me. You honoured your grandfather’s promise to send Dís away and I did nothing. You told me to stop making love to her and I obeyed. You abandoned Kili and I followed you. I betrayed Fili for you and when you banished him I let you. How dare you question me Thorin, after everything I have lost and suffered for your sake? How _dare_ you!” Dwalin choked on the last words, in pain.

"You!" Thorin lunged, senseless in his rage, knocking Dwalin against the stone wall. He gripped him by the shirt, snarling down at him, with the cruel malice of a beast looking down on his prey.

"What will you do, cast me aside too?" Dwalin croaked. "Banish me like you did the rest of your family?" He almost wanted that at this point. At least then he could be with Dís and Fili, he could fulfil his promise to her and he wouldn’t carry all of his guilt and heartache. He didn’t want to defend this, cold, paranoid, cruel Thorin. He wanted his best friend and brother, the fiercely loyal, brave, selfless dwarf who stood by his side for over a century and held their people on his shoulders.

“Get out.” Thorin pushed Dwalin away as hard as he could. “Get out of my sight, Dwalin. Go back to her, if you have no loyalty to your king! Go back to that den of traitors and liars and thieves!”

Dwalin leaned heavily against the wall, panting. Thorin had become something completely different, something that seemed beyond any redemption or repair and it wounded Dwalin to see it. “You’re not my king.” He didn’t speak with anger or malice. It was a soft, broken moan that stuck deeper in Thorin more than a curse against him ever could. Dwalin shook his head silently, unable to utter another word through the ragged breath that tore in his lungs.

Thorin forced back the sting in his eyes. “Then get out.”


	105. Flicker

He didn’t have much time. Dwalin ran as quickly as he possibly could down to the hall where he knew his brother waited until he sweated beneath his heavy mail and his face was flushed. He blundered through the milling clusters of Iron Hill dwarves, ignored Bofur as he cheerfully called out towards him, and pushed open the heavy doors without knocking, staggering a little as he stood in the doorway.

“Dwalin.” His brother looked up from the brilliant stone map, a deep frown wrinkling his forehead as he realised instinctively that something was very, very wrong. Dain and his son, talking to themselves across the table, fell silent.

“What’s going on?” Balin felt a knot tighten in his stomach as Dwalin strode across the room, a desperate, wild look in his dark eyes. “Where is Thorin?”

“Outside my room.” Dwalin croaked. “You need to go to him.”

“We’re supposed to discuss tomorrow’s—”

“You need to go to him.” The most dangerous thing for Thorin at the moment was isolation. He had become his own worst enemy in his madness and unforgiving anger. “ Just be with him. Don’t say anything, just be there.”

The colour had gone out of Balin’s face, leaving him faded and ancient. “ What have you _done?_ ”

“What I should have had the courage to do before.” In his defiance, Dwalin had gone quiet and guarded. “I can’t keep pretending that my loyalty lies with Thorin, not when he’s done so much to turn me against him.”

“You fool.” Dain was seized with anger at Dwalin’s impertinence. “You’re going to disobey your king for the sake of _them?_ For Dís and Fili? They are traitors, and as soon as we’ve rid Erebor of the orcish filth that dares to tread on her doorstep, we will give them _exactly_ what they deserve.”

Dwalin didn’t even look in Dain’s direction. He had locked eyes with his brother, letting the insults wash over him with a sad stillness. Balin felt the knot in his stomach come undone and open up, growing wider and wider until there was a rushing in his ears, as though he’d fallen in. This was something he had feared for weeks, months almost, ever since the first signs of tension began to appear between Thorin and Fili. Thorin had always been Dwalin’s best friend and his brother-in-arms, but Dís had a very special, singular hold over him. He loved her the way he could never love anybody else.

Ever since he first helped his brother to make that moon-brooch for Dís, Balin had watched him fall deeper and deeper under her spell. At first she was an idol, impossibly out of his reach and nothing more than a fantasy, and nothing he could say could dissuade Dwalin from his exhaustive, unreciprocated love. It wasn’t uncommon for dwarves to pine after dams - in a world where they outnumbered their wives two to one, it was inevitable - and even Balin had his own secret desires. It was only when she came back as an uncertain widow that it began to get dangerous, when that impossible fantasy became real. After he found out they were sleeping together (and in fact had been doing so for some months), Balin didn’t feel shocked. He didn’t even have the energy to feign disapproval at what his brother was doing. And when he started becoming unhealthily attached to Kili, showering with the dwarrow with an affection that was far too suspicious and inappropriate for his king’s nephew, Balin once more held his tongue. Nobody was getting hurt, it seemed. Dwalin was happy, Dís was happy, and what were a few musty old laws in comparison to that?

If anybody was going to undo Dwalin, it would be her. It seemed so _cheap_ to consider Dwalin being lured from his ancient loyalty with Thorin by a dam. It made Dwalin sound like something he wasn’t, something brutish and lusty. That sadness he saw in Dwalin’s eyes didn’t come from regret or shame, but from the inevitable loss that the two brothers would have to suffer from being pulled apart. No amount begging or shouting could steer Dwalin away from this. There was no undoing what he had already done. Pity crawled in his hollow stomach for his poor brother, who had borne this all silently for so long, but on the eve of a battle that could kill him, with the temptation too great, couldn’t bear the thought of going one more night without her.

“Go.” He stepped forward and reached out, clasping Dwalin’s hand just below the elbow. Dwalin responded in kind and they leaned in, foreheads touching. “I’ll handle Thorin.”

“Don’t leave him.” Dwalin rasped. “He’s lost so much.” He still cared. Balin knew it was Thorin throwing more out than it was Dwalin leaving. If there was any way for him to keep on having both, he knew Dwalin would have done whatever he possibly could to achieve it.

“You can’t be serious.” There was a deep rumble of fear in Dain’s voice. “ Dwalin, you know better than this. You were the most loyal and honourable dwarf in Erebor. Mahal, you put my best soldiers to shame in the Iron Hills. You’re giving this up for a dam?”

That desperate look had faded, and when Dwalin finally looked at his distant cousin, it was with clarity and resolution. “I would give everything I had for her sake without a moment’s thought.”

* * *

“Tell me another story.” In bed, Bain drooped against his father's shoulder, staring at the shifting candlelight with half-lidded eyes.

Bard chuckled and ruffled the boy's hair, trying and failing to untangle himself. “I've already told you more tonight than I've told you in the past five years.”

“I know...” Bain clung to his sleeve. “But tell me another one.”

“Son, I don't have any more. You've bled me dry of all the fairy-stories and tall tales I know.”

There was a pause. “Then tell me about your stories. When you were a kid and stuff. You never want to talk about that.”

Bard's heart skipped a beat. “That's because it’s all boring. There's nothing to tell, just chores and lessons and lectures till I'm blue in the face.”

Bain was silent, and for a moment, Bard thought he'd finally drifted asleep. Then—

“Could you tell me a story about Mama, then?”

“Oh, my boy.” Bard rubbed the boy's arm, finally cottoning on. “Do you think I won't be around to tell these stories tomorrow?” Bain couldn’t bring himself to answer, but he drew in closer to his side, grip tightening on his sleeve. “Bain,” with some effort, he freed himself enough to twist around on the makeshift bed and look his son in the eye, “you need to listen to me. Nothing is going to happen to me tomorrow. I killed a _dragon_ , what do you think a few orcs will be able to do, hm?”

Fear and mistrust was wrought heavily in Bain's face, making him look tired and aged far beyond his youth. “You got lucky with the dragon.”

“Well... maybe I'll be lucky tomorrow, too.” He tried to smile, but it was hollow and strained. “Don't be scared, all right? I'm not.”

The mistrust deepened. “Not even a _little_ bit?” Bard had to swallow back the sick feeling that pushed in his stomach, reminded all too sharply of how close he had come to losing his little boy. The stiff smile dissolved into something small and scared but _real_.

“Well, maybe I am a little bit.” Bard swallowed. “But I have to be brave for everybody else. There’s hundreds and hundreds of our friends out there who expect me to lead them, and if I’m scared, then they’re going to be scared too. So even if I am, a little bit, I can’t let that take hold of me.”

“Then I’ll be brave too.” Bain found his hand and squeezed tight, not the desperate clinging of a frightened child, but a reassuring gesture of comfort.

“You’re a very brave boy.” The back of Bain’s undershirt was slipping over one shoulder, and Bard caught the very edge of the scar, still red-raw and tender to the touch. No - that wasn’t going to happen to either of them again. Bard had failed to protect his son at Lake-Town, but in Erebor, he wasn’t going to be so careless. He wasn’t a liar and a coward this time, running away from his destiny and letting his son carry Girion’s burden. This time, Bard was facing the danger that threatened his people as the king he was fated to be. “First thing, I’m going to find you the safest hiding-place in the entire kingdom and you’re going to lock yourself in, and after we’ve won I’ll come and find you, all right? Nobody else, just me.”

That attempt at bravery paled on Bain’s face, and he looked wan and old again. “Promise?”

“Promise.” He rested his chin on Bain’s head for a moment in a rough embrace. “All right, how about I tell you one last story, then you _have_ to go to sleep, all right?” Bain was far too old for this sort of carry-on really, but Bard was more than happy to indulge the boy for one night. It was what Bain wanted, and on a deeper level, one he wouldn’t ever admit to anybody, Bard knew it was what he wanted most of all as well.

Bain nodded, grinning in his victory. “Well… I don’t think I ever told you about the first time I ever met your Mama’s parents. I was quite a bit older than you, about, oh, seventeen or eighteen, I think. And talk about scared! I was _terrified_ because in my head I’d already decided that I was going to marry your Mama. I hadn’t told anyone, especially not her, and I had all these plans about how it was going to go. And, you know, it all started going wrong the moment I walked out the door and straight into the path of some old bag tossing her slops out the upstairs window…”

As the story continued, Bain’s eyes grew heavier and heavier, his smile widening and then softening in his sleepiness. By the time he was talking about how he accidentally spilled ale all over the baked upside-down cake and ruined dessert, Bain was asleep, a curtain of dark curls obscuring his face. His own bones ached with tiredness and he fought to keep his eyes open, but Bard wasn’t quite ready to go to bed. He couldn’t bear to move just yet, Bain’s cheek against his shoulder, breathing soft and slow as a sleepy lullaby.

He’d stay a while.

* * *

The banging on the door awoke both ladies, a sharp, desperate rap that was fragmented and rhythmless. Dís sat up with a mechanical sort of stiffness, a sick swelling in her chest, terror, fear and guilt filling her up as she hoped her suspicions were wrong.

They weren’t. Dwalin stood in the doorway, panting, his eyes filled with a deep fire that reminded her of the night he broke into her house, drunk and begging her to come away with him, when she was betrothed and unmarried, a promise unfulfilled.

“Oh, no.” She whispered, strained and brittle, but as he stepped inside the room and grabbed her arms, Dwalin didn’t seem to hear her.

“I did it, I left. I left him to his misery.” He was gabbling, knees weak, clinging to her, unsure if he should stand on his own two legs or throw himself on the floor at her feet. “I’m yours Dís, all yours, now and forever. Always.”

Inside, she was shrivelling up in terror like a piece of parchment caught alight, withered and blackening. Dís held him by the arms, tongue swollen inside her bone-dry mouth. “You can’t.” She croaked. “You _didn’t._ ”

“I wish I had the nerve to do this weeks ago.” Behind them, Tauriel stood in her underclothes with her arms crossed in a poor attempt to protect her modesty. She needn't have bothered; it was clear that Dwalin only had eyes for Dís. She watched and listened, backing up on the silent pads of her feet until she was almost entirely in shadow, up against the back wall. “I haven't agreed with a thing he's said since Lake-Town. He's not the Thorin I've sworn a century of loyalty and love towards. He called me dishonorable. _Me._ After everything we went through together and everything I’ve done for him. He won't even listen to _me_.”

It was a pitiful sight. Dís kept holding him up, guilt tearing like an animal at her chest. She had done this by lighting the fire within Dwalin. She had robbed Thorin of his best friend and brother, and there was a quaking inside the marrow of her bones as she realised what Thorin and Balin and everybody else would now think of her. “You can't stay here.” Her voice sounded impossibly distant, cold in its remoteness. “This isn't even my room – I share.” Dís looked over her shoulder, searching for her roommate. Tauriel stepped forward with her arms still crossed around her, doing her best to look at best mildly amused at the bizarre scene that played out in front of her. Dwalin pulled back at the sight of the elf, a knot shifting in his throat. “We can't share a room, Dwalin. We’re not...”

“Since when has that ever mattered? We spent _years_ —” He broke off, horror flooding his broad, ruddy face. “I was just here.” His hands balled at his sides. “Mahal, please don't tell me you've changed your mind.”

“I haven't.” But there was a tautness in her stomach, a hypersensitive sort of ringing in her ears that left her feeling that this was all a horrible, horrible mistake. All she could think about was how broken Dwalin’s betrayal would have left her brother. He wouldn't recover from this loss, not after everything that had happened. “I love you.” But you're going about this all wrong, you fool, she screamed in her head. Dís stretched up onto the tips of her toes to kiss him, close-mouthed and chaste with none of her usual passion. “Fili is next door with Nori and Ori. Go there, get some sleep.”

“Dís, let me stay.” His begging sent something crawling down her spine. There was nothing endearing about this, none of Dwalin’s usual reverence and adoration. He’d become desperate and there was nothing attractive about it.

“I didn’t ask you to abandon Thorin. I asked you to find Kili.” She had to make herself hard and heartless and it left her burning with guilt. Dwalin looked at her with that same wide-eyed desperate stare, and now Dís wasn’t sure if she wanted to hit or kiss him.

“I will. I will.” Dwalin promised. “Just let me—”

“Do you know what Thorin will say?” She spat the words out in a vicious growl, sick of his stubbornness. “He'll tell everybody that I seduced you over to Fili's side like some paid courtesan. I'm not giving him the satisfaction of being proved right by bringing you straight into my bed.” Dwalin stared agape as she stepped back and pointed to the door. “Go.” She softened with the last words, but a moment of gentleness couldn’t smooth over her barbed cruelty.

He left, hunched and diminished. The terror of losing her swelled inside of him, throbbing and lurching like a sickness. He couldn't lose her, not now, not when they were so close to finally being happy, when everything he had ever wanted since he was a dwarrow in his thirties was just within his grasp. Dwalin stepped into the next room and found it empty, the beds cold. He sat down on closest and leaned against the wall, pressing his palm against the narrow partition between himself and Dís, with other in a clenched fist pressed very hard against his mouth. Was this what he’d given Thorin up for?

Dís sank down on her own bed with a low moan, grabbing handfuls of raven-black braids. “Oh, that fool. What has he done?”

“I don't realise that you...” Tauriel trailed off with an awkward shrug, standing at stiff attention in the tiny room. “I didn't think dwarves even _did._ ”

“Oh, of course we do.” Dís snapped, harder than she meant to, and Tauriel flinched back. “Sorry. We do. We do, but we either pretend it doesn't happen or say it's for degenerates and criminals.”

“Does Thorin know?” There was a different note to her voice, curious and hushed.

“Everybody in Ered Luin except Fili and Kili probably knew.” Dís muttered. “If Thror didn't sell me to the Ironfists, I would have married him.” Tauriel approached her and sat down on the edge of the bed. “He's loved me since we were children, you know.” She reached for the brooch she'd taken off before sleep, stored carefully underneath her pillow of folded shirts. “I think I was twenty when he made this for me. Isn't it beautiful?” Tauriel took the jewel and turned it over and over in her hands.

“How old are you now?” Tauriel asked rather suddenly, realising she knew very little about how dwarves lived.

“A hundred and sixty-eight next year.” Dís smoothed down her hair. There were tiny threads of grey in the black, visibly only in full sunshine. “It’s a long time to love somebody and get nothing back.” Tauriel handed the brooch back.

“I had an offer.” The elf looked over at her, a tiny smile in the corner of her mouth. “But - he wanted me to give up my post and be just a wife and mother.”

“There's nothing wrong with being ‘just a mother’.” There was an edge in Dís' voice, and with a stab of contrition, Tauriel realised she had insulted her. “It's the most important thing anyone can ever do. Fathers teach their sons to fight and think and work, but it's the mothers who teach them how to love. More people need to know how to love.”

“People would rather have power.” Despite her sprightly, youthful appearance, there was an aged note in Tauriel's voice, a sharp reminder of how old she was. She was right - it seemed impossible to have both as long as Thorin Oakenshield was king.

* * *

Bilbo waited at the open side-gate, just inside the tunnel, wearing his ring until he heard Fili’s thin voice calling through the darkness, warning of his approach. Tentatively, Bilbo stepped out, wondering what he would see, if Fili’s plan had worked. A sea of gold and grey greeted him, a hundred short, bulky figures wrapped in fur and leather and mail. It had begun to snow, little white flakes sticking to their hair and shoulders and smelling of rain, and Bilbo breathed in, feeling his shoulders relax. It had, although he wasn’t sure yet whether he liked all of this or not.

They filed in quietly, Fili leading them with Bilbo, and Nori and Ori in the back, looking out for spies. With their ears attuned to the slightest sound, Fili walked down, down past the entrance to the mines, with the passage opening up very near the rather squalid street where Thranduil and his elves currently slept.

“It's beautiful.” Fíak spoke with a begrudging tone, standing with his arms crossed in the belly of the mountain. Carved pillars stretched above their heads up into the darkness, so impossibly high that they may as well have stretched to the stars themselves. Fili stood beside him, following the line of that weary gaze to the tops of the pillars.

“This is nothing. You should see the throne room and the entrance halls.” Fili spoke with a flat, disconnected tone, as though all of this meant nothing to him, and for a moment, Fíak found himself believing it. “And the gold – _Mahal_ , it’s beyond belief.”

“And you seriously don’t actually want it?” Suspicion was heavy in his voice, but Fili remained entirely blank under the old dwarf’s examination.

“I do, in a way.” He jerked his head to the left and started to walk. Bilbo was frowning up at him, noticing the change in Fili’s approach to the gold, but saying nothing. “But not to covet or count or hoard like my great-grandfather. I want to use it to heal this broken kingdom.”

“You think you can buy peace?” Fili stopped then, giving Fíak a hard stare over his shoulder. It wasn’t what he said but how he said it, cruel and mocking, with an edge of disbelief that got Fili’s back up in a way that he couldn’t really put his finger on.

“Everything has a price.” Something dark flashed across Fili’s face, unsettling and ugly, before he composed himself. He thought about the deal he had already made with Thranduil and hoped to follow through with somehow, about how horrible wars that had been started over so much less, enmity that lingered on a millennia later as cold hostility that still looked as though it would never break. He thought about his mother.

Everything did have a price.

* * *

Kili dreamed, one last time, of the battlefield.

He dreamed that he crawled, warg-like, through the ranks of dwarvish warriors, his claws tearing through the paper of their armour. He dreamed of a flash of gold through the iron and blood, and he pounced. He dreamed of laying Fili's wounded body on the ground, stretched out like a sacrifice, with Fili whimpering and crying, calling him brother, begging for mercy. Kili snarled in response, pulling his mail shirt apart in two with his bare hands and exposing the pale, bruised skin underneath, shivering in cold and terror. Kili tore with his claws through skin and flesh and solid, dwarvish bones, smiling at the choked, gurgling scream that bubbled from Fili's throat. A fist-sized heart pulsed in Kili's hand, unaware that it had been disconnected and Kili dipped his head, breathing in the sweet smell of his brother's life-blood dripping through his fingers and running in rivulets down his wrists. He ate the heart while Fili died, snapping his fangs, smearing blood over his face that coursed over his chin in thick, spitty strings. It was as rich as cream and as sweet as honey, and when he was finished, Kili arched his neck and roared, hunched over his trophy, victorious.

Kili awoke with a scream rising in his throat, desperately scrabbling for the familiar as he lay suspended in that moment between sleep and waking. Brown eyes stared up at the shifting patterns of shadow on his tiny tent, his heart slowing as he realised it was yet another dream. His mouth wobbled and Kili had to bite down hard to keep quiet, pushing the heels of his grimy hands hard against his eyesockets, as though he could dig the memories out.

It wasn’t him. It _wasn't_. Throughout everything, all the tears and pain and hatred, Fili had remained a constant. If it wasn't for his brother, Kili wouldn't be here at all. He didn't care about anybody else, not enough to risk his own life. Fili was the only one who was worth it. Why was his mind torturing him like this with these sick, vivid dreams? What was wrong with him? Kili sighed to himself in the dark. What _wasn't_ wrong with him at this point? It seemed there wasn't any part now that wasn't corrupted and ugly. He’d seen and done so much, too much now, to ever wipe away. That monster in his dreams, snarling and gnashing his teeth seemed more real now than any faded memories of his former innocence.

No. Kili pulled out his hair-clasp and pressed it hard against his mouth, the minute ridges of silver ice-cold against his cracked lips. For all his savagery, he was still in control. Kili hadn’t given into that chaos yet. But he could feel the pull of the cord at his throat, and Kili knew that for a few days, or weeks, it had become so muddled and unclear now, he _had_ given in, had forsaken everything and had declared his family dead to him, sworn his loyalty to Azog and Azog alone. It was Fili who had pulled him out, just the memory of his brother, that unbreakable bond which could weather any storm. And again, it was Fili drew him back to Erebor, back to a life that was otherwise completely lost to him.

Lying in his tent, wrapped in furs with Nardur curled at his head, Kili felt adrift. He tried to remember how he felt beneath the eaves of Mirkwood, when his loyalty to Azog was strongest, about Fili and Thorin and everybody else, about home, about the dark and uncertain afterwards. He remembered the fear and anger, being pulled and stretched until he was on the verge of snapping, kept on a short leash and beaten like a half-wild warg kept constantly in check. Kili told himself that it was never true loyalty, it was just fear and manipulation, a desperate will to do _anything_ to live, but now that he was able to step back and look in from the outside with the full knowledge of everything that had happened afterwards, there was a sense that somewhere, deep, deep inside himself, that there was something between him and Azog that felt... real. Listening to the sound of insects rustling outside and Nardur’s soft snoring, Kili rested a hand over his chest, the hair-clasp caged inside his clenched fist.

 _I didn’t create the darkness within you._ Kili couldn’t help but think about that moment when Azog had him pinned to the forest floor, when he was poisoned and dying and doing everything he could in his final moments to make Kili hurt. Somebody, he couldn’t remember who now, said they had torched the bodies. That was all that remained of Azog now – a scattered handful of burned bones in the leaf litter on the edges of the great forest, a soot-stained claw twisted from the heat. But Kili went on and on. He left those burned bones, only to realise that Azog had been fatally correct when he said Thorin would reject Kili when he heard about everything that had happened.

Hatred boiled in his gut, a rage that could never be smothered. Kili would _never_ , ever forgive Thorin for blaming him, humiliating him and then leaving him to die in the cells of Lake-Town. Never. Going to Erebor and submitting himself to his uncle's rule, living as an uneasy outsider, forcing himself to show love and loyalty to somebody who had twice left him to die filled him with a sense of revulsion. Even if Thorin didn't hand him over Thranduil or the Lake-Town men, he wouldn't trust Kili. He wouldn't coddle his lost nephew like a  wounded child again. Instead, they would all be waiting for Kili to show his true colours, to slip up and show everybody what a monster he really was. Even Fili would be afraid of him.

Maybe he could somehow go back to Ered Luin, find his mother before Thorin’s messengers got there first and try to have a few days or weeks of happiness before Thorin ripped her away too. _Amad_ wouldn't ever hate him, of that Kili was assured. She would be angry and ashamed, but she'd never hate him. He'd never force her to chose between Kili and the rest of their family, but maybe seeing her again could be enough to sustain him for a little while, like a feast before a long journey, keep him going until he could act charming and likeable long enough for somebody else to love him.

Even if it was a boy, Kili didn't care anymore. That sense of disgust he felt when he laid his hands on another male was still far better than the crushing loneliness, and with Ilzkhaal, who knew what he was doing and always insisted that Kili lay back and let him do his thing, Kili could close his eyes and try to imagine something else.

He was a slimy bastard for thinking like that, and Kili admonished himself in the dark. Ilzkhaal loved him and in return, Kili regarded him as a placeholder, somebody to keep his bed warm and make him feel a little less isolated. No – it was more, far more than that. Ilzkhaal was the one thing that kept him sane through all of this. Kili just never took the chance to really show that, and now none of it could be said.

Above his head, Nardur snuffled about in his own dream. Kili listened to the soft wheeze, willing himself to relax and drift off. He needed to be sharp tomorrow if he wanted to save Fili and survive. He needed to outwit and outlast the cleverest orcs in this army of battle-hardened warriors entirely on his own. Despite the nerves that rumbled in his gut and the sick, tight feeling in his chest, Kili was asleep again in a few minutes as his body gave itself over to pure exhaustion. This time, Kili didn't dream.

* * *

“Where did you leave them?” Thranduil spoke before Fili could, sitting with his back to the door and staring into the kitchen stove-fire.

“There’s still a few empty houses a couple of streets over. They’re bunked down in there, lighting a few fires.” Fili gripped the warped doorframe, as though it kept him from falling over.

“Come across anybody else?”

“No.” He cleared his throat. “No. Thorin doesn’t know.”

“What are you going to tell him?” Thranduil finally shuffled in his seat so he could look at Fili, a heavy eyebrow cocked. “For that matter, what have you told Fíak?”

“I said that I would help him in any I could, but I wasn’t going to be his Ironfist king in the east.” Fili approached the fire and stretched his hands out, fingers ice-cold from his excursion. “My grandfather’s dying.” His fingertips were inches from the hot iron. “ Fíak’s so desperate now. He just wants _something_ to take back home and restore some order. It sounds like they’ve descended into total chaos over there.”

Thranduil narrowed his eyes. “You care.”

“I think I do. I know that I shouldn’t – I mean, what have they given me, apart from eighty years of nightmares? What have they done? But I still feel… bound to them, I suppose.” Fili shrugged. “I know I can help them, and I should try, shouldn’t I?”

“Is that what you’re going to tell Thorin when he asks why his sworn enemies are residing in his home?”

“No. Thorin wouldn’t understand, and Dain will say I’m just lying. I don’t know what I’m going to tell him.”

“Perhaps you should remind him who it was the bound the two houses together.” Thranduil remarked. “Thror signed the contract, but it was Thorin who honoured it.”

Fili’s head whipped up to glare at the elf-king, eyes flashing. “No. That’s too cruel.”

“It’s what Thorin deserves.” But Fili shook his head, folding his arms and hunching his shoulders in.

“Thranduil, don’t pretend you know what’s been going on his head.” He tried to sound biting, but there was a tired note in his voice that sapped him of any viciousness. “Or mine.”

 _Don’t fool yourself into thinking you’re complicated._ Thranduil bit back the insult and gave one of his infuriating measured stares. “Get some sleep. It seems the attack will be arriving earlier in the morning than we thought.”

Nerves crept through Fili’s stomach as he walked up the stairs, and he found he was second-guessing himself already. He dreaded standing before Thorin with Ironfists at his side, dreaded looking him in the eye and declaring his residual allegiance to the people who had hurt him so much. And his _mother._ The nerves turned into a painful cramp and he swallowed hard, standing in the dim passageway outside her room. He pressed his palm against the door and considered going in and telling her, facing her inevitable wrath in isolation. His shaking hand found the latch, but he pulled away at the last moment, shaking his head. He couldn’t stand up to her and explain herself yet, because he himself didn’t really know why he did this, and he needed convictions to stand behind before breaking this news to her.

So he retreated into his bedroom, expecting to find Nori and Ori already bunking down. They were sitting up, talking to the very last person Fili expected to see. “Dwalin?” He leaned heavily against the door, frozen in shock and disbelief. “Why are you here?”

“That’s what I’ve been asking him.” Nori growled. He kept himself between Dwalin and Ori, Fili noticed, a protective hand on his brother’s shoulder. “But he won’t say.”

Dwalin stood up with his hands spread out, palms upturned. Fili gritted his teeth, remembering the last time they’d met, the shame and anger and blinding hatred at his infidelity. He’d trusted Dwalin with his biggest secret and in kind, Dwalin betrayed him. It was a breach of his trust that Fili felt he could never overcome. “Fili,” he began with an edge of nervousness to his voice that Fili didn’t expect. “I came for forgiveness.”

Fili’s hands balled into fists at his sides. “Never.”

“I’ve already broken it all with Thorin.” The words started to come thick and fast, the edge of nerves widening and widening until it swallowed Dwalin whole. “I couldn’t bear it anymore, not after everything he’s said about you and Dís and Kili. He’s not himself and I can’t follow him anymore.”

“So you finally came around.” Fili kept his expression fixed, hands locked into fists so hard they trembled.

“I was desperate to recover what little of Thorin was left. I would do anything for him. You know how that is.”

“Do I?” His eyes fell on his mess of a bed, where he knew Ori’s drawing lay, tucked beneath the folded shirt he used as a pillow, and his hard jaw softened. He did.

“He was like a brother to me after all this time.” Fili looked over at Nori and Ori to try and gauge their reactions. Nori was mistrusting and cold, but Ori had a tense, thoughtful look on his face. When he saw Fili was looking at him, he nodded, tongue between his teeth.

“So what brought you back?” Fili was too wary of Dwalin to be as accepting as Ori. “How do I know that you’re not some sort of spy?”

“I spoke to Dís earlier tonight.” Behind Nori’s disinterest sharpened, and he frowned down at the floorboards. “I couldn’t… well.” Dwalin stopped then.

“Couldn’t what?” Dwalin swallowed, realising that as far as Fili knew, there had never been anything going on. Dís had always been careful to hide it from the boys, hoping their affectionate smiles and gestures would be passed off as just closeness between friends. She seemed determined to hide it from Fili especially, who still had memories of his father. It had made Dwalin sick when he realised that Fili must have seen the bastard hurting her.

Mahal, help him. “Fili, I've been in love with your mother for well over a hundred years.”

A strange, numb sort of blankness settled over Fili. “What?”

“Ever since she was about twenty or so.” There was a buzzing in Fili's ears. “It wasn't until she returned from the east that we... that anything happened. She was too young spend the rest of her life alone.”

“Oh.” It was the only thing he could bring himself to say. Somewhere, through the numbness and the buzzing, Fili recalled his childhood. Dwalin was _always_ around, even when Thorin was away or out. He and Kili used to come home and find Dwalin drinking ale at their only table with _Amad_ fussing over the stove, barefoot, his shirt untucked. He was often still there when Fili and Kili send to bed. Thinking back now, he was amazed he didn't see it. Now it seemed so obvious.

“She’s so angry at me for what I did to you, and I don’t blame her one bit.” Dwalin hovered in tense uncertainty, unsure of how much to even say. “I just want her, and you, to forgive me. I’ll do anything to get that.”

“Does Thorin know that you’re gone?” Fili realised with a slow horror that they had both now completely abandoned him.

“He threw me out.” There was a mournful note in his voice, and Fili could tell it wasn’t what Dwalin had wanted. “He’s so wrapped up in his own anger and paranoia that he thinks everyone is against him.”

“Probably because they are.” Nori muttered, stretching out his legs. “He did this to himself and I don’t have a scrap of sympathy. We’ve all given him plenty of chances to back up and save face but he’d rather go down in flames. Let him.”

“I can’t keep trying to save him.” Fili slowly crossed the room and sank down on his bed. His hand slipped under the pillow, touching paper. “It’s getting too much. I’ll be throwing away my own life if I keep trying for a forgiveness I’ll never get.” He pulled out the picture, looking up at Dwalin, understanding. “Sometimes you have to know when to give up.” There was a lump forming in Fili’s throat as he stared down at Ori’s sketch, at the lines which had become so familiar to him. _Where are you, Kili?_ His eyes were fixed on Kili’s smile, something he wondered if he would ever see again.

“I’ll find him.” Fili lifted his head to find Dwalin sitting cross-legged before him. “I promised your mother that I’ll find him. No matter what it takes, I’ll get him home.” Tentatively, Dwalin reached out, cupping Fili’s left shoulder in his big, broad hand.

“He won’t want to come home.” Fili felt that lump grow and stick until it was difficult to speak. “Not after what Thorin’s done to him.”

“I’ll drag him by the hair if I have to.” That grip tightened out of fear. “He’s coming home. I won’t rest until he’s back.” The sorrow and guilt was etched in every faint line of his face. Again, Fili found himself drifting backwards through the decades, remembering how, when they were children, Dwalin used to dote on Kili with extra toys and treats and rides on his back, insisted on holding him if he was fussing, never begrudged telling another story by the fire even if it was very late. And later, he just always seemed to be _there_ , helping Kili with his chores and taking him out for hunting trips or drinks at the pub or out the valley to see the markets in the nearby towns. When they thought Kili was gone, Dwalin was crippled with grief for weeks, his usual swagger and bravado disappearing. He was the fiercest defender of Kili in Lake-Town, the only one, apart from Fili, who didn’t agree it was best to leave him behind.

Balin muttered once or twice about his brother’s playacting at fatherhood, but Fili had always brushed it off as a light-hearted observation. Dwalin was just filling a gap. But it was more – _so much more –_ than that. How did it feel for him, to have the one he’d loved for so long come back after half a century of loneliness two children in her arms? Dwalin could have had any dam he wanted in Ered Luin. He was a real catch. But he didn’t _want_ that. He wanted Dís. Fili had asked him once, when he was young and ignorant and tactless, why he didn’t have his own babies. Dwalin had smiled and said that Kili kept him busy enough, and if he wanted supper he best go wash his face or _Amad_ would be cross. Dwalin wanted children, desperately, but he wanted _Dís’_ children, something that he could never have. So when Kili came along, dark-haired, dark-eyed, fatherless Kili...

There was an overwhelming sense of pity in Fili’s chest as he finally grasped the extent of Dwalin’s devotion to his ragged little family. It cut through all the outrage and shock, and instead of burning, Fili just ached. Instead of loving and living properly, Dwalin went on for decades in a half-lie, half-fantasy, kept his heart a secret, and now tried desperately to hold on to it.

And his mother loved him. There was a burst of anger against Dwalin with that first realisation, that childish instinct to protect her and make sure nobody ever touched her, but Dwalin’s stoic gentleness was completely unlike his father's rage and passion. Somehow, after everything the bastard had done to her, his mother was able to love again.

“I'm not holding a grudge against family.” Fili's voice was thick. His free hand came up, fingers wrapped around Dwalin’s wrist in a gesture of kinship. Perhaps it was that childish yearning for a father-figure to approve of him that fuelled Fili's forgiveness. It was hasty of Fili to absolve Dwalin so quickly after his infidelity, but deep in his soul, he felt a moment of striking empathy with the dwarf who loved his mother and treated his brother like the son he never had. They always had been, and always would be, family, and that to Fili was something sacred and incorruptible. And on a practical level, Dwalin was a powerful ally, and Fili knew he needed as many friends as he could get. “Of course I forgive you. I'm not Thorin.”


	106. Waking Up

“Up, you lazy maggots!” The commander strode up and down the rows of haphazard conscripts, banging the flat of his scimitar against his breastplate with a bone-rattling clang. "You've got five minutes to shit and eat before we're on the move!"

It was still dark. Akash rubbed at his eyes as he sat up, staring at the shifting outlines of bodies against dull red embers, hundreds upon hundreds, as far as he could see. The cold bit into his limbs, the only warmth coming from the press of Ilzkhaal's body at his left leg. His little cousin slept curled on one side, face buried in a folded arm. It had snowed in the night turning to grey slush around them and leaving their blankets damp. "Come on." Akash shook his thin shoulder. In response, Ilzkhaal mumbled something indistinct, burying his face deeper into the refuge of his tattered sleeve. Every fucking morning. "Get up, will you?"

"I don't see moving!" The commander's voice sent shivers down Akash's spine. It was like nails screeching on beaten tin. Around them, orcs were starting to rise, stuffing gear into packs and haggling over scraps of food. His stomach grumbled, but Akash had eaten the last of his food last night, unable to sleep through the hunger pains. He regretted it now, drinking big mouthfuls of muddy river-water from his beaten skin to try and combat that empty feeling. "Oi!" Akash looked up to see the shouting orc standing over his cousin. Everybody else was finally sitting or crouching in the dirt, but Ilzkhaal stubbornly refused to wake. "I said up, you worthless slug!" He kicked the sleeping body hard in the side, Ilzkhaal's cry of pain muffled in his arm.

“Hey!" Akash was on his feet. “Don't touch him, or I'll—"

"You'll what?" The orc rounded on him with a snarl, the dented edge of his scimitar gleaming in the light of the restarted fires. Akash froze with his hands splayed out in front, unarmed and wordless. "That's what I thought." He spat on the ground. "Get in line, _snaga_."

"Piece of shit." Akash muttered at the orc's retreating back as soon as he was out of earshot. Ilzkhaal was sitting up with one hand on his ribs where he had been kicked. "Are you all right?"

Ilzkhaal nodded. Akash helped him up, resting a hand on his arm. "I'm fine." But he looked exhausted already, rubbing at his eyes. “You shouldn’t tempt fate like that. He'd stick you without a second thought."

"Big day." Kasaak approached them, stretching his long arms over his head. "I'd give my left one for something stiff to drink." He smiled, but there was no masking the fear in his eyes. “Ready to kill some dwarf-scum?" Too late, he realised his blunder and did his best to look apologetic. "Sorry, Ilz. I didn't mean—"

"Don't apologise." Ilzkhaal mumbled, staring down at his leather bracelet. He fiddled with one of the ties, unable to look at anybody. "They're probably saying the same thing about us."

"They are scum." Akash crouched down and started to stuff Ilzkhaal's gear haphazardly in his pack for him. "Every last one of  'em."

"Don't say that." There was a hardness in Ilzkhaal's voice that make Akash's hands fall still. “I'll thump you, Akash. I will."

Kasaak looked from one to the other. "Did I miss something?"

"We broke it off, Kili and I." Ilzkhaal pulled his beaten jacket tighter around himself. "His choice, not mine."

"Oh, _ishi_ I'm sorry. You were so keen on him, dwarf and all. Even your mum liked him and she's hard to impress."

Ilzkhaal shrugged and did his best to look unshaken, as though already he was already over the entire affair. "I don't think he expects to live through today."

"I think we all feel a bit like that." Kasaak crossed his arms, staring out at the sea of bodies in the darkness. "I think I'm gonna spew my guts out already."

"We shouldn't be here." Akash shouldered his cousin's pack and stood up. "We're not soldiers. We're a shield for Bolg and his precious army to hide behind and it's sick."

"I don't even know where I'm supposed to be. Guess it doesn't matter, they'll just corral us in a pack and send us along." Kasaak kept looking out over the landscape, chewing on his lower lip. "There's so many of us and we're not even in line. What are they going to do, throw us against dwarf-shields until they finally break?"

"Not all of us." Akash was looking at his cousin. "Ilz, go find Tarbaam."

"But—"

"Don't be an idiot. You’ll be safest with them, archers always hide up the back." He clapped Ilzkhaal on the shoulder. "Don't go playing some sort of hero."

Ilzkhaal was finding it hard to breathe. Despite the heavy gasps tearing from his throat, he felt like he wasn't taking in any air. "I can't leave you." Akash was his hero and best friend and the closest he would ever have to a brother. They'd always, always looked out for each other, ever since they were babies, and Ilzkhaal felt a cold, collapsing sort of panic in his chest when he thought about going through this alone.

"Come on, a scrawny little runt like you? I'd be worried sick trying to keep an eye out for you on the front lines."

Ilzkhaal's voice trembled. "It's not me I'm worried about." This wasn't a drunken tussle in the street or a spar between friends. Akash, the eldest son of a potter and a goatherd who had never held a sword until the week before, didn't stand a chance against the battle-hardened dwarves and elves that awaited them in the foothills of Erebor.

"I'll be fine." But Akash did something he hadn't done in a very long time, not since they lost a favourite older cousin to a fever almost seven years ago. He pulled Ilzkhaal into a hug, arms wound tight around his skinny shoulders. “Keep yourself safe.” Akash mumbled the words into his ear, too quiet for anybody else to hear, and Ilzkhaal felt the fear rush through him in a slow rolling wave, sick with the conviction that one or both of them was going to die out there and this was the last time they would ever see each other. There seemed to be a sort of fatalism in the way Akash held on to him, and he spoke like he thought the same thing, and was too proud, or afraid, to say it.

Ilzkhaal rubbed at his stinging eyes. “If anything happens to me—”

“It’s not.” He hissed fiercely, curved nails digging through the thin leather of Ilzkhaal’s jacket. Akash pushed the lumpy pack into Ilzkhaal's chest. “Now get out of here before we’re on the march and you lose sight of them.”

“I’ll see you later, then.” With a shaky smile, Ilzkhaal bought into the pretence, masked his fear in the hopes that his lies could transform into optimism and then into courage, and that courage into some sort of strength and protection.

Akash grinned back with that same, unsure smile. “Later.”

Saying goodbye to everyone else didn’t get easier. Ilzkhaal had his back and shoulders slapped and arms cheerfully punched, promised people he’d see them afterwards, and they’d feast on manflesh and sleep on piles of dwarvish gold. The bravado exhausted him by the time he found Tarbaam and the rest of his crew, already on the march with their faces set in hard, grim lines.

“I was starting to think you wouldn’t show at all.” It was a stern greeting, and Ilzkhaal knew he was in trouble for leaving them in the first place. “Khala had a pool going.” Tarbaam looked down at his youngest archer with a little grunt, reshouldering his falling pack.

“Yeah, and now this lot have to pay. C’mon Shatog, don’t hold out.” Khala gave Ilzkhaal a little push on his shoulder. “ _I_ knew you’d come back.”

“Don’t be such a _bagronk_ , Khala. You just wanted a bigger payout.” Above them, the sky had turned a hard slate-grey in the dawn. The pale patches of fresh snow were stark against against the black of the rocks and dirt and beyond all of that, Erebor loomed impossibly close, just a few miles south-east of them. They would be there in a couple of hours on a hard march.

Tarbaam gripped his arm tight, just above the elbow, and Ilzkhaal sped up to keep in step with him. “Listen,” he spoke with a softness that Ilzkhaal didn’t ever remember hearing. “I know you’re scared. You look like you’re about to shit yourself.” He was so short, half a head past Tarbaam’s shoulder. Ilzkhaal had always been so young and out of place amongst the tight-knit tribe of hunters, but it never mattered in a world where stealth and speed were more important than strength. “But you need to be _calm_ about this. We’re all going to be in a group, and if it looks like we’re going to get raided, I want you as far back as possible, all right? No bullshit heroism, just keep your head down and stay out of trouble.” The grip relaxed on his elbow. “Don’t think of it as being cowardly, Ilzkhaal. It’s just smart.”

Ilzkhaal nodded, finally creaking out a response when he realised Tarbaam was waiting for it. “Thank you.”

“Ha. Don’t thank him.” Drûth cuffed the young orc lightly over the head. “He’s just terrified of going back and telling your mother you didn’t make it. Don’t blame him, mind. I’d rather have my guts slashed open by an elvish sword than tell Harna that we let her precious little baby boy die.”

“Less blood that way. She’d rip your liver out and eat it for breakfast, no joke.” Khala muttered.

Tarbaam wasn’t smiling. He was staring down at Ilzkhaal’s bound hand, a snarl pulled back across his teeth. “What happened here?” Seizing the bony wrist, he studied the dried blood, sniffing for infection. “What did you do to yourself?”

“I didn’t do anything.” Ilzkhaal promised, but he pulled free and hid his arm behind his back. “I just cut myself sharpening some arrowheads, dead stupid of me. It’s fine, I’ll still be able to shoot.” That was the only thing he had going for him in this battle. Ilzkhaal was scrawny and short, but he was deadly accurate with a bow and refused to accept that his wounded hand would come in the way of that. He wouldn’t let it.

He wouldn’t let this be the end.

* * *

Fíak came early in the morning with his four lieutenants in tow. The elvish guard let them into the back, gave them something to eat and drink and urgently roused Fili and Thranduil. Fili dressed as quickly as he could in the darkness, trying to let Nori and Ori and Dwalin sleep as long as possible, disappearing whisper-soft down the staircase. He kept his breaths deep and slow in his lungs, keeping himself stoic and calm. After he’d forgiven Dwalin, Fili told him that the Ironfists were sleeping inside the mountain under his protection, and he'd felt duty-bound to save them. Dwalin stared at the floor, shaking his head for a long time before finally whispering that he hoped Fili knew what he was doing.

It was a bad knock to his confidence, but Fili tried not to let it sway him. Dwalin, he told himself, was no gauge of morality after everything he had done. Now that he knew about the secret love between Dwalin and his mother, it was no surprise that he would have such a vile hatred for the race of people who had so violently hurt her. In some ways, he was a bad son for doing this. Maybe he should have honoured his mother by letting them die out there, standing stone-faced at the gate while they were mercilessly slaughtered in their giant mountain-trap. If Vili was dying, most likely dead, maybe they had already given themselves over to that destructive factionism in the east and wouldn’t have any interest in Fili anymore. He would have been left alone.

Had he just lost his only chance to be released from the Ironfists for the sake of a hundred lives? He approached the doorway now, looking in. Fíak and his four lieutenants were hunched over cups of strong tea and pieces of _lembas_ , sniffing it cautiously and taking small nibbles, the way they would test uncertain berries in the wild when there was nothing else to eat. They were already armed for war, axes slung over their backs and on their hips, mail gleaming beneath the furs draped over their shoulders. Three were grey and grizzled like Fíak, but the fourth was younger by at least a hundred years, closer to Fili’s age, his waist-length dreadlocks the colour of honey. What struck Fili most of all were their faces, painted with geometric red lines over the cheeks and eyelids. He had no idea that the Ironfists used war paint.

With his heart pounding, Fili stepped forward. “Good morning.” It was so stiff and unsure, and he hated himself for saying it. Fíak froze and wiped at the crumbs around his mouth. “I hope you rooms weren’t too terrible.”

Fíak sniggered, looking around at the dingy back room. “Thorin really doesn’t like you, does he?” He clapped the shoulder of the dwarf closest to him. “This is Leikr, Víglund, and Úni.” The two older dwarves grunted, stone-cold and uninviting, but the young Úni smiled. “How close are they?”

“Close.” Fili sighed, trying to relax. “Probably a few hours already. You don’t have to fight this war, you know.”

One of the older dwarves, Víglund, growled. “Hide in the face of battle? We’re not cowards. If there’s a fight, you can bet we’ll be in the thick of it.”

“Are you outnumbered?” Fili nodded, in response, approaching them properly so they stood in a little ring. “Badly?”

“Only by a thousand or so. Thorin isn’t sure how long the Front Gate will hold, we only built it from rubble over a few days. But most of the defences – the ones Smaug didn’t destroy – are sound. We can withstand any sort of siege they try and throw at us.”

“And then afterwards?” That was where it got sticky. Fili flashed Fíak a dark look with a little shake of his head. “Are you going to fight for the crown or not?”

“Ah, here are the little warriors.” Fili didn’t know whether to be pleased or annoyed at Thranduil’s arrogant entrance. “So we’ll be seeing if the Ironfists’ reputation precedes them this morning.”

Fíak bit hard on the inside of his cheek, a hollow forming in his face. “I assure you,” the words grated out with a begrudging respect, “we won’t disappoint.”

“I think they’ll be best off with the Lake-Town men.” Fili tried to save face. “The elves are going to be used mainly for ranged attacks in the galleries, and Dain’s soldiers will refuse to fight alongside them. Most of the men don’t have much training, so they’ll need all the help they can get.”

“At least Thorin was kind enough to loan shields and weapons.” Obviously Thranduil had a similar thought. “Bard is the only trained archer, apart from the Lake-Town guard, and courage is a blunt sword against orcish steel.”

“The guard are still loyal to Gunnar, not Bard.” Fili muttered. “I don’t trust him. Hopefully he finds himself in the path of a few arrows before the day is out.”

“Just how many people are in charge here, or want to be? I’m losing count.” Fíak remarked.

“It would be far fewer if I had my way.” There was a deep suspicion in Thranduil’s eyes, and Fili wasn’t surprised; the Ironfists wanted to take his puppet away. Without Fili, Thranduil was left with the uncomfortable reality that there would be an enemy on Erebor’s throne. “I'll go wake Bard and let him know his numbers got a little bigger. Take them down to southern quarter with the rest of the men. I’m sure they’ll be glad for the assistance.” His eyes flicked up and down Fili’s stout form. “And make sure you’re armed before dawn."

"Is Bard a decent leader, at least?" Fíak shot Thranduil a filthy look as he retreated. "Or is he more like _that_.”

"Thranduil may be arrogant and proud, but he's still a very good king." Fili spoke with a very low voice, though, afraid of being overheard.

“He’s had a lot of practice." Úni remarked, getting back to his breakfast. "Don't all the other elves hate him or something though?"

"You're going to have fun bowing and scraping to him." Fíak gave Fili a dark look. "You know you're just a puppet, don't you?"

"You got all of that in a few seconds of conversation?” Fíak was sharp, Fili reminded himself, and had been playing these games for a very, very long time. “Bard is the old Lord of Dale’s ancestor and heir. He was only a woodturner in Lake-Town but after he slew Smaug, they were begging for him to be their king. Thranduil threw his weight behind Bard and now…” He trailed off, the implication obvious.

“A people’s hero.” Leikr muttered. “So Thranduil’s just lining his puppet-kings up in a little row, isn’t he? He’ll be crowning the orcs next.”

“I told you, Thranduil is a very good king.” Fili looked over his shoulder, making sure they were alone. “I don’t blame Thorin for distrusting him. But he makes a better friend than enemy.”

“Suppose you think it’s hard to stand up to someone when they have the upper hand.” It was an off-hand comment from Leikr, but Fili visibly bristled, one hand grasping the blade slung at his hip.

“Don’t think for a _moment_ that you have any idea what’s going on here.” The Ironfist dwarves stiffened at Fili’s sharp voice. “This is nothing like—”

“I’m not going be lectured in politics by someone a third my age.” Leikr cut him off, rolling his eyes the way one would at an impertinent child. “Do you really think you’re the first prince to try and overthrow their king? Do you think dwarves and elves have never gone to war over disputed gold? This same shit has played out time and time again, and just because you think you have the best intentions, it doesn’t make you special.”

“Leikr, stop.” Fíak rumbled a warning in his throat, but the grizzled dwarf ignored him.

“I’m not indulging him. Just because he’s still young, there’s no excuse for delusion.” Fili stared in silence, shocked that a stranger would speak like that against him. “Stop playing the tortured martyr and take charge, and maybe that Thranduil would you show an ounce of respect.” An unpleasant snarl curled on his lip. “Vili’s grandson taking insults from an elf, never thought I’d see it. I’d say that was the Longbeard in you, but even Thorin has the stones to stand up to that lot.”

“That’s _enough!”_ But the damage had already been done. Fili had a cold, detached expression on his face, part rage and part humiliation.

“That attitude is why the elves hate us.” Fili kept his voice measured and restrained, with only a twitch in his throat to suggest his anger. “I know Thranduil thinks I’m naive and spineless, but without his support, I have no way of ever coming near that throne.” Something turned in his face, another flash of that ugly darkness that Fíak had caught the day before. “I’m not deluded, Leikr. I’m just doing what it takes to make all of this right.”

There was an uncomfortable silence, where even the air seemed to be tight and tense, and Fili had a hard time drawing air into his lungs. “You know,” It was Úni who broke the quiet, unknowingly munching away on enough _lembas_ to feed half a dozen warriors, “Fili has a point, not wanting to join some stupid pissing contest that’s bound to lead nowhere.”

“Shut up, boy.” Leikr muttered through gritted teeth. But it broke the tension enough for Fili to bite back a smile, feeling that he might have at least one ally in the Ironfist ranks. After what Fíak had said about Úni’s father and brother and how Úni felt about it, it really wasn’t surprising that he was on Fili’s side about this.

“If you want me to help you,” the seriousness returned to Fili’s face, “then don’t criticise the way I handle this. I know more about Thranduil than you, and he likes thinking he’s in control.” Fili’s hands fell limp at his sides. “Come on, I’ll show you where the rest of the men are sleeping. Thranduil might be a sarcastic ass, but they will genuinely be glad to see you.”

Halfway down the street, Fili stopped and grabbed Fíak’s elbow. “I have one more request for you – all of you. Actually, it’s not a request. It’s an order.” Fíak was frowning at him now, his face half-visible in the distant lanternlight through open windows. “Stay away from my mother. I know you probably don’t mean to hurt her, but I want all of you to stay away from her.” His voice was low, with the deep rumble of a threat behind it. “Don’t speak to her, don’t look at her, don’t approach her. It’s been hard enough having you here at a distance, and I don’t want to make it harder than it needs to be.”

Fili expected anger from the older dwarf, but there was a strange expression on his face, a thoughtful sort of pity. "We won't." He promised. "None of us will ever touch her again."

* * *

An hour before dawn, Balin armed him.

Thorin stood in silence, his head held high and arms thrown out as the old dwarf, his last friend left in the world, buckled him in piece by gilded piece. He felt lifeless as he endured the ritual. It was so unlike Azanulbizar, where he dressed alongside his father and grandfather, held hands, whispered prayers with them. Back then, he was afraid and trying not to be, determined to make Thror and his father proud, ready to die defending his people. It was such a violent cascade of emotions that it left his head throbbing and ears ringing, and it was hard that morning for Thorin to eat and drink through the anticipation that left his body senseless.

This morning, he felt nothing.

Balin worked in silence, sensing that deadened feeling from his king and having no words to alleviate it. Thorin closed his eyes and willed his soul away back to that dingy little tent, to the last few hours he had left with his father, grandfather and brother. He struggled to remember the last thing he ever said to them before the rush and heat of battle, sifting through memories he wasn’t sure were real or imagined. Through the fog, he remembered his grandfather clasping his shoulder, their foreheads touching. Thrain had muttered gruffly that he hoped his eldest son would do them proud that day, squeezed his wrist, and left him. It was the most he’d ever got. Frerin embraced him when they had a moment alone, whispered that he was afraid and he didn’t want to die. Thorin pushed him aside, told him to buck up and to stop being a baby. It came out harsher than he liked, but he still didn’t apologise. Thorin never apologised.

He was too dead to even feel guilt anymore. Thorin opened his eyes and stared at the stone wall with the look of someone half-asleep. Did he really cling to the body for days and days? It seemed like the act of another person, so vague and distant now, and he couldn’t remember it with any sort of clarity. Everything was grey and muddled and dead. Everyone was dead, too, or lost, or false. Everyone had left him.

“I think that’s all of it.” Balin straightened up with a forced smile on his exhausted face. They had both stayed up all night, side-by-side in Thorin’s improvised bedchamber after Balin found him and dragged him back to his room. They didn’t speak much, just sat there and drank in each other’s company, close enough for their legs to touch. There was nothing that could be said, no words to ease their pain and fight off the loneliness, and so they just sat. “Give it a few steps and see if you can walk.”

He took his first murky, muddled step. It was like wading through a bog sucking him under in slow inches, ankle to knee to waist until he was drowning. Thorin’s legs buckled and with a cry of alarm, Balin caught his shoulders, holding him upright, a statue about to topple from its pedestal. “Steady, I’ve got you.” The comforting rumble in Thorin’s ear was foreign and hazy as another language. “I’ve got you, Thorin.” Balin put him back on his feet, the way he always did, keeping a loose grip on his elbows in case he fell again. “Are you all right? Is it nerves?” Concern crept into his voice, those kindly blue eyes shadowed and dark.

“No. I—” Thorin’s voice cracked. “I feel nothing.” It was like being drunk, this loss of control, this disconnect, with none of the warmth and bravado behind it. Balin tried and failed to mask the horror on his face, partly obscured by his long white beard. Thorin remembered when it was red and full, braided for ceremony, for war. They were so young back then. So young then and so old now.

“Perhaps we should lose the armour. It’s usually ceremonial, all of this, anyway. A coat and mail has always served you well in the past. This is just weighing you down.” Balin started with the breastplate, unbuckling it at the sides. Thorin felt like a sculpture left to weather in the elements, enduring wind and rain and snow for thousands and thousands of years until the features had worn away, leaving something shapeless. Dwarves prided themselves on their stone faces and stone bones and stone hearts, but even stone had an end. Even stone degraded to something as light and fleeting as water and air with enough time behind it. Bilbo told him a riddle about that, Thorin remembered in his sleepy heaviness. Time. _Slays king, ruins town, and beats mountain down._

Thorin was so tired.

“The others will be ready in the hall by now.” Balin puffed on his knees. “Do you know what you’re going to say to them yet? It doesn’t have to be long, just a few words of hope and courage. Shields will never fall, armour never crumble, dwarvish spirit and all that. You’ve done it a thousand times before.” Thorin lifted his arms obediently as Balin lifted a coat of heavy mail over his head.

“I’ll think of something.” Thorin mumbled. Balin gripped him by the shoulders then, and tried to catch his gaze.

“You need to get out of this.” He spoke with a sense of urgency Thorin didn’t remember hearing before. Balin was never urgent. He was sensible and calculated and wise. It was Dwalin who was always keen for a fight, ready to rush in with his axes held high without a moment’s consideration for the worst. It was Dwalin he could count on always being at his side. “I know this is hard, Thorin. Mahal, the last thing _I_ want to do fight after what we went through last night, but they will be looking to you today. They are ready to defend our home in your name. You are their _king_ and nobody can ever take that from you.”

Thorin looked at him then, swallowed hard and nodded. “I am their king.” He repeated, although he didn’t need convincing of that fact. Throughout all this uncertainty and pain, that was the one thing that Thorin had managed to hold on to. “And today, we end the war between us and the filth that desecrated our ancestral home.” Finally, there was a stirring of emotion in his voice. He tried desperately to rouse his passions from their lifeless slumber, tried to _feel_ something, give his heart a reason to keep on beating, for the blood to keep coursing through his veins. “I will end Bolg.”

“Of that I have no doubt.” Balin stood back and admired his handiwork, Thorin suited in a rather plain coat of dark blue over his mail, braided with gold only at the hem and the sleeves, hidden under his vambraces. This was the Thorin he knew better, not that stiff doll in gilt-edged armour. “Still as regal as ever.” He grinned, but Thorin didn’t smile. “You’ll do our people proud today, Thorin.”

Would he? Thorin went to leave the room when a gleam of rubies caught his eye; Thror’s axe. His throat closed and Thorin bent to pick it up, testing its weight. It was a magnificent weapon, swift and weighty and sharp as the quickest of daggers. This axe had slain countless orcs in the three centuries since Thror’s finest smiths first forged the blade, and today, it would be raised again, perhaps for the last time, in battle.

There was a sense of resignation in the air as Thorin surveyed the axe. It would be raised, but not by him. It wasn’t his to wield. With his knuckles white on the handle, Thorin licked his lips. “Send this to Dís. Get Bofur or Bombur to do it, make it a gesture of goodwill. Dain never should have taken it from her.”

Balin accepted the ancient axe with a nod. “I’ll send it along right away. Eat something before going down, please.” Thorin made a noncommittal noise in his throat and shooed him away, standing alone in his room with his eyes on the pieces of gold armour heaped like a pile of rubbish against the wall.

He still didn’t feel anything.

* * *

Bilbo awoke from a disjointed sleep and crept out with his usual hobbitish silence, leaving Gandalf’s whistling snores behind in the cold little room. His toes were unusually cold as he picked his way down the stairs, nodded to the lone guard on duty, and made his way down the dark street. He wore his mithril shirt beneath his borrowed Lake-Town clothes, Sting strapped to his side and his ring safely stowed in his pocket. He wasn’t armed or ready for any sort of battle, but there was a readiness, or perhaps a resignation, in Bilbo’s chest as he turned off to the left at the bottom of the scorched alley and made his way towards the grand entrance halls capped by the makeshift Front Gate. Bilbo walked slowly, the mountain steeped in sleep around him. It was totally black in parts and Bilbo, only a little scared, made his way forward by brushing his fingers against the walls. He felt in those passages like an extension of the mountain, a stalagmite that had grown legs and wandered off. The very stone seemed to throb beneath his feet, and Bilbo couldn’t entirely convince himself that it was his own heavy heart, deafening in the total silence of the caves.

Even though he loved Bag End, pined after it, in fact, after all these months, Bilbo felt suffocated and blind in this caves. He couldn’t imagine himself burrowing away like the dwarves, hiding for weeks, months, from the light, digging deeper and deeper into the rock for gold and gems until they reached the very bottom, or the other side, or whatever it was that existed at the lower limits of the world. He loved the sunshine too much, sitting on his favourite bench with his letters in a pile beside him and a full pouch of Old Toby on his knee. Bilbo tried to remember the last time he had a good, quality _sit_ in the summer sunshine, just listened to the birds and felt the warmth on his face and smelled the grass and wildflowers.

Oh. He remembered now. Bilbo stopped in his slow patter and leaned against the wall, one hand clutching at his chest as the images flashed through his mind. It was the day that Thorin buried Kili’s things in the little cave on the edges of Beorn’s home, back when they thought Kili was dead. He wished for rain that day to take the edge off the heat, to beat him into the ground. He wished for a sky that reflected the grab greyness that filled him up, left him drowning. Grief and guilt and shame had robbed them all of their senses, and even Gandalf had found himself at an utter loss as he crouched in the sunshine, barred from the dwarves’ funeral ceremony beneath the earth. He could still hear Fili screaming. The hair stood up on the back of Bilbo’s neck at the uncomfortable memory, and he found his knees were weak and frail, stumbling beneath his weight.

Something had broken inside all of them that time. Kili’s apparent death was like a stain on a clean tablecloth, a crack in a looking-glass. It robbed them of that cleanness and innocence and left a mark that never could, or did, shift. Things like trolls and orcs and goblin-kings and wargs they fought and won together, but losing one of their own, the silly jokester, the baby of the company, it was a loss that they had never recovered from. Grief fractured and tainted them, setting in motion the crumbling of the company which now seemed eerily inevitable in Bilbo’s eyes after everything that had happened.

He found a good spot in the galleries overlooking the entrance hall, where a few dwarves were already starting to get things ready. Bilbo contemplated putting on his ring, but he still didn’t like wearing it all that much after what happened in Thranduil’s halls and opted instead to just lean over the railing, and whoever happened to lift his head and see him, well, they saw him. Bilbo wasn’t quite an enemy of Thorin anymore, or so he hoped.

Oh, Thorin. Bilbo still ached for his friend, nursing that empathetic ache silently as Fili’s lonely defence of Thorin grew thinner and more strained and tested until it had snapped completely the night before. Bilbo rested his chin on his folded arms, looking at the tiny figures below through half-lidded eyes. He didn’t really know anyone to be as both proud and selfless as Thorin was, somebody so preoccupied with their own honour and title and yet willing to put themselves on the line to defend friends and family. No, Bilbo reminded himself with a long, long sigh. That was the old Thorin, before he caved to the paranoia and madness and grief that had been attacking him for so very long.

“A strange place to catch forty winks, Mr Baggins.” Bilbo jumped at Gandalf’s voice, blinking. “Or are you admiring the scenery?”

“Mm, I’m thinking.” Bilbo mumbled, retreated back down into his arms. “About… Thorin, I suppose. Today.” His fingers curled into the faded blue of his jacket as Gandalf settled in beside him, leaning heavily over the broad stone with his beard hanging over the edge. “What do you think will happen afterwards if we win?”

“I think it will be like gathering up a dozen wild rats and shutting them in a box.” Gandalf spoke frankly, staring with a level of distaste down below. “Only to open it again several hours later to find a dozen corpses. The dwarves will kill each other over that throne, and Thranduil appears quite ready to encourage it.”

“Do you really think so?” Bilbo gulped. “Would it go that far?”

“Bilbo, I would like to think, until recently, that I counted Durin’s Folk among by friends. I certainly knew Thror quite well, and Thrain was… a dear friend.” Gandalf sighed, staring silently at his hands for a moment. “It is simply not in them to ever give up. They will hold on at all costs and do whatever it takes not just to survive, but to win.”

Bilbo shivered, remembering Kili. “They’re tough as nails, I’ll grant that.”

“I heard about Fili’s latest acquisition towards his cause.” That pleasant voice had an edge to it now. “Were you going to tell me, or were you simply hoping a hundred very distinctive dwarves would slip by without my noticing?”

“Er,” Bilbo shuffled his bare, leathery feet. “It didn’t really seem my place to say, although I suppose I knew it wasn’t ‘right’ in a way, to do it. I won’t lie, Gandalf, I’m disappointed that it came to this for Fili. It’s going to be awful for Thorin when he finds out.” He sighed. “But I do understand why he did it. I mean, I have relations that drive me _batty_ , but if they were in that situation, if, say, my awful cousin Lobelia was cornered by orcs, I think I would save her, too.”

Gandalf raised a bushy eyebrow. “You think?”

“No, I would.” His lips twitched in a smile. “I would. I know it’s not the same, though, hobbits squabbling over properties and possessions as all of this war. You can’t really compare them.”

“Bilbo, that is exactly what’s going on. Relations squabbling over properties and possessions is quite an apt description. It is so sad when people are brought so close to bloodshed over something as insignificant as bruised pride.”

“Do you think Thorin should have just given Thranduil the gold from the outset, knowing these people for as long as you have?” Perhaps Bilbo had been around the dwarves too long, listening when they spoke about how they couldn’t be seen as bowing to pressure so easily, how Thranduil’s armed threat on their doorstep best be met in kind if Durin’s Folk wanted to retain an ounce of credibility with their own people.

“I think it would have been best for everyone if Thorin had. Well,” Gandalf stroked his beard, “best for everyone _except_ Thorin. He would have lost a lot of faith with his own people if he caved to Thranduil at the drop of a hat, especially given their history. I don’t know what Thranduil expected, handling the situation so gracelessly.”

“I think almost everyone’s being awful, but I suppose I’m not in a position to say much.” The dwarves were hauling large copper basins up the walls to the galleries along the sides, ropes straining under the weight. The thick smell drifted over and they began to light fires, and Bilbo realised with a pinprick of horror in his chest that the vats were filled with tar.

“Gold brings out the worst in people. This isn’t the first time I’ve seen people go to war over treasure, and I am certain it won’t be the last.” Gandalf straightened a little, his back aching. “Hopefully the horrors of today will be enough to instill a sense of alliance between Thorin and Thranduil, enough to put all of this nastiness to one side and find a way forward together.”

“Do you think it will?” Bilbo rested his cheek on a balled fist, looking over at the wizard. “I’m worried that Thorin’s too far gone to listen to anything. He’s lost all his family now, and most of his friends. He must be feeling so alone. I know it wouldn’t do any good, but I wish I could just saw a few words to him and… I don’t know, remind him why he was here at all. He’s lost the very things he’s fought so desperately for.”

“I’m sure nobody is more aware of that than Thorin Oakenshield himself.” Gandalf looked as though he were about to speak again, but he closed his mouth and looked out on the hall with a still sadness in his weary eyes. He reached out and took Bilbo by the shoulder for a moment with a reassuring little shake.

They watched the dwarves work for a time, hidden and quiet.

* * *

For all the pristine treasure hoarded safely in the depths of the mountain, there was a unique magnificence in the axe Balin had tasked Bofur to deliver to Dís. Several rubies had been knocked out of the handle and there was a notch in the blade, which heightened rather than diminished its splendour. There was a story wrought in the tarnish and imperfections. It was a weapon that had seen the highest highs and lowest lows of Durin's Folk, passed from king to grandson to sister, taken and now returned for a fight that was over a century in the making.

Bofur walked with an almost jaunty air, the axe slung over his shoulder. He was glad, really, to be given something to do this morning. Ever since Dain and his hardened warriors arrived, most of Thorin’s Company (well, the remnants of it) found themselves somewhat unnecessary. They spent a lot of time picking around now, playing old games and searching the burnt-out shells of houses for anything Smaug may have left behind. Bombur seemed to alternate entirely between sleeping and eating. Gloin was obsessively attempting to make a precise calculation of the entire gold-hoard’s worth, filling scraps of parchment with graphs and tables and lists of sums. Bifur was always good for a game, so long as it wasn’t too strategic, and otherwise spent his time frittering around with rusty old toys they had found in scorched playrooms and making them work again. Dori was very glum and didn’t like talking to anybody. Oin had spent a lot of time making stretchers and enlisting as many people as he could to help, insisting they would need them soon enough. Balin and Dwalin had spent every waking moment with Thorin and Dain. Everybody had found their own way to keep busy, to try and battle the increasing despair and loneliness, and sometimes.

He made his way to the collection of streets where the elves and men slept, humming to himself. Bofur felt more at home down here by the mines, where the houses were a little more rustic and to his taste. He felt that all those front rooms and halls and chambers far too showy for his liking. Already people were up, lights shining through windows and people standing on the doorsteps smoking. A couple of people looked at Bofur oddly in his fine-wrought mail paired with his favourite old hat and gloves and he grinned back, utterly unabashed. It was near the end of the first street that Bofur finally saw them, pulling up straight in his walk, the gentle hum dying in his throat.

He’d never actually _seen_ any Ironfists dwarves up close, but nevertheless, Bofur knew what they looked like. Everybody did. The Ironfists were secretive and distant, but there was no mistaking their dreadlocked hair and animal-skin clothes. Bofur eyed a cluster of them milling about on the doorstep of one of the little miner’s cottages, smoking pipes and nibbling at a modest breakfast. He was close enough to hear their muttered Khuzdul, twisted in their strange eastern accents, tattered dreadlocks of varying shades of grey and blonde gleaming in the firelight. What was going on? Something pushed in Bofur’s throat, and he found himself rushing past very quickly with his head down, hoping they wouldn’t see him or deign to talk to him. His grip on Thror’s axe grew sweaty and he held it in two hands now, in front of himself as though in preparation for attack.

Finally, Bofur found what he thought had to be the stronghold here, an old pub with the sign still intact, hanging lopsidedly on a single thick chain. “Hi!” He tried to put the Ironfists out of his head and smiled at the elf polishing his sword in the doorway, keeping the axe lowered and unoffensive. “Bofur here.” The elf lowered his sword. “I’ve got a special delivery for lady Dís on behalf of Thorin Oakenshield.”

“What is it?” Bofur didn’t exactly blame the elf for his suspicion, keeping that cheerful expression fixed.

“This.” He held out the axe. “Am I allowed to come in?”

“Wait right here.” Bofur shuffled his feet at the elf retreated inside, shutting the door behind him. Bofur counted silently to forty before he returned, looking like he wanted to laugh but forcing himself to be cool and detached. “Fili had a choking fit when I told him your name. He’s insisting you go inside.”

“Good-o.” Bofur easily walked under the elf’s outstretched arm. Inside were perhaps a dozen elves, looking very out of place with their long limbs and flawless armour in the dingy dwarvish pub. He froze for a moment, searching for a familiar face until one came from the back room, all smiles and wide, excited eyes. “Ori!”

“Oh, it’s been so long!” Ori swamped him in a hug and a moment later Nori was there too, clapping him on the back and asking how things were and if he’d sorted out any of his treasure why was he still holding onto that stupid hat when he could be wearing a helm of solid mithril if he wanted.

“I’ve been worried _sick_ about you two idiots.” Bofur beamed as Ori finally pulled back. “Getting messed up in this, what were you _thinking?_ Do you know how close you came to being wiped out?”

“Blame this one.” Nori squeezed his brother’s shoulder, chuckling. “Nah, I wouldn’t trade it really.” A flash of gold caught his eye. “Fili, look who’s paid a visit!”

“I know.” A grin broke across Fili’s face, and when he hugged Bofur, the dwarf could feel his shoulders sagging with relief. “It’s so good to see you again.”

“This is for your mother.” Bofur lifted the axe, holding it out. “Where is she?”

“Still in bed. I’ll go.” Ori disappeared up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Bofur bit the inside of his cheek as the question of the Ironfists burned like a coal in his throat. Fili opened his mouth to speak but Bofur got there first, the words all tumbling out in a rushed mess.

“The Ironfists – that wasn’t you, was it? Bringing them here, I mean. You didn’t…” Bofur trailed off as Fili’s expression went dark, and all he could do was muster a gentle nod. “ _Fili!”_

“What was I supposed to do, let them die?” Fili hissed defensively. “I don’t _like_ them, but I’m not going to be a heartless bastard. By the time I even realised, it was too late for them to escape out of the valley.”

“Are they going to fight today?” But Bofur already knew the answer to that. He had seen them polishing swords and axes and checking their mail for holes. Fili just nodded. “ _Mahal_ , never thought I’d see that.”

“It’s still very much in the balance, even with Erebor’s defences.” Nori was frank. “I’d take a hundred of those psychotic bastards for my side. Apparently they fight like animals.” He fell silent then as Dís descended the staircase, hastily dressed with a tired smile on her face.

“Bofur.” She reached the ground and stopped, noticing for the first time the axe in Bofur’s hands. “Why is that here?”

“It’s a gift.” Bofur cleared his throat and straightened, holding the axe out. “Thorin said— Ooh, wait, I can still remember.” He sighed. “He said that Dain never should have taken it from you. He wants you to carry it today.” Dís stared at the bejewelled weapon with very wide eyes, shaking her head in disbelief.

“I never thought I'd get it back." Her voice trembled as she took the axe. It felt so comfortable and familiar between her curled fingers, like shaking hands with an old friend. She wasn't deluded enough to think that this suggested any forgiveness on her brother's part yet, but was a stepping-stone towards something that could one day be a reconciliation between them. Dís hugged the weapon close to her, feeling, for the first time, a thread of hope that perhaps Thorin wasn't completely lost.

"Did he say anything else?" Fili rasped, gripping Bofur's sleeve with an almost childish desperation.

He shrugged. “I didn't actually see him. None of us have really seen him in days except Balin and Dwalin." Bofur looked uncomfortably over Fili's shoulder at Dwalin, who still stood with his arms crossed in the doorway, looking wounded. “Say, is old Bilbo around? I wanted to wish him well before... y'know."

Ori shook his head. "His door was open when I walked past just before. I popped my head in, but I couldn't see him or Gandalf. They're probably off together."

"Damn. Wonder how long he'll be."

"Sit down and have a drink at least. We have a little time." Nori pulled at his arm. "You've got to tell us _everything_ you can."

"Excuse me." Dís withdrew, giving Dwalin a meaningful look over her shoulder as she made her way through the back room and into the lonely little courtyard that was little more than a few feet wide, a water-pump in one corner that still worked and the remains of a washing-line. She could hear his heavy tread behind her, following blindly, thoughtlessly. Outside, she sucked in a deep lungful of that muffle underground air, feeling her chest press hard against her breastplate.

“I'm sorry." Dwalin began before she even opened her mouth. "I was thoughtless last night. It wasn't my place just come into your room and expect to be welcomed. You're right. We were never married. We were just... nothing."

He sounded so exhausted and broken, and Dís' heart stung out of an uncomfortable love and pity. "You know you're not nothing, you stupid lump, and I'm not indulging your moping. I love you. I always have." But there was a sorrow in Dwalin’s face that no singular declaration of love could brighten. It wasn't enough for him anymore, Dís realised with a fresh ache. Their fragile attempt at a family had been dashed to pieces, and Dwalin wasn't going to ever let go of the precious remnants he had left.

"But you said—" Dwalin pawed at her free hand, that ugly wild look returning in his eyes. “You said, the night before I left Ered Luin, you said when we were both in Erebor again, you said—"

"Dwalin—"

"You said you would marry me." His grip was excruciating now. “You can’t dangle my wildest dreams in front of me and snatch them away."

"This is _not_ the time." Anger flashed against him in her gut. "My son and brother are hours away from battle." She yanked her hand free. "Pull yourself together. Fili is going to need you today. _I_ need you.” Dwalin stepped back, stung. “Why are you trying to bully me?”

“Why do you keep dragging me along and breaking your promises!” Dwalin regretted the words the moment they came out and gasped, utterly appalled with himself. Two pots of pink flushed across Dís’ chest, breathless in her shock. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Ignore me—”

Dís wiped at her face. “Do you think I’m dragging you along?” Her voice was small and faded, as timid as a child’s.

Dwalin couldn’t look at her. “I-I don’t know.” He was torn between relief and regret at his outburst. “I don’t even know what to call this.”

Slowly, Dís set the axe down on the ground, not shifting her eyes from him. “Try to, please.”

Dwalin started to pace back and forth, wringing his hands. “I’m… at such a loss. It got _so_ hard, Dís, to just stand by and pretend that we were nothing. I just wanted to be able to love you properly, without all these alibis and looking over my shoulder and sneaking out of bed before the morning. I can’t love you at a distance. I know we still made love, but it was never about that. It was about having you, completely. And I was so angry with how I was feeling, because I wanted to have you so much, but I felt so...” He stopped, frustrated with himself, his inability to articulate that maddening, contradictory rush of emotion in his heart and reconcile everything with himself. “And when— when you said you would marry me…” Dwalin stopped pacing now, but he could still only look down at his shoes. “It filled me with this overwhelming hope, you know? And then…” He had to stop for air. “When we thought Kili was gone, _really_ gone, it was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to cope with. I wanted to give up, Dís. The quest meant nothing to me anymore. No amount of gold could _ever_ replace Kili.”

There was a low bench pushed up against one of the side walls. Dwalin sat down on it with his elbows on his knees. “You know what kept me going? It wasn’t Thorin or Fili or that nonsense about Erebor. It was _you._ If we made it, if you and I could finally do what we should have been able to do a hundred years ago, then— I could— _we_ could move on and be a real family together, and that might have eased the pain a little.”

Dís approached the bench slowly, heart beating in her throat. “We were always family—”

“No, we weren’t. Don’t give me that.” Dwalin muttered bitterly. “Thorin refused to let it even get _close_ to that.”

“Kili loved you like a son would.” She reached out and rested a hand on his shoulder, but Dwalin was unresponsive to her touch. “You were his father to him.”

“Except I wasn’t.” Dwalin clasped his massive hands together, fingers interlaced. “But I could have coped with that, because we were going to be married and I could finally love you the way I’ve wanted to all my life. I know what I did to Fili was a blow and I know that I jeopardised us by doing it. I was convinced you were going to leave me when you found out. But then you— you still loved me, and it brought all that hope back, and…” He finally looked up at her, fighting to remain calm. “You can’t take it away again.”

Dís sat down very slowly, unable to look at him. She stared instead out at the dark courtyard, aching with guilt. “But at the same time, I feel… so... “ She turned her head very slightly to catch Dwalin in the edge of her vision. “Unfair.” He supplied, unhappy with the term. “I know that I’m asking too much of you. Mahal, it still amazes me that you can love me at all after what that _filth_ did to you. I know it’s a different world for you and it’s one I’ll never understand. It infuriates me how people like Dain can think less of you because you’re just a dam in their eyes but you’ve never let that stop you. You’re so strong and independent and brave a-and you don’t really even need me at all. So— I understand why you don’t want to marry me.”

She rested a shaking hand on his leg, at a loss for what to say. Dwalin’s words struck something very deep inside of her, a vibration in down in her heart. Almost every word he said was true, and to hear it all come from his mouth left tears in her eyes. Poor, _poor_ Dwalin. Dís had no idea there was so much going on behind his blind adoration and her misjudgement of him left her burning with a fresh surge of guilt. “You’re wrong about one thing.” She whispered, feeling him stiffen beneath her touch. “I _do_ need you. Not just to love me and be some sort of surrogate father but…” Dís turned properly so they could look one another in the eye. “I spent decades being told I was worthless and nothing, and being beaten and hurt over and over and—” He voice wobbled in a rare moment of weakness. “I started to believe it. But Dwalin, you had this belief in me that I never thought I would find again, and I started having faith in myself again because of it.”

She rested her chin on his shoulder in a soft embrace, feeling his ribs hitch in a gasp. “That’s why I’m going to marry you.” Dís murmured. “Not just because I love you and I want a family with you, but because you believed in me.” Dwalin wrapped his arms around her so tight it was hard to breathe, nose in her hair. It was like a weight had been lifted from them that morning. Even though the gloss had somewhat faded on their relationship, seemingly perfect in its unfailing love, Dís felt more at home in Dwalin’s arms just then than she could remember feeling. It was less perfect but more _real_ all at the same time. The golden glow had faded and shown the outlines in a sharper clarity than before and everything felt cleaner because of it. Dwalin kissed her temple and brow until she lifted her face to him, mouths meeting in a moment of sweetness and love and understanding that Dís knew she would treasure for a long, long time.

"Are we all right?" Dwalin croaked as she paused for air.

Dís leaned in again, breathing him in, feeling his pulse through her fingertips. Their hearts were beating in sync, and in that moment they were an extension of one another, two halves of a whole that nothing could ever force apart. "We're better than we've ever been." She breathed against his lips, kissing him again.

“ _Amad_ , Thranduil’s asking if— oh.” Fili stopped in the doorway at the sight of them, biting his lip. "Um," He cleared his throat loudly, and they broke apart with a gasp, Dís looking mortified. “Thranduil’s asking if you're ready to go up."

"Fili!" She stood up. "This isn't what it looks like."

"It's all right, _Amad_." He smiled. "I know. And I think it's great. I'm happy that you're happy." As he spoke, Fili crossed the courtyard to meet them. "You couldn't wish for someone better." Dís looked from to the other, trying to figure it out.

"I had to tell him last night. He didn't understand why I came back." Dwalin looked apologetic. “I know you never wanted to tell them, he’s not a boy anymore. He hasn’t been in years.”

“I know you’d think I could be worried after what happened with my father, but I’m not. I know it’s different.” Dís lowered her eyes to the ground, nodding with the vacancy of someone trapped in a deep memory.

“It’s very different.” Slowly, she lifted her head. There was no shedding of skin and stepping out as something fresh and clean and unmarked. There was no forgiving or forgetting of what had happened. All Dís could do now was carry her scars and move on completely, and after eighty years of limbo it looked like it could finally happen. “Well, now you know I can finally tell you. I'm going to marry him." She took Dwalin by the hand. “I don't care how many people we anger and laws we break. He's the husband I always should have had."

"Of course." There was a growing warmth in Fili’s chest at the rare glimpse of happiness in this cursed mountain. "Just do one thing for me."

"Anything, lad."

Fili exhaled deeply, rustling the soft hairs of his growing beard. "Wait for Kili. He's going to be so happy when he finds out about you two. I know he'd love to be there."

"Of course we'll wait." Dwalin stood up to drape his arm across Fili's shoulders. "We're not a family without him." He forced a smile and held on tight. "Look, whatever happens today, we do it together, all right?"

"Together." Fili echoed, daring to finally believe that something just might turn out for the better.

* * *

“Where’s Thorin!” Bofur ran until his lungs were burning and a stitch throbbed like a spear-wound in his side. Already dwarves in the entrance hall were readying themselves into lines, weapons at the ready. Panic seized Bofur as he realised how close everything was now becoming. No, not yet. They weren’t ready yet. Finally, he caught a familiar face; Gloin making his way forward, refusing to hide in the back like a coward. “Gloin!” Bofur sprinted towards the dwarf and grabbed his elbow. “Where’s Thorin? I need to speak with him _now._ ”

“With Dain in the left gallery. They’re about to go--” Bofur didn’t wait around to hear anymore. He ran as quickly as he could, legs turning rubbery and soft beneath his mail. By the time he found his king, barking out last-minute orders to some of Dain’s captains, Bofur could barely breathe, let alone speak.

“Thorin!” Bofur choked, doubled over on his hands and knees. “Thorin, you—” He straightened, wiping at his sweaty brow. Thorin fell silent, a heavy frown creasing his careworn face. “I was just with Fili and Dís.” He started again, panting.

“And?” This wasn’t good. Thorin knew Bofur well enough, after decades in Ered Luin and long, windy months on the road. It took a lot to worry Bofur, easily the least fussy in the company outside his family and right now he looked terrified. This was _not_ good.

“There are Ironfists inside the mountain.” Thorin closed his eyes, and endured the shock silently, keeping himself perfectly still. “Fili snuck ‘em in overnight.”

Dain, who had overhead it all, sputtered in his rage. “That – _why?_ Is he in alliance with that foul poison of a tribe? How could he do this?”

“I don’t know.” Bofur wheezed. “I don’t think it’s an alliance.” Thorin stared down at the ground now, unable to reconcile Fili’s actions with what he had said yesterday. “He said he couldn’t stand back and watch them die.”

“After what they did to his mother? Do you _really_ believe that, Bofur?” Dain snarled. “It’s a plot. I bet he’s promised a large share of the gold in return for their support. Demand their presence now, Thorin. Throw them out the gate and let the orcs do their justice.”

“No.” Thorin looked his cousin in the eye. “No violence will be done to them today.”

“Thorin!” Bofur looked from one to the other, too uncomfortable to stay but unsure of how he could slip away. “This is a direct plot against you. The number of people in Fili’s favour are far too great for him to not be considered a threat. You need to do something before it’s too late.”

“I said _no.”_ Everyone in the vicinity stopped and went quiet. “I have done enough by cutting Fili out of the succession. I’m not going to lock him up like a common criminal or throw him out to be torn to pieces.” Dain stared back, stubborn and defiant.

“Do you think he still loves you after this? That is not loyalty. He is one step away from a second attempt at treason and you are so _blind_ in your sentimental—”

“If you have an ounce of respect left for me and this kingdom you will keep _quiet!”_ Thorin lost control then, wrenching his sword from his sheath. Bofur held his breath and Dain staggered back, struck completely dumb. There was an eerie silence in the massive room, where the only sound was Thorin’s ragged breathing.

“Put it away, Thorin.” Dain stared wide-eyed at the blade, his voice faltering. “Don’t start something like this today.”

Thorin remained frozen for several moments, waiting for his head to catch up to his racing heart, waiting for a revelation, some sense of order to the madness that was consuming him. Even Fili had obviously given up on Thorin now. He’d waited for so long, begged for forgiveness again and again and was refused every time, and now… now Fili had realised that there was no hope for any reconciliation between then and turned instead to the only other allies he had left. Thorin felt sick.

The sword clattered to the ground. Dain’s shoulders sagged with a silent groan, but Thorin felt as tense and as tight as ever. He could feel the piercing gaze of over a dozen pairs of eyes fixed on him in judgement, shock, anger, disrespect. Thorin felt himself being silently scorned and judged and _hated_ in his own home, and it was such an alien feeling, so overwhelming and humiliating, and Thorin didn’t know how to react to it.

So he walked out. He walked out of the gallery, away from the entrance hall and further into the mountain. Utter silence followed him, punctuated with only the softest, most fearful of murmurs. Halfway down a passage off the gallery, Thorin’s walk broke into a run, his feet automatically taking him to the only place of refuge and reassurance he felt he had left.

Smaug had damaged the throne but not broken it. Thorin’s running slowed to a stumble as he made his way along the wide stone bridge, blackness yawning away on either side of him. The palest of light filtered through the uppermost slits of windows; a winter’s dawn. He rested his hand on the stone arm of the throne, cold to the touch and smooth as glass. Thorin sank down, not into the throne but on the ground before it. It felt wrong, in his shame and anger, to assume himself deserving of that seat.

His throat and nose burned and eyes stung with a feeling so strange that it took Thorin a moment to realise what it was. They were tears, he realised, rubbing at them with his fingertips to try and blot them away like inkstains on his sleeve. But they weren’t going away; the drips turned to a trickle and with a broken moan that was lost in the enormity of the lonely throne room, the trickle became a flood.

Everything had gone so wrong – from Kili to Thranduil and the Lake-Town men, Fili, Dís, Dwalin, Dain… everyone was working against him. Everybody had been out to get him. They were selfish, greedy, cruel, disloyal people who wanted his gold and power and were willing to do anything to get it. Thorin had been repeating this narrative for weeks and weeks until he knew it by heart, etched onto his closed eyelids, tattooed on his soul. It became the truth in the midst of his isolation and paranoia, the only thing that could ease the pain of his insecurities.

But it wasn’t them. It was _him._ Thorin was the common factor in everything that had been going wrong. Everything could be traced back to him. He drove Kili away, he lied to the people of Lake-Town, he broke his promise to Dís, he told Dwalin to leave… He had was the cause of this and now with the battle on his doorstep, there was no going back.

Thorin sat with his legs drawn up and his head bent, leaning against the throne. Hearing that Fili had given up on him had pierced through the emptiness that smothered him, and now left him raw and open. He’d become hypersensitive to the fear, pain, grief, anger and guilt that attacked him in waves and left him broken and sobbing at the foot of a throne he couldn’t bring himself to sit upon. It was too much for him to bear on his own, but there was nobody that was going to come in and save him from this, nobody to comfort and encourage him, nobody to stand at his side. He’d driven them all away.

And for what? Thorin reached into his pocket and pulled out the Arkenstone, gleaming blue-gold in his shaking fist. Hatred seized his heart as he looked down on it. He no longer felt bewitched. It was a symbol of his kingship all right – his arrogant, broken, poor kingship that had served only to drive his people to the brink of ruin. This gem was cursed to him. Thorin hated it. He hated everything it stood for, all the glory and honour and pride of his people that were as distant now as a long-forgotten dream.

Thorin got up on his feet. Above him was the grey wintry light, below him hundreds of feet of darkness. He lifted the Arkenstone up to see it better, the threads of gold and silver gleaming in iridescent blue. It had been enchanting in its ethereal beauty, but now the enchantment was broken, and all Thorin saw was the failure of his grandfather and father, of himself, of the legacy of shame and ruin that he would leave behind.

With a short cry, Thorin heaved the stone as hard as he could. It rose up, up, in a graceful arc of white-blue, suspended in mid-air for a moment. And in that frozen moment, Thorin heard a heavy boom, like a distant roll of thunder, rumbling in his bones. Then the Arkenstone fell down, down, into the darkness, into one of the deeper places of the mountain, so far down that Thorin didn’t even hear the sound of it crashing against the rocks. There was another boom, and with a start, Thorin realised it wasn’t in his mind. It came from the entrance hall, from the Front Gate. Another boom sounded along the chamber, the hairs prickling at the back of Thorin’s neck.

The battle had begun.


	107. Blow By Blow

As the Front Gate crumbled beneath the massive orcish battering ram, it felt to Akash like the world was ending. The rumble of stone thundered like a hundred storms, the ground shuddering beneath their feet. There was a swell as the crowd of orcs pushed back from the tumbling rocks, and Akash was knocked to the ground, breathless. The air was punctuated with screams as bodies were crushed on both sides, the smell of blood already rising in the frozen winter air.

His friends missing already, Akash heaved himself onto his hands and knees, trying to breathe. Somebody kicked in him in the leg as they rushed by, and another heavy boot trod on his fingers. Beneath him, the snow had been trampled by thousands of footfalls and had turned into a grey, slushy mud. Akash felt the burn of it against his throbbing fingers as he grabbed handfuls to try and stabilise himself on the rocking ground. His lungs burned and throat rasped, but Akash wasn’t taking in any air.

Somebody roughly hauled him up by the elbow, almost ripping the joint from its socket. “Get up!” They rasped in his ear. Akash shook his head, foggy in his daze, but by the time the mist cleared, the stranger was gone, melted into the chaos of black and grey. He was lagging behind in this front-line push, inaction wavering dangerously close to cowardice. Ahead of him, Akash caught the first sight of gleaming dwarvish mail, the screech of steel and iron beating against one another growing to a deafening crescendo. His shaking hands found the scimitar at his waist, the beaten metal dull in the pale winter light.

He didn’t have to win. He just had to survive.

* * *

Ori leaned out over the gallery, his bow lowered at his side as he surveyed the carnage below him. The orcs broke through the gate with comparative ease and poured over the rubble like ants from a disrupted colony. Dain’s soldiers lead the dwarvish charge, their lines spread too thin across the massive hall. Ori pulled another arrow from his quiver and aimed it into the orcish crowd, hand shaking. Breathe, he forced himself into a state of fragile calm. Let go. His arrow disappeared into the writhing mess of limbs and he didn’t know what it hit, dwarf, orc, or stone.

The elves around him shot with a mechanical precision, withdrawing their arrows, stringing the bow, and firing in a single fluid motion, as effortless as breathing. Ori withdrew another arrow and fumbled, letting it fall at his feet and tugging out another. It was Fili had had suggested – no, _demanded_ – that Ori join the archers up in the galleries, safe from harm. He could do more good there, Fili reasoned. There was a hard look in his eyes, and although the words were soft, the voice that delivered them was sharp and unyielding.

“I won’t.” Ori protested, grabbing Fili’s sleeve. “I’m fighting with _you_ , side-by-side. We’re as good as brothers, Fili–”

“No.” The flash in Fili’s dark blue eyes had made Ori falter, his grip falling lax. “Stay safe. I can’t lose you too.”

So Ori was here. Safely tucked away in this stone tower, he could only look on, firing the occasional arrow and hoping he didn’t hit one of his own. And somewhere in the middle of it was Fili and Nori, his brothers, fighting desperately for their lives with nobody else to help them. He dared for a moment to think of Dori, who would have been down there too. Selfish, hard-hearted Dori, who stood back and did nothing while his brothers were exiled from their homeland. Anger and fear swelled in his chest and made it hard for him to concentrate on his shooting, so Ori forced himself to put the thought away and concentrate only on the here and now.

The line was broken. There was a bottleneck as two halves of a Longbeard charge attempted to reform themselves. Over the clash of iron on steel, Ori heard the deep bellow of a dwarvish horn, signalling a retreat.

“We’re losing.” Legolas growled, lowering his bow for a moment. He had been put in the same position as Ori, bundled off by his father to safety and strictly forbidden to put himself in any danger. His rage and frustration was etched onto every line of his youthful face, reflected in the hard blue of his eyes as Thranduil had robbed him of the chance to seek revenge after Azog’s mutilation. His wavering line of his cut ears was grey against his cornsilk hair, the sashes and head coverings finally abandoned. Legolas had refused to seem ashamed before these creatures and bore the disfigurement with a grim defiance. Ori found it hard to look at them, at the reminder of what Azog, and Kili, had done.

At least neither of them were like Bain, taken away to a vault that a century ago stored Thror's personal treasures in his private bedchamber. Through three solid feet of iron, Bard had left his boy entombed in a room six feet wide with blankets, some solitary board games and toys, a lantern and enough food, water and oil for a week. There was only enough air for a few days, four at a stretch, and only Thorin, Bard, Dís, Balin and Dwalin knew how to unlock the vault.

“Not yet.” Ori refused to believe it. “They’ve still got a long way to go before breaking down our next line of defences.” But there was a dull, sinking sort of ache in his chest as he looked over the stone gallery. The bottleneck was opening up, and more orcs were pouring through, clambering endlessly over the wrecked remains of the Front Gate. Ori could see parts of the valley from his vantage point, and everywhere he looked, it seemed, was black with orc-flesh.

He fired another arrow, imagined it piercing grey skin, imagined tar-black blood gushing forth, and shivered.

* * *

"Regroup!" But it was hopeless. Fili heard the piercing horn-cry rip through the air again and again, steeling himself as the push of bodies surged forward. Dain’s dwarves were pulling back, their numbers already cut, and looking behind him, Fili wasn't sure there was enough here to make a stand.

With a crash and a roar that rose in his ears and shuddered down into his bones, Fili’s mind went blank and his sword tasted orc-blood for the very first time. These were the bastards that had wiped out half of his family, had tortured and broken his brother, and to feel the bones split and muscles burst beneath his hands, to smell the metal-rich tang of blood, set something alight in him that had been laying dormant since his birth. He didn’t care about dying. He didn’t care about holding the mountain. He only cared about slaughtering as many of these creatures as he could. His sense of self-preservation abandoned, Fili fought with the savagery of a beast on the hunt, carving a path through the swell of bodies, inexorably pressing forward.

Each orc he killed was a stroke of revenge, but no matter how many fell to Fili’s swords, he felt it would never be enough to satiate the fire in his belly. No matter how many sons, brothers, fathers and husbands he killed today, no matter how many families he left crippled with grief from his brutality, it could never be enough. The breath tore raggedly from his throat, two swords working like natural extensions of his own arms, slicing through leather and flesh, striking against weak plated armour and crunching into bone. In his wild rage, Fili was not only untouchable but impossible to keep pace with, and soon found himself fighting hand-to-hand with two orcs at once almost entirely on his own.

* * *

Thorin had forgotten how _loud_ the sound of war was until it hit him in the face. He was knocked back as though caught in a massive gale of wind, struck deaf and dumb by the sheer, ravaging force of it. He stood on a staircase that led down to the entrance hall, taking in the scene with wide eyes, the rushing increasing tenfold in his ears. Dain’s soldiers had attempted a first push, if the bodies that littered the ground was anything to go by, but had been pushed back and now fought alongside Thranduil’s elves.

There was no fear in Thorin’s heart as he rushed towards the thick of the battle. Resolution had solidified him, left him more strong and stable than he had felt in years. Thorin snatched up a dwarvish sword from the ground, stained with the rich red blood of its owner on the hilt but splattered with black across the blade. He had to find Balin, tell him how blind he had been. He had to find Fili and beg for forgiveness. He had to make _everyone_ see how he’d changed.

Thorin had a thousand mistakes to correct, a thousand apologies to make. But first, they had a battle to win. Looking desperately around, he saw Balin through the press of leather and mail and marched towards him, bellowing at the top of his lungs, but his voice was lost in the clash of battle, thin as a child’s whimper. He cut down orcs like saplings, cold and methodical in his merciless slaughter, pressing on closer to his last friend and ally with unbreakable determination.

“Balin!” His heart jumped at the familiar voice. Thorin was behind him, his face flushed with battle and eyes alight. Balin knew, instantaneously, that something was changed inside of his king. Gone was the stranger with a darkness that had possessed him for these long, bitter-cold weeks. There was a clarity in his sharp blue stare, no longer fogged in his grief and anger. His shoulders, instead of bowed in defeat, were proud and square. He was indomitable. This was Thorin who defended Erebror from Smaug, who fought at his side at Azanulbizar and let his people to the west.

Thorin was back.

“I was blind.” They stood for a frozen moment. The rest of the world faded to a grey blur around them, a winter’s fog in the wake of a coming spring. Balin’s hands were shaking. “Forgive me.”

“Thorin.” Balin was grinning like an idiot, looking ridiculously out of place in the battle and not caring a jot about it. “You old fool. Of course.” They stood back to back now, rooting themselves in the stone, impenetrable. Two warriors, tarnished and weathered from centuries of hardship and battle, fighting one last time in their ancestral homeland in a seemingly hopeless fight.

Thorin raised his blade. “For Erebor.”

* * *

It went on with an agonising, exhausting slowness. Dwalin could already feel himself flagging, a mid-morning sun diluted and cold through a hole in the heavy clouds. It was one step forward, two steps back for all of them. No matter how much ground they gained, the orcs had sheer numbers on their side. For every creature they cut down, another two sprung up in its wake, clambering over the bodies of their fallen brothers to get at them. Dain’s soldiers had retreated to their position and Dwalin thought he could see Dain himself, gold-inlaid helm gleaming at the spearhead of an attempt to push the orcish assault back. Thorin was nowhere to be found.

“We have to pull back!” Dís’ songbird voice pierced the din. There was an elegance to the way she wielded the massive axe, bringing it down on the head of her prey as precise as chopping firewood. “We’re being pinned here!”

“Where to?" An orc tried to lunge at Dwalin, six feet tall and holding a massive spear. Dwalin side-stepped the spear-point and slashed at the beast’s unguarded legs. Blood spewed over his wrist and Dwalin beheaded it on the backstroke, kicking the body against two more orcs that tried to rush him. “They’ll just keep coming! There’s no way!” There was another piercing screech of the horn; further retreat.

"Back!" The call came from behind Dwalin. "Back, into the halls!"

"And then what?" Dwalin shouted to the fogged air. "How far back do we pull?" He caught a glimpse of Dís, her chest heaving and blood already spattered her face, black as her tattered curls. Dwalin didn't know if it was orc's blood or her own, dried and congealed on her skin. "They'll chase us into the heart of the mountain and we'll never get out!"

"Come on!" Dís grabbed his elbow. “We have to go!" She craned her neck, trying and failing to seek Fili out. "Run!"

"No!" Dwalin shouted back. "We can't just run! We have to–" His breath died in his lungs as realisation struck, swift as an arrow. "The gates!" Dwalin pulled himself free and started to run, not towards the retreat but into another side-passage.

"Dwalin– Dwalin, what are you doing?"

"The gates!" He slowed, grabbing her shoulder. "Remember, all our main halls have iron gates, they're opened in a central room above these chambers."

"Yes!" Dís half shouted, half gasped. "Yes, I remember! One was faulty a year before Smaug attacked, it killed a little boy. But only the king's guard knew how to work them."

"I was the guard’s newest recruit, remember?" Dwalin’s heart raced. "If we get those gates shut, we'll cut their army in half and could actually stand a chance of defeating them." Dís was white as bone beneath the smears of blood. "It's a heavy lock, Dís. I need you to help me." It meant abandoning her son. Dís looked but found no trace of gold gleaming through the back in the distant crowd. She looked back at Dwalin and nodded with a heartbreaking acceptance, blinking rapidly. "He'll be all right." Dwalin squeezed her shoulder, mouth in a flat, grim line. “We have to hurry, before they get hold.”

Dís looked behind her shoulder one last time at the rush of orcs, the striking blue of her eyes twin gems in her bloodstained face, seeing nobody she knew. Her matted curls flew out behind her as she turned on her heel, bearing Thror’s axe in both hands as she followed Dwalin up a sweeping set of stairs that disappeared into the upper halls of the mountain.

But somebody saw _her_.

Grishthak yanked at the horn of his warg’s saddle, lurching to a stop. It was just a flash in the corner of his eye, but there was no possible way to mistake what he had seen; a dwarf with very blue eyes, long black curls, royal mail and the dead dwarf-king’s old axe. Grishthak had seen Thorin on the battlefield a century before, had been there when Azog ripped apart the screaming dwarf-child and beheaded their king. He had seen that axe lifted high in the air and sever the limbs and split the heads of his kin. There was no mistaking such a striking memory.

He gestured with his free hand, picking his way out of the fray and into the passage where the two dwarves had disappeared. Six of his most loyal soldiers followed, insatiable in their bloodlust, twice as tall as any dwarf and armed to the teeth. “Kill the other dwarf, but I want the shorter one alive. The one with long dark hair.”

“Yes, Sir!” Six heavy pairs of boots pounded on the stone. Lagging behind on his warg and following with an almost leisurely air, Grishthak smiled.

* * *

Fili lost everybody. Perhaps there was a call for retreat that had been lost in this deafening storm of iron. Perhaps they were all dead and the battle was already over and Fili was the last one left, fighting single-handedly to save Erebor from this corruption. The realisation pricked the fog of rage that had blinded him, sharp as a white-hot needle. Fili looked to his left and right and saw nobody, saw that the press of orcs now had a claustrophobic, inescapable closeness to it. Fili took a step backwards and felt, through the weave of his mail, the unmistakable embrace of smooth-carved stone.

There were at least twenty orcs close enough to kill him if they wanted to. Fili rested in a defensive stance, keeping his back to the stone. His pulse throbbed in his head, every other sound distant and far away. One of the orcs leered at him, spat curses in their foul tongue, but Fili couldn’t make out the jagged syllables. A cold shiver raced down his back and sweat dripped into his eyes and there was blood in his mouth.

Fili was going to die.

The fire had burned out, and now Fili was cold with terror. The hopelessness was suffocating him. Ever since he was little, Fili imagined he would die on the battlefield, preferably in some desperate last stand in defence of Erebor (it was always Erebor in his mind, always), the kind of heroism that people wrote long poems about and told to their children tucked up in bed. But the details were always different. He imagined he was a greying king, with his long life already lived. He imaged his brother was with him. None of it was right in his head. None of it had ever _been_ right for months and months now. That vision in his head was just a fantasy, he told himself, a half-baked lie that Thorin had made up. Nobody in his family had died like that. Frerin and Thror died as displaced vagrants on the doorstep of an orcish kingdom, and Thrain had simply vanished in the air, never to be seen again. His father had been executed by savages like the pissant brute he was, and his grandfather was dead or dying in his bed of rich silks and furs in the Orocani Mountains, raving with fever and fouling his sheets. There was no glory in any of their deaths.

Fili kept every muscle tense, waiting, waiting for one of those crouching orcs to strike at him and make the first move. A grim blankness started settling over him, a determination to kill as many of these bastards as he could before they took him down. He wasn’t going to die like a coward, crying and pissing his pants and begging for his mother. If this was the end, then let it end. At least they would see the bodies piled around his corpse and know that he fought bitterly until his last breath.

The first orc struck. Fili anticipated the blow and easily severed head from body, lashing out with a quickness that took the creatures aback. They had blunt, clumsy weapons, and although they were big and brutish, they lumbered awkwardly, and Fili was easily able to cut through them. He screamed in Khuzdul as he fought, cursed their mothers, taunted them until he was gasping for air and his throat raw. Someone struck him in the back and Fili went down, winded. Through the weave of thick legs, some bare, some booted, he caught a glimpse of openness, hope daring to edge in on his gaping despair. Escape.

He rolled over and sprang up, cutting off the arm of someone who tried to grab his hair. Blood splattered against his face and temporarily blinded him, thick and bitter on his cracked lips. Fili bellowed and charged the line of bodies, breaking through and running, running as fast as he could through the passageway. He could fight them better in this tunnel than in an open hall, if not give them the slip completely. Up stairs and through doorways, the passages ran, maze-like in their twists and terms but in reality perfectly geometric and mathematically planned in a parallel structure. Fili ran and ran and ran, the creatures snapping at his ankles as he drew deeper into the mountain.

* * *

 

“That’s it!” The hairs prickled on Ori’s neck at the sharp voice over his shoulder. “The Front Hall is overrun! We need to pull back _now_ before we’re stranded up here completely!” He gripped the lip of stone, head and shoulders sticking out as Ori leaned over to see. Their side had scattered through the tunnels of the mountain like rats, trying to flee a ship sinking under an orcish flood.

“How?” Ori whispered, the bow slipping through his fingers to rest against his leg. “H-How did we lose so badly?”

“It’s all in the numbers.” Legolas’ quick elvish eyes missed nothing. “We need to leave.”He grabbed Ori’s elbow, voice uncharacteristically sharp in its desperation. He didn’t particularly _like_ dwarves as a rule – his father had poisoned him against Durin’s Folk after their disastrous relations in the wake of Smaug’s desolation – but Ori had a shy gentleness to him that made it impossible to harbour any ill will. After he heard from one of his their soldiers that Ori had approached Thranduil in his own tent and _admonished_ him for embarrassing him in public, Legolas admired Ori’s mettle, and after seeing him practice hard at his archery, decided that he actually quite liked the funny little creature in a way.

Ori swallowed hard, feeling oddly light-headed. He snatched up his bow and tried to hide his shaking hands from Legolas. Fili’s demand to remain in the gallery at all costs echoed distantly in his head. “All right.” Most of the elves had already filed out of the gallery in their uniform march. Ori drew in behind and Legolas followed him, an arrow on the string.

* * *

It was beyond anything Kili could have imagined. For all the stories Thorin and Dwalin used to tell, growing darker and more bloodied as the years wore on and Kili grew older, nothing they said could have prepared him for this. Kili had killed before. He had seen bodies, seen bones sticking out of wounded flesh, severed limbs, brains dashed out on the ground, but never like _this_ , duplicated over and over in their hundreds until the individual horror of what he’d witness grew convoluted and he couldn’t see beyond the mass of orcs and wargs elves and men and dwarves side by side. Beneath Nardur’s feet, broken slabs of dwarvish stone shifted as they climbed over the broken gate and into the hall. Beneath the shrieking of battle, Kili could hear the rolling tide of death, the groans of the dying and broken cries of the wounded, orcs and dwarves indiscriminately calling for their mothers in their native tongue.

All of this for a blood feud. The bile rose in Kili’s throat, sick and sour as he dutifully followed Bolg through the Hall. He couldn’t look at any of the bodies that littered the ground ahead. He was too terrified of seeing somebody he knew. Kili couldn’t be cold and remote about this and pretend he didn’t belong to either side anymore, not with this destruction laid out before him. The enormity of what Kili wanted to do was starting to creep in, and for the first time doubt shadowed his fierce determination. _What if he couldn’t save Fili from this?_ He remembered his dreams, turning darker and sicker with each passing night until Kili was tearing his brother apart and eating his flesh like a beast. It felt chillingly like a premonition.

The Front Hall itself had already been abandoned by Erebor’s inhabitants and he and Bolg walked through a ruin. They would be fleeing inwards now, readying themselves for a second stand in the mountain. If they lost, if Bolg overran the mountain and claimed it for himself… Kili kept his face still, but the sick feeling was growing, and no matter how hard he swallowed he couldn’t will the sourness away. This was never about winning the battle to Kili. He didn’t care about Erebor, about Thorin, about the glory of victory. For Kili, there was only one single mission – get Fili. He couldn’t allow himself to be distracted by anything else.

Was it cowardly to run? His own people would have said so without a second thought. Dwarves stood and fought until either they won or they were killed. Orcs never had a problem with fleeing in the face of certain defeat; it was smarter, in their eyes, to live and fight another day rather than be slain for a lost cause. Kili, who fought so bitterly to stay alive at the cost of everything he had ever known and loved, found himself thinking more like an orc as the stink of battle choked his senses. He had found himself thinking on the march, so often, about what would happen after today. At first, he was unafraid of dying. It would be a release from this constant torment, the pain and loneliness and fear that had turned him into something he despised. He had thought there was no way to slip Azog’s noose, that the brand on his skin had seeped into his blood and turned it black. He had felt irredeemable.

But that was before somebody saw Kili in his viciousness and brutality and loved him anyway, who saw his scars as medals of victory and found him endearing, who opened his doors to him and begged him to stay, to be a companion and a friend and a lover as he was, graceless and corrupted. Kili missed Ilzkhaal with the weighted grief of a death; not just _him_ but the life he had promised, the love and warmth and surety that Kili had thought was impossible after what he had suffered. It was flawed and fractured and had a bad end, but Ilzkhaal’s love still tentatively shaped the formless After that Kili had grown afraid of contemplating and given him a slim hope that he could still be something good. Today was his chance.

“What news?” One of Bolg’s soldiers, a long-limbed scout on a nimble warg, pulled up before them. “Have you found them?”

“Thorin is flanked by his people, retreating into the halls to regroup. We have the boy.” Kili held his breath, ice surging through his veins. This was it. The orc pointed his spear towards the open passageway that Fili had disappeared through. “The little shit tried to flee. They sent a dozen orcs lead by Ugûrz after him through the rat-maze.”

Bolg grunted in assent. “Kili.” He trusted Kili implicitly, suspecting nothing but the loyalty from him. With a growl in his throat, Kili nodded and dug his heels into Nardur’s side. The warg took off, stumbling a little over the corpses on the ground and Kili snarled at him to go faster, heart thudding madly in his ears, _Fi-li Fi-li, Fi-li._

He was going to save him.

* * *

 

Fili heard the roar of defeat and the pounding of feet, pressing on through the stitch in his side. It didn't sound as though they were losing him; soon he would have to turn and fight. It would be three, maybe four abreast in this passage, with room enough to swing their weapons. He could take that. The deeper Fili drew into the mountain, the dimmer and dimmer the passage got, sunlight pooling every twenty or so feet from the distant holes in the mountain-skin, thin and white as the moon’s. Before he knew the passage would open up into a wider gallery, Fili turned and stood in a whitish spotlight, braids flying and knuckles white on his sword-hilts. The orcs crumpled in close quarters, but Fili was tiring after his endless fight, reflexes growing slower and eventually a heavy blow to the stomach sent him sprawling on the ground, swords scattering into the darkness.

“No–” Fili’s growl turned into a yelp of pain as a heavy boot crushed his wrist into the stone. Fili kicked out as someone grabbed a handful of his hair, hauling him half-up. With his free hand, he reached into the front of his mail and pulled out a knife. He drove it into the ankle of the orc that pinned him, the dwarvish blade sinking through leather and flesh before being torn out of his grasp by a shrieking howl. The orc tumbled to the ground and Fili set to work on the creature that held his hair, elbowing him hard between the legs. Fili got up on his knees before a hard kick to his ribs sent him crashing on his side, coughing. One of brutes had him again, seizing this moment of weakness to crush Fili into his chest, arms pinned at his side. Another held a knife up to his throat, the point digging in to the tendons that strained like robes beneath his sweat-sheened skin. One of the bigger orcs spat something in his foul tongue and slapped the knife from his comrade’s hand. He pointed at Fili and bellowed, grabbing a fistful of hair and shaking it until Fili thought his neck might snap.

And then it hit him. Horror filled Fili and his struggling doubled, the breath choking in his lungs. _They knew who he was_. They must have been told to find the dwarf with yellow hair, the heir of Thorin. They didn’t want to kill him. They wanted their leader, Bolg, to have that privilege. This would be the day that it ended, the chain of death that began with Thror and continued down the frayed and tattered line of Durin.

“No!” Fili twisted and bucked, but they had his legs as well as his arms held fast now, and all he was doing was wasting precious energy. “You won’t get away with this!” They wrestled him face-down on the ground and tied his arms behind his back with one of their belts, Fili screaming into the stone, screaming for help that he knew would never come in this lonely maze of passages and galleries. A doormouse trapped by a gang of feral cats, Fili tried to bite as they hauled him up by his bound arms, every joint and muscle aching and sapped of strength. “You bastards are going to regret this!” The big orc, the one that had stopped the others from killing him, stood with his scimitar drawn, leering down at Fili. He spat on the ground and thrust the the edge of his blade under Fili’s chin, forcing him to hold his face up in the colourless light. Pale eyes studied his features with a snarl. On his knees, Fili glared up at the brute with every ounce of hatred and fury he had left, jaw locked so hard it trembled.

Then, with a sudden, high-pitched squeal, the orc pitched forward and collapsed. The scimitar banged on the ground and the other creatures drew back with a shriek. An arrow stuck out of the orc’s back, right between his shoulder-blades, blood already pooling across the ground. Through the dimness, Fili could make out a figure about forty feet away, lingering in the shadows. It looked short, almost like a dwarf, but that didn’t make any sense, because none of his people could shoot that well. Another orc crumpled to the ground and it set the others alight. They screamed in their foul tongue and rushed, three orcs remaining to hold Fili down.

“Run!” Fili shouted at the stranger, hope flashing into despair. It was one against eight, in no way a fair fight. The shadowy figure fired another arrow and another before withdrawing his sword. Fili tried to kick out with his still-unbound legs and caught one orc in the face, the creature howling and cradling a broken nose. “Get out of here!” He screamed, helplessly watching his rescuer duck and dodge the orcish blows and land good shots of his own, spry as an elf on his feet and using his lower height to his advantage. “Go!” There were only four orcs left, and then three, and then two. The orcs that held Fili down abandoned him to attack, and Fili immediately wrestled his legs through his bound arms so they were in front. He managed to grab the last knife in his boot with the tips of his fingers and jam the handle between his knees, roughly sawing at his wrists. Fili hissed as he nicked the fleshy pad of his left thumb but the leather quickly fell away. He jammed the knife back in his boot and found his weapons, panting. By the time he stood up, the last orc was howling on the ground with one leg cut off. The shadowed figure thrust his blade down, a mercy-kill to the throat, and the orc fell silent.

“Who are you?” Fili stood still, heart in his mouth as he examined the rough, jagged outlines of plated armour, grateful, relieved, terrified. He watched the figure walk towards him with a deliberate steadiness, head held high as he walked into one of the circles of light. It was a dwarf, shoulders heaving as he panted, wearing orcish armour inlaid with broad, yellowed bones, face ash-grey and smeared all over with orc-blood, brown hair falling over his shoulders, no beard, and dark eyes.

_It was Kili_ –

Fili screamed, the weapons falling through his fingers and clattering onto the ground. His legs were giving out beneath him and he pitched forward as he started to run, stumbling and tripping over, falling on knees but picking himself back up again. Kili ran too, and in the darkness they crashed into one another, collapsing in a winded heap on the ground. Buried in a tangle of limbs and armour, Fili threw his arms around Kili’s neck, laughing and crying at the same time, unable to speak through it. A thousand unaskable questions bubbled up in Fili’s raw throat – what was he doing here, where had he _been_ , was he all right, how did he know where Fili was…

Kili’s arms were around him, his forehead pressed in the juncture of Fili’s neck, smearing blood and ash and sweat on his throat. Kili mumbled something indeterminable and Fili’s grip contracted to a choking tightness, face buried in the curtain of Kili’s straggly hair. It melted away, the exhaustion, the terror of losing, the rush of the battle and cold, cold realisation of a certain death. It was all forgotten and Fili found himself in sunlight, a singing in his heart that drowned out the echo of steel clashing against steel and the screams of the dying. Everything that had happened before, the tears and the fighting and anger, the heartbreak of Fili’s abandonment in the wilderland and Kili’s solitary night-time escape, it all vanished, a plume of smoke borne off in the wind. Kili was back and nothing else mattered, ever.

The battle raged on through the walls of stone, unnoticed.


	108. Baiting The Hook

Kili could hear his brother screaming along the dark passages, his voice fractured and desperate, growing louder and louder with every thud of Nardur’s massive paws. Blood flowed molten-hot in Kili’s veins and he dug his heels harder into the warg’s sides, urging him forward. When he rounded the corner and saw the distant flash of gold, Kili yanked hard on the saddle, driving Nardur to a halt with the breath dying in his lungs.

Oh, _Fili._ He swung one leg over and pushed on Nardur’s snout. “Back,” he whispered, pointing to the passage he just came from. “Come on boy, go.” Nardur whined and licked at his wrist, tail wagging. _“Krum._ Nardur, you fool, _get back!”_ Kili needed the element of surprise. He couldn’t risk his precious friend being hurt, and he needed to introduce Nardur to Fili slowly. He knew Fili, and knew he would rush at the warg with no idea and slaughter him with one of his hidden blades if he thought himself in danger.

Finally, he got the message and slunk away, still whining. Kili threw one last glance over his shoulder, not trusting the dumb animal to completely obey him, and crept slowly towards the knot of orcs surrounding his brother, bow in his hand. Fili was still shouting and struggling. “You bastards are going to regret this!” Oh, they were, but not for the reasons Fili thought. Ugûrz had his scimitar under Fili’s chin, taunting him, and the sight made Kili’s heart quicken and grow steely with hatred. _Don’t touch him_ , Kili snarled in his mind, drawing an arrow from his quiver with a silent whisper-softness. _None of you are going to touch him_.

They fell like paper dolls, matchstick toys, crushed and crumpled and hacked to pieces in the darkness. Kili had become a brutal, efficient killer. He had slaughtered them while they remained shocked and frozen in their betrayal, cursing his name, wondering how a friend and an ally could turn their back on them.

That was why. Fili stood gasping, peering through the darkness but seeing nothing of his face. “Who are you?” Kili opened his mouth to shout back across the shadows, to call his brother’s name and announce himself, but the name (his or his brother's, he wasn't sure) was stuck in his throat, and he found his lips moving silently. So he stepped into the light where Fili could see his face.

They ran towards each other. He threw himself into his brother's embrace, the mailed arms as soft and soothing as a feather bed after a hard march through stone and storm, the tension oozing out of his aching limbs. Fili was shaking and his arms choke-tight around Kili's neck, never letting go. Kili didn't want him to. He was all right – they were both alive, and Kili's heart swelled with the relief and joy, daring to believe, just for a moment, that it was all over.

"I'm all right." Kili mumbled against his neck, trying now to free himself. Beneath his palm, he could feel Fili’s racing heart. It was a callback to his bloodstained dream the night before, and he fought back a shiver. "Ow– I'm _fine_ , Fili. Let me go." Gasping, Fili released him. He was an outline in the darkness, heaving and trembling in his disbelief.

"Wh-where were you?" Fili sounded as though he was crying already, and Kili hadn't told him anything yet. "I thought the worst." He kept touching Kili's hair and shoulders, as though he would vanish at any moment. Kili wanted to hold him and cry until there was nothing left, to sleep, to hide from this big ugly battle in this big ugly mountain until it fell around their ears.

"I'm all right." Kili's voice was coarser than Fili remembered, and he spoke with an odd sort of stumble. “I've been with– I'm all right."

And through that relief, a growing horror rocked on Fili’s belly as he realised what his brother was trying to say. "Orcs." He could feel the bone-laid armour beneath his shaking hands. "Y-You've been with _them_ again."

"They didn't hurt me." Kili had one arm slung over Fili's neck, their foreheads very close, speaking with a rough, low urgency. "I wasn’t their prisoner anymore.” But Fili’s grip had tightened on him, refusing to let go. He felt Kili’s face for any fresh wounds or new scars. Kili’s jaw tightened under his touch and he opened his mouth to speak, lips cracked and peeling. “I didn’t want to go back. I was starving, Fili. I hadn’t slept in days. I had nowhere else to turn.” Kili sighed, his body growing slack in Fili’s arms. “I was so tired.”

Self-loathing and guilt sickened in his gut, putrid and decaying, at the thought of his brother being driven back to those monsters after what they’d done to him. It was another painful reminder of how badly he had failed Kili, _again_. He could have stopped it, could have broken Kili out himself, stood up to Thorin properly. He could have defended Kili after he was accused, rather than standing back in his impotent shock and rage. He could just _been_ there more, loved Kili for what he was rather than pushing him away and trying to fix him and prevented this whole ugly mess. “I don’t blame you.” Fili whispered, pressing their sticky foreheads together. “Whatever you had to do, Kili, I don’t care. I’m just– you’re _back._ ” That was the beginning and end of it for him, and everything else had long since fallen away.

“I’m back.” But there was a breaking in Kili’s voice, something distant and fractured, and he swallowed hard, one hand finding Fili’s and tugging it away from his face. “Listen,” he pulled back, his breath hot and shallow, “we have to keep moving. It’s not safe down here for you.” Kili disentangled himself and whistled, shrill and piercing. “It’s not safe anywhere.”

“What are  you–” Fili broke off with a yell at the sight of the approaching warg, scrabbling for his knife.

“No!” Kili grabbed his wrists. “Don’t– he’s all right. He’s mine.” He stood up with his arms held out, shouting something in Black Speech. Fili watched him throw his arms around the beast’s neck and scratch between his pricked ears, mouth dry. “Nardur’s my best friend. Please– don’t ever hurt him.”

“Nardur.” Fili repeated, disbelieving. Yes, that’s right. Sifting through the fog of his memories, Fili seemed to remember Kili mentioning that he had a warg before. Was this the same beast, or was it someone different? If Kili had given a name before, he didn’t remember it. The warg sniffed at Fili cautiously and growled, but Kili snapped at him in that harsh, orcish language, and he drew back.

“We’ll have to ride him. Hopefully he can bear our weight, I’ve never shared before.” Fili staggered onto his feet, hands on his knees. His head felt still murky and unclear, and it was a struggle to process everything. The first time Kili came back to him, he’d been terrified and broken, barely able to speak, clinging to him like an urchin child, nothing like the cheerful baby brother he’d known for nearly eighty years. This Kili was unrecognisable yet again, but for a whole new set of reasons. This Kili was brutal and harsh and utterly unafraid. “We need to get out before–”

“Out?” Fili blinked. Kili walked towards the pale of circle of light and Fili followed, slow and clumsy. “Of these tunnels?”

“We need to find the others and keep them together. Bolg’s plan was to cut them up and swallow them in pieces.” Kili spat, turning over the bodies with his boot, checking for good weapons. “Tell me you know of a secret passage. It’d make this easier.”

“Do you have a plan?” His breath quickened. Kili turned to stare at him, illuminated from above, his features hollowed in shadow.

“A plan? You can’t plan for something like this. All you can do is try and limit the damage.” His face was lined in a heavy snarl, a beast of prey. Fili’s stomach clenched. “Why do you think Bolg is here? He wants to finish what Azog started and kill you and Thorin.”

The tightness was swamped with ice. “Thorin?” Fili echoed. “Thorin’s in danger?”

“With any luck, Bolg’s already disembowelled him.” Kili tossed the short scimitar he’d been inspecting aside. “You he can take or leave to some degree, but Thorin’s his prize. He’ll hollow out the mountain looking for him.”

“You’ve spoken to Bolg?” Fili was slowly sifting through everything in his brain piece by piece.

Kili thrust a knife in his belt and let out a short, dry laugh. “Done more than that.” He fixed his stare on Fili, dark and unyielding, his voice rusted from months of Black Speech. “I’m in his inner circle. He trusts me. Bolg thinks I’m on my way to kill you right now.”

“We have to stop him!” Terror pricked the hazy fog over Fili’s brain. “I can’t leave Thorin.” No matter how little Thorin seemed to care for him, Fili would never, _ever_ leave his uncle to die without even an attempt at rescue. It was unthinkable. “Kili, we have to save him–”

“Why?” Kili spat venomously, his anger cold and sharp and precise. “Why do I have to save him?”

Fili faltered, mouth hanging open. “He’s our uncle–”

“Exactly. I’m his _nephew_ , and he still left me to die. Twice!” Kili kicked at the body lying by his feet, hands balled into fists. His voice low and bitter in bone-deep hatred, and it hurt to hear worse than any irrational screaming. Nardur growled, ears flat against his skull. “ _Fuck_ Thorin. Why should I risk my life for somebody who thinks I’m worthless?”

“He didn’t think you were worthless.” Fili begged, knowing it was futile. Kili had gone cold towards Thorin, regarding him only with rage and contempt.

“Cut the bullshit, Fili. We both know that’s not true anymore.” He pushed his hair back from his face. “He _always_ put Erebor first. Let him have it, if it’s so precious to him.”

“I won’t leave him.” Fili took a step towards him, hands stretched out. What would Kili say if he knew the whole story, that Fili was banished too and he hung on here by a thread? “Kili, love or hate him, but we need Thorin to lead us. He’s the king here.” He was wearing that familiar little frown that indicated he was thinking. “I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t take the chance to save him. I couldn’t look _Amad_ in the eye and say that I left him.”

“She loves you more than any of us, Fili. She’d call you a fool for risking your life.”

“What? No.” Fili started. “You were _always_ her favourite. You were little darling. When she found out about you–”

“What?” Kili’s voice was as hard as iron. “She _knows_ about me? How?” The panic stirred deep in his bones, racing along his skin. He wanted to be the one to tell her in person, to explain everything in the hopes that she could forgive him.

“She’s _here.”_ Fili seized his wrist. “She’s in Erebor.” The world rocked beneath Kili’s feet, and he shook his head.

“You’re lying.” He rasped. “Why would she be here? It’s impossible.”

“We haven’t been sitting on our hands this whole time. There’s– A _lot’s_ happened since we let Smaug out.” He didn’t even know where to begin. “We were going to find you, after this. Dwalin was going to track you down and bring you home, and– and we were going to be a family.” Kili’s shook his head again at that, eyes fixed on his brother’s tentative grip.

“Including Thorin?” He tried to pull away, but Fili wouldn’t let go. “He is _dead_ to me, Fili. Why are you being so pigheaded about this?”

“ _I’m_ being pigheaded? You’re the one who isn’t listening to me. Look, he is not the only one to blame here. We all hurt you.” Fili held on tight. “And I– I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I know there’s so much more I could have done to stop this. But Kili– you can’t just walk away from him. This is your chance, you know, to make everything right. Show everyone where your loyalty really lies.”

Kili looked away across the darkness, shoulders slumped in his heavy armour. “I wanted to kill Bolg in front of everybody, in Erebor. I wanted people to _know._ ” He spoke as though this was all in the past, a distant, childish dream that he had long since abandoned. “I thought I’d be… redeemed, I guess. Like I could do undo everything. But I can’t. I can’t bring the people I killed back to life. I can’t unmake myself. I can’t...” He raked one hand through his hair, the way he always did when he was upset. "If you knew what I did, Fili, you'd never forgive me." Nardur approached Kili and nuzzled at his hip, whining softly.

“You don't need my forgiveness. I already told you, I don't care what you did.” He stepped closer to Kili and grabbed his shoulders, yellowed, splintered bone sprouting between his fingers. “I’m going to find Thorin and make sure he’s safe, and then I’m going to do everything I can to push this filth out, even if it does kill me.” Kili listened with his teeth gritted. “And if you want _me_ to be safe, then you better too.”

“You stubborn bastard.” He muttered, eyes lowered. But Fili knew, with a thrill in his chest, that he was winning. “Bolg will kill you and him without a thought and– when he finds out that I worked against him, I’m worse than dead.”

“Kili, look at what you just did!” He gestured at the littered bodies leaking puddles of black over the stone. “We _can_. Together." Kili should have known that his brother would never abandon his post. He was too loyal to Thorin, too bound up in all those notions of honour and glory that Kili had long since rejected. In his mind, saving Fili was to be the end of it. Everything else was an afterthought.

"Some part of you must want to kill Bolg." Fili went on. "To make these bastards suffer for what they did to you." They weren’t the same orcs, but he wouldn't ever expect Fili to understand that. They were all the same vicious brutes to him, a plague that spread across his home that he would die to drive back.

Finally, Kili spoke, seeing no other way of holding on to Fili. “We do it my way.” There was an edge to his voice, one that made his brother flinch back. “We do it smart, and if it looks like it’s going to fail, we drop everything and run.”

“Of course. Kili, it’s all you.” He sagged visibly in his relief. “Do you have a plan?”

Kili sucked in a gulp of air, hollowing his cheeks, staring down at a slaughtered orc that lay glassy-eyed at his feet. “I have something.”

* * *

Ori ran as fast as he could, but he had no hope of keeping pace with the long-limbed woodland elves, gliding down the stairs and along the passageways, seemingly without touching the ground. Legolas was dragging Ori by the arm and telling him to hurry _up_ , Ori gasping and panting too hard to form any sort of response. He would have told Legolas to leave him behind if he could. The other elves rounded a corner and vanished from sight. There was an instantaneous screech and clash of steel, one that stopped both Legolas and Ori in their tracks. They looked at each other, searching for approval and advice. Pulling his arrow a degree tighter on the string, Legolas nodded.

Ori swallowed hard, willing his hands to stop shaking. They rounded the corner and stood stunned for a moment, taking it in. It was a long, straight corridor and the orcs clashed with the elves in the middle, violent and chaotic. “Legolas!” One of the elves (Thangail, Ori reminded himself, the captain of the archers) was shouting at them, gesturing. “Find another way! We’ll hold them off!”

“No!” Legolas fired into the black crowd. “I won’t leave–”

“That is an order!” The booming voice rattled Ori’s bones and made Legolas falter. “Go!” Legolas cursed under his breath, teeth gritted. “ _Now!”_

He fitted another arrow on the string. “No.” Ori didn’t know if it was bravery, indignation or stupidity that held Legolas fast. Perhaps he wanted to prove himself after his previous failures and show that he didn’t need to be cloistered and hidden away, and he didn’t want to see his people fall while he fled.

Ori drew his own arrow and fired, missing the orcs completely and flying over their heads. He paused, breathed, tried to calm himself. This was the first time he’d ever been _alone_ in his danger, and it was the loneliness made his terror so sharp. Throughout everything before – the trolls, the goblins beneath the Misty Mountains, the wargs (although he still had the occasional nightmare where he dangled over the edge of that cliff hanging onto his brother’s boot), Thranduil’s dungeon, Smaug and his near-exile, there was always _somebody_ there, be it Dori or Nori or, later on, Fili. Now he had nobody to depend on, just his own strength and skill, and it looked like it was failing.

Ori had an icy suspicion that they were losing; the elves were being pushed back, growing smaller and smaller until it was a knot of fighters half its original size. Legolas glanced down at him, his blue eyes wider than Ori had ever seen them. He slung his bow back over his back and drew his elegant short swords, and with his heart pounding, Ori did the same, the dwarvish blade unfamiliar in his hands. Nori had tried to teach him swordplay on odd occasions throughout their long journey, but it was always a clumsy failure, ending with Nori teasingly ruffling his hair and remarking that he better not find himself in any trouble. But what now? They were taller than him, these orcs, and as he looked at them, Ori was convinced that they could just crush him like a bug. There was nothing he could do to defend himself. How could he survive this on his own?

Kili did. Ori scrabbled about for the thought and held onto it tight. Kili _had_ , for months and months and months. They were just orcs, just stupid, empty-brained orcs that only knew how to swing a sword. He could outrun and outsmart them. He could endure.

His first kill was a rather lanky orc who towered head-and-shoulders over him, hefting a weighty bone-laid club that nearly look his head off. Ori ducked the blow and struck, his sword going through skin and muscle and into the scramble of organs just below the hollow of the creature’s ribs. In that moment, Ori looked at the clumsy weapon and his rough-stitched clothes with mismatched pieces of armour and he realised that it wasn’t a trained soldier but a boy, or what passed for one amongst orcs, with gangly hands he hadn’t grown into yet. The orc let out a short, hoarse cry, one that was so quiet that Ori wasn’t sure if it was real or imagined, and collapsed. Blood ran along his sword and dripped tar-black on the ground, and there was a sharp pain in Ori’s chest, as though he himself had been struck. But there wasn’t time to utter an apology or rationalise what he had done; another orc, bigger than the first, broad-shouldered and brawny, stepped on the fallen body to get to Ori, spitting cruel insults in his twisted tongue, fire in his eyes.

Everything became a rush, sights and sounds and smells blurring together in a hazy fog that blinded and choked him. For Ori, a creature of observation rather than action, it was terrifying. He relied on instinct to save him, to duck when he saw a glint of steel coming too close, go for the legs and cripple them, keep his arms in front of him rather than spread out, and never, ever show his back or stop, not even for a moment.

“Ori!” After a lifetime, someone was shouting in his ear and pulling at his elbow. He caught a glimpse of pure silver-blonde hair – Legolas – and fell still. It was quiet, but there was an echo along the corridors; they wouldn’t be alone for long. Blearily, he saw the ground was littered with bodies and the company of elves had been reduced to less than ten, several being held up or staggering, clutching at their wounds. Vaguely, Ori smelled blood and felt a wetness on his face. Red came away on his fingertips and he followed the trickle to a gash on his forehead. When did that happen? Legolas and the captain were arguing in their elvish tongue, Legolas pointing down the hall and Thangail back in the direction they had come.

“Come on.” Legolas kept pulling. “We’re scouting ahead with Beriad and finding somewhere to shelter the wounded. He thinks you know where to go.”

 _I don’t._ Ori panted, unable to speak. He hadn’t been in these halls before today – he’d barely been anywhere in Erebor before Thorin had thrown him out. But as he looked at the ragged cluster of bloodstained elves, he knew he couldn’t declare his failure and dash their fragile hopes. So he wiped away the blood that was dripping into his eyes and followed Legolas, searching desperately for a clue, for a door or passageway that suggested sanctuary.

* * *

“Here,” Kili pulled Nardur, stumbling every so often under the weight of two dwarves, to a stop just before the final bend in the passage. “We should be close enough.” Fili was holding on gingerly, arms around Kili’s waist. He let go and watched Kili jump down, sleek and silent as a cat, keeping in the wedge of shadow. They were close now, close enough to hear the battle, and, if Fili was inclined to stick his head around the corner, probably see it.

Fili tumbled clumsily down from the warg, Kili half-catching him and wincing at the clink of mail and armour. “ _Quiet_.” He hissed, looking over his shoulder.

“I am.” But Kili wasn’t listening. He looked Fili up and down, squinting in the shadows and chewing on the inside of his cheek. “What?”

“Are you sure about this?” Kili stood close so he could whisper and be heard, always looking back with little glances. There was a restlessness to him. He was always on guard, keeping an eye out for potential enemies. He didn’t like being still even for a moment. “We can still go back.” He wanted to, it was obvious. Fili shook his head, tongue scraping the roof of his dry mouth as he swallowed.

“No. I’m not going back.” He looked over Kili’s shoulder at the whitish winter daylight in the front hall. The swell of battle rose, growing close, threatening to swallow them both and pull them under.

“And the throne room, it’s got more than one way out?”

“Four, at least.” Fili assured him. “I’ve been in there lots. If there’s any sort of secret exit, you can bet Thorin will know it. It’s a good plan, Kili.”

“If it works.” He muttered. It depended on so much - on Thorin still being alive, on the armies being at a certain point of battle, at Bolg being arrogant and vengeful enough to take the bait.

Fili squeezed the bit of winged armour where he thought Kili’s shoulder would be. “It will.”

Kili shrugged Fili off and grabbed his chin, inspecting his face with a scowl. “You don’t look enough like you’ve been in a fight. They’ll never buy it.” He let go and Fili rubbed at the ash and orc-blood left behind in a dried smear. “I have to beat you up.” There wasn’t any pleasure or disgust or guilt in Kili’s voice as he spoke. It was simple and matter-of-fact, another component in a plan. “Just a few bruises, make it look like you struggled.”

“A-All right.” Fili squeezed his eyes shut and balled his hands into fists. Kili was right; against his brother or not, no son of Durin would give themselves up without a fight. “Just do it fast.”

Oh, Fili. Even now, he was so trusting, so loyal, ready to put his life in Kili’s hands despite the obvious danger. Kili held his breath and remembered with a hot flash the way Throquûrz had splintered and broken under his devastating blows. That was in a rush of hatred and rage, he rationalised as he balled his right hand into a fist. The person who had done it was a person Kili was going to leave behind. Fili waited with his face screwed up, not wanting to look. The unwavering trust emboldened Kili, chasing the doubt from his mind. Fili believed in him.

Kili tried to go gentle, but the blow sent Fili reeling back all the same. He staggered against the wall and clutched at his jaw, groaning. “I think you knocked a tooth loose.” Fili hissed through his fingers, shaking his head. “ _Damn,_ Kili, when did you get so strong?”

“Are you all right?” Kili rubbed at his knuckles, but they felt strangely fine. Fili nodded and straightened up. There was blood coming out of his mouth, trickling down his chin and staining his teeth red, so at least it looked and smelled authentic.

“Just get it over with.” There was a worry that Kili would enjoy hitting his brother, that those awful dreams would manifest themselves and once Kili started, he wouldn’t be able to stop, but when he hit Fili again, there was nothing but guilt flaring up in his stomach. He got Fili on the cheekbone, which he knew would bruise in a matter of minutes, waiting with his hands at his sides for Fili to recollect himself.

“Don’t feel like you have to hold back out there.” Kili whispered in the darkness, trying to brush it off. “Call me a piece of shit, tell me you hate me– be as vicious as you want. I know you won’t mean it.” Fili dabbed at his mouth with his sleeve and nodded. “Don’t risk trying to tell Thorin. We can’t afford any suspicion. I’ll try not to hurt you, but if I do, I’m sorry. Just– Just know it’s an act. And Fili–” His voice darkened. “You come first. No heroics.”

“All right.” Fili steadied himself and tried to ignore the throbbing in his jaw and cheek. Kili hit _hard_ , harder than he expected, and even though he knew there was no malice behind it, the force of the blow had rattled him. He grabbed Kili’s arm and brought their foreheads together, holding on longer than he knew he should. Fili tried his best not to think about this could be the last time they spoke, that one or both of them could be killed. This was the memory he wanted to hold on to, this pensive quietness. Not the chaos and pain he knew was coming. Kili tensed and then relaxed in Fili’s hold, resting his hand on Fili’s forearm. “I’ll see you after.” Fili promised. Even though he knew Kili wasn’t going anywhere, he wouldn’t physically let Fili go for a moment, he was going become something else.

“After.” Kili fished out the thin braided belt he’d tucked into the waistband of his trousers, snatched from one of the dead bodies. Fili held his wrists out. “I’ll do a double-sliding knot. It’ll look like the real thing, but you should be able to pull free if you need too. How many knives have you got hidden?”

“Three.” Fili kept still while Kili bound his hands, working by touch in the half-light. It was a relatively simple knot, and he wasn’t afraid of him bungling it. “One in my boot, two beneath my mail shirt. They won’t fall out.”

“Good.” Kili stepped back. “Are you ready?”

Fili drew in a deep breath, held it in and let go. “Ready.” He repeated, voice not faltering, and held his bound hands forward for Kili to take. “Let’s go save Thorin.”

* * *

Halfway up the stairs, Dwalin realised they were being followed. He could hear the pounding of clumsy orcish boots, hear them snarling down his neck. Dís could hear them too, knuckles white on her massive axe. They reached a broad landing and stopped together, weapons raised, side by side, ready to fight and die for one another.

It was just six. They were big, meaty creatures at least two feet taller than them, but it was still only six. Together, Dís and Dwalin were more than a match. The first blow hit iron and shuddered along Dwalin’s arms, sending him staggering back with surprise at how quick the orc reacted. Strike after strike, he only hit metal, the orc matching him with every blow. Finally, he landed a good hit, cracking the beast’s face open and sending him flying down the stairs.

A roaring snarl, rougher and deeper than any orc, sparked a shiver down Dwalin’s spine. Dís screamed at the sight of the massive warg making its slow, deliberate way up the stairs, carrying an orc comparable to Azog and Bolg in his size. Their leader. Dwalin and Dís were backed up against the wall, crouched defensively. They’d only killed three of the orcs between them and now they were boxed in, their leader leaping down from his beast and crossing the landing. He was looking at Dís and her axe with a heavy frown, eyes narrowed and then with a hoarse, hacking laugh that made Dwalin’s toes curl, lowered his massive spiked club.

“I know you.” He spoke in Westron, mangled and corrupted on his tongue. Grishthak was both achingly disappointed and delighted with his mistake. She (for he'd heard the scream, high-pitched and terrified) had all the markings of Durin’s blood, a similarity to Thorin Oakenshield that was almost unreal. And he knew her name too, ripped from the dying lips of Thror’s youngest grandson on the steps of Azanulbizar. “The sister. Dís.”

Her blood went cold, grip going slack on her weapon in a flash of shock. “He was screaming for you.” The orc went on, speaking slowly and making sure she understood every word of it. “Your brother, Frerin, that pathetic excuse for a prince. It was all he kept screaming, before Azog cut out his tongue. Dís, Dís, Dís.” He repeated it, mocking her with a twisted leer on his face. A blank, white-hot fury veiled her. This bastard was there, he saw it all happen. He was one of filth that had killed her family and every fibre of her body was screaming out for blood, to make him suffer the same end her brother did. She wanted to rip him apart.

"Dís, _no!_ " Dwalin saw instantly what the orc was trying to do and lunged at her, but Dís tore through his grasp. She sprung with a blind viciousness, spitting the worst curses she knew. The weapon was knocked out of Grishthak's hand, but as she went for the kill, his warg leaped, going for the throat. Dís held onto her axe, sank it deep into the juncture between neck and shoulder, and the beast went down with a howl. Dwalin had finished off two of the other orcs and fought the third back-to-back with Dís. They shielded each other, fighting desperately.

Grishthak was back on his feet and out for blood, incensed at the loss of his warg, eyes on the sister and mother of Durin’s sons. Dís saw the club coming and tried to hit back, but Dwalin pushed her aside and stepped forward, protecting her with his body. There wasn’t even time to raise his axe and defend himself.

The world screeched to a halt. She screamed as he collapsed, blood gushing from his split skull, his axe clattering on the stone. His face was turned away from her, body horribly, deathly still. One, two, three impossible heartbeats shuddered through her as she stared down at his body. Inwardly, she screamed and begged for him to move, to lift his hands, to just show even the barest, weakest sign of lingering life.

But he remained unmoving.


	109. The King Under The Mountain

It was as though her own heart had stopped beating, and the blood had stilled in her body. Her arms were numb, too heavy to move and her feet were rooted to the ground. Dwalin’s blood oozed across the stone, running into the little grouts of the tiles, snaking along at sharp right angles. Even though she couldn’t see his face, she could picture his lifeless, half-lidded eyes, staring unseeing out at the world, neither closed nor wide opened, glazed and dark. A choked sob welled up in her throat, banging madly, begging to be let out.

They didn’t even let her grieve, the fuckers. A blow to the gut sent Dís stumbling back against the wall, coughing. They wanted to immobilise her, she realised blearily as she tried to breathe through the agony that wracked her stomach. They wanted her to suffer. Why did he do it? Why did he stupidly, selflessly throw himself in front of her? Why did he think her life was worth more than his?

Get up! The voice screamed in her head, distant and warbled through the fog of her shock. She couldn’t let the bastards tear her down. Not now. Dís' fingers curled around the axe with a newfound inner fire, and she lunged forward with the indomitable strength of grief and revenge. The first orc crumpled under the surprise blow of her axe, dwarvish iron driving through the black orcish metal, the blade sinking into cartilage and bone and the organs concealed beneath. She went for the heart and lungs - quick, painful and immediately immobilising. Dís wrenched the bloodstained axe free with a grunt and the creature collapsed beside Dwalin, flopping and gasping for air like a fresh-caught fish.

That just left Grishthak, the orc that had seen Frerin, had watched him and Thror die. For Dís, who had never seen Azog or Bolg in the flesh, he was easily the biggest orc she'd ever met. His reach of arm far outstripped hers, but Dís had an agility to her, always lighter on her feet than most dwarves, quick enough to duck and dodge the slow, lumbering blows Grishthak tried to land on her head. There was an urgency now.  He no longer had the relaxed, gleeful air of somebody torturing a small animal. His best soldiers were dead at his feet, and Dís fought with a desperate intensity and speed that he couldn't quite match.

But there was a misstep. He feinted a strike to the right, leaving one side wide open and caught Dís out as she tried to go for what she believed was a moment of weakness. All too late, she realised her mistake and tried to stumble back. Grishthak didn’t quite land the skull-crushing blow to the head he was aiming for, but he still brought his massive club down on her left shoulder with the entirely of his strength, feeling, or imagining, the bone shatter, and with a short, choked cry the dam fell to her knees, clawing against the stone with her right hand.

For several terrifying seconds, the pain was so bad that Dís couldn’t see. It blossomed from her broken shoulder and along her arm and side, robbing the air from her lungs. Her armour stopped those horrible spikes from tearing into her, but it couldn’t cushion the force of the monumental blow. She pressed her forehead against the stone and tried to force herself to move, wounded and broken. Dwalin’s body was less than a foot from her. She looked up and blinked as his murky outline became clear against the bloodstained stone, tried to force the air into her lungs and battle on, but she was so utterly spent, so devastated and in crippling pain, that it was impossible to move. The orc seized Dís by the hair and hauled her to her feet, higher, until she was touching the ground just with her toes and struggling to hold her balance.

In his hand now he had a curved, wicked-looking knife, tarnished with age and the remnants of ancient blood. He was going to cut her head off. She would be a fine trophy, the sister of Thorin Oakenshield. Grishthak would use her death to make Thorin suffer, the way Azog had used Thror a lifetime before. She was going to die the way Frerin and Thror did, after everything she had done to fight the life that had been laid out for her and break the curse that lay in her blood.

It couldn’t end like this. It _couldn’t_. Dís held her breath and reached out, striking with a low hiss of pain. Grishthak was strong, but the suddenness of her attack caught him unawares. Dís ripped the rusted knife free with her good hand and in a sharp single motion slashed his forearm, cutting deep through the bare skin. With a roar he dropped her and clutched at the wound, blood gushing through his splayed fingers and splashing over the floor. Dís thrust the knife into the side of his thigh, through the leather buckles of his armour. Standing on the edge of the landing, Grishthak reeled back on instinct, the knife stuck in his leg, tumbling halfway down the stairs before he managed to catch himself.

Dís had seconds at most. Careful not to stand on Dwalin, she turned and ran up the stairs, cradling her bad arm with the good and doing her best not to jar it. She could hear the orc hot on her heels, snarling. Even with a wounded leg, he wasn’t going to give up the chase, and Dís couldn’t outrun him like this. With this is in mind, she flung herself through the nearest doorway. It was dark up here, deep within the mountain, and this room, or tunnel, was pitch-black. Dís ran her good hand along the wall to try and keep her sense of direction running as fast as she dared. The wall gave way at a right angle and Dís disappeared behind it, trying to breathe as quietly as she could. He wouldn’t let her just run away, she knew it. Not after she’d shown him up like this.

“Dís.” She pressed a hand over her mouth at the sound of his voice mangling her name, harsh and ugly. “You can’t run from me. I can smell you.” His breathing was heavy and ragged in obvious pain. “I’m going to rip out your heart.” Torn between disappearing further down the dark, foreign passageway and standing her ground, Dis crouched down and scoured the ground for some sort of weapon.

Grishthak had _never_ wanted to kill anybody as much as he wanted to kill Dís. She, a pitiful dwarf – a _girl_ – had wounded him with his own knife and killed his best soldiers. She had humiliated him and in retribution, he was determined to end her, make her suffer. He spat on the ground, tasting blood. “When I’m done with you,” he swore into the black void before him, “I’m going to find those boys of yours and I will end them.” She was their mother, she _had_ to be. The brother had died too long ago, and there were no other children of Thrain. Dís had Kili’s fire, his unrelenting will. There was no doubt in his mind that she was his mother. “Your little heir to the throne and the bastard runaway, I’ll kill them both.”

Her hands closed around a rock, sharp and jagged and twice as big as her fist. Slowly, Dís stood back up, keeping flush against the wall as the orc slowly approached. “I’ll tear off their legs like wings from a fly and throw their bodies to the wargs. Kili too.” Dís bit down hard on her tongue to keep quiet. “We’ve been housing him ever since he fled the water-rat’s miserable hovels, Dís. He might have Bolg wrapped around his little finger, but I can see right through him.” _What?_ Dís fought to keep still and quiet, listening in shock as the Grishthak’s voice rang out in the crushing darkness. _Kili was here?_

“I should do to him what Azog did to your brother, and make his Thorin and Fili watch.” He spat the names out like a curse. Dís’ hand trembled around the rock. “I’ll peel off his skin and let him bleed out. I’ll break every bone in his pathetic little body.” He hoped, obviously, that she was lunge out at him, senseless in her rage. This time, however, Dís kept everything deep down inside of her, refusing to give in. She had gone beyond fear and pain, kept alive by a raw, primal instinct, a savage need to kill him and claim vengeance for the destruction he and his people had wreaked on her.

He was close now, close enough to smell her. Dís could hear Grishthak inhaling, smelling her blood and sweat, close enough to hear the sick, dry cackle that rasped in his throat. “You’re afraid.” He sniffed again, and Dís held her breath, feeling her heart throb in her head, certain that the orc could hear it. He was wrong; she wasn’t afraid of him. She wasn’t afraid of suffering, of dying. There was no energy left for fear, no room in her head and heart when every fibre of her being was tuned so acutely to his shapeless figure in the blackness. She was a wolf stalking her prey, hunched and ready for the kill.

And with a sharp, desperate gasp in her throat, Dís lunged at the space in the dark where she thought the orc stood. She crashed into him and they both fell hard, Grishthak bellowing in his rage and agony and Dís crying out through gritted teeth as her broken shoulder was knocked. There wasn’t time to clutch at her shattered bones and cry; Dís raised the rock over her head and brought it down against Grishthak’s head, again and again until the curses bubbled and gurgled in his throat. He brandished his knife wildly in the dark and found her chest, the rusted blade squealing uselessly against her breastplate.

With a final shudder, the body fell sill beneath her. The rock clattered to the ground, and with a groan Dís slumped forward, breathing in the sour stench of orc-blood. It was all over her face and her hands. Her skin crawled beneath it, as though it was some sort of poison that burned her. Somehow, she found the strength to stand, turned towards the finger-sized slice of light. Killing him, ending it, had drained Dís of energy and feeling. She was numb, stumbling blindly out of the black tunnel with the feeble uncertainty of somebody learning to walk. Kili was here, she recalled dully, fighting to keep on. They had him - a prisoner or a pet or an ally, he didn’t know, but they had him. She had to find him before they did. She had to make this right. She had to…

In the hallway, Dís stared down at stairs at the blood-soaked landing, and every other thought left her head at the sight of Dwalin. She remembered how his body had fallen, sprawled out on the stone, with a clarity that came from the sharpest horror, a nightmare tattooed on her eyelids in a single heartbeat.

 _But he’d moved_.

His splayed arms were now drawn up close, as though he’d tried to crawl, and he was at least half a foot closer to the stairs, the starburst of blood that had poured from his head now beneath his shoulder. Dís staggered down the stairs and threw herself beside him, carefully cradling his head and turning his face to meet hers. Dwalin’s eyes were half-open, bleary and unfocused, but they still moved. His skin was still warm with life beneath her touch, and she could see a pulse throb in his neck, beard matted with blood and sticking to the ground.

“Dwalin.” She sobbed, shaking from head to foot, unsure how to help him, if there was anything she could do. “Dwalin– Dwalin, love, say something. _Please_.” A single low groan issued from his lips. It was life. Scrabbling, Dis tore one-handedly at the nearest piece of cloth she could find, the leathers of one of those awful orcs. She helped as best she could, afraid to touch him and make it worse but knowing she had to stop the bleeding. “Don’t leave me.” Dís whispered, leaning in. “Please, _please.”_

Dwalin mumbled something, scattered and indeterminable. Leaning in closer, Dís listened, pressing as firmly as she dared on his broken skull. “...gate.” He wasn’t looking at her. Dwalin was already drifting away, eyes fixed on something distant and otherwordly.

“Hang the gate, I’m not leaving you.” Dís fought through the pain and did her very best to bind Dwalin’s head. “You hear? I’m not leaving you.”

“Go.” He mumbled, glassy-eyed. Dís shook her head and sniffed.

“I can’t even open it, you lump. No one else can but you.” She could hear from these stairs the distant clang of battle, the roaring of victory, or defeat. Could Dwalin hear it, or was he already too far gone? Dís clung to him, crying. “Please– Please, Dwalin. Hold on. I’ll find help– one of the elves. They can fix this. They can save you.”

Dwalin was mumbling again, too low for Dís to hear through her sobs. She held her breath and leaned in as close as her broken shoulder let her, feeling the tears slide through the orc-blood still wet and oozing on her face. “Go. Save yourself.”

“Not without you!” Her voice wobbled and broke. She’d pulled Dwalin’s head into her lap and now she gently wound her good arm around her neck, holding him as tight as she dared. “I can’t do this without you!” Dwalin still wasn’t looking at her. He was falling, slipping through her fingers and Dís fought to hold on. “You can’t leave me.” Her ragged whisper was choked with sobs. “You c-can’t.” Everything she had promised, marrying him, having more children, having that second chance that the both of them had so desperately longed for, was growing darker and more distant with each thudding heartbeat.

“I won’t _let_ you.” Dís gritted her teeth, knowing this was going to _hurt._ “We do this together, till the end.” She steadied herself and wound her good arm around his torso, beneath his arms. A hiss of pain slipped through her clenched jaw and she paused, closing her eyes at the blinding flash that left her head spinning. “You hear?” Raggedly, she sucked in a deep breath of air, bracing herself and staggering, lurching, wavering to her feet. The heavy weight of Dwalin’s broken body was crushed against her and Dís cried out, faltering. Through the heavy fog of injury, Dwalin realised she wasn’t going to leave him and clung to her good arm, lolling against her shoulder with his eyes staring out at that distant nothingness. “Just hold on.” Sweat already beaded on her forehead, and Dís panted. “I’m going to get us out of this. A-And,” She broke off with a moan as she took her first step, stumbled and almost fell. No. Dís blinked hard in an effort to will the tears back.

Dwalin’s feet found the floor and he attempted to walk, holding on to her good shoulder for dear life. She couldn’t bear to look at those massive tattooed hands that she knew as well as her own, hands that fought and loved and worked down to callus and scars, now as weak as a child’s. She could do this. She walked across the world on her own, weighed down with one child on her back and another in her belly, a thousand miles of hunger and thirst and pain and terror and cold. Dís had carried those boys across deserts and mountains. She could carry Dwalin down these halls and no broken bones could stop her. She was the strongest dam– no. Her grip tightened on Dwalin, remembering what he had said to her over seventy-five years ago, bowed and kneeling on the floor as he begged for her heart. He said Dís was the strongest dwarf that had ever lived.

She would _never_ give up.

* * *

A table, a little warped but still sturdy. Several low stools worn smooth from decades of use. Whitewashed walls grimy with soot and cooking-fat that no scrubbing could shift. A threadbare rug woven and knotted from scraps of clothing that was torn and outgrown. A handful of toys carefully stored in a linen sack by the fire. Fili closed his eyes and imagined this world unfolding around him, every detail, every nail, every plank of wood. He imagined Kili’s first word, his first steps. He imagined the first time he held Kili, the first time he fed him, bathed him. The first time Kili braided his hair – everything, all those firsts, had taken place in that bright little room. Fili squeezed his eyes shut and tried to focus on Kili’s face the day he came running in from the bedroom, rumpled from sleep and crowing that his first beard-hairs  had come through, his too-wide smile and too-big eyes, awkward, bony hands gripping Fili by the shoulder and whining him to _look_.

He held on to those memories of his brother, the innocence and love, the happiness they shared before everything went wrong, before the world tore them apart and broke them down until they could never fit together again. He played them over and over in his head, every smile and laugh he could recall, every joke and embrace. Fili wrapped himself in those memories as though they could shield him from what happening right now. It was a protection. Remembering what Kili was somehow made it easier to bear this cruel torture he inflicted upon himself. This wasn't Kili. The real Kili was locked inside that weathered husk of a dwarf wearing bone-iron armour, and after all this was over Fili would do whatever it would take to crack it open and dig his brother out.

A sharp pain in the small of Fili’s back made him start, eyes snapping open. In his ear, Kili spat a loud curse in Black Speech at whoever had thrown the rock at Fili, voice grinding in his throat. All those memories melted away, thin and liquid, dripping through Fili’s fingers as he tried desperately to hold on. Kili had one hand fisted in his hair, tugging cruelly at his scalp, the other at his bound wrists, dragging him in step. He was pulling Fili through the crowd of endless orcs, bellowing commands in their tongue and elbowing them out of the way if they didn’t step back. Fili was spat on, jeered at, kicked and cursed as Kili drove him through the press of writhing bodies; even he couldn’t drive back their piercing hatred.

Someone managed to trip him. Fili yelped at he almost went down one knee, held up by Kili’s tight grip on his hair. It felt like his scalp was being ripped off. They laughed at that, undeterred by the dangerous growl that rumbled in Kili’s throat, and Fili closed his eyes again. He’d rather trip than look in their cruel, merciless eyes. This was what he wanted. This was he had to do if he was going to save Thorin. The thought echoed in Fili’s mind, but it was a cold comfort now as he staggered behind his brother in this sick parade, a prisoner deep in the heart of his bitterest enemies.

The noise boiled in Kili's ears, a deafening screech and rumble that clashed in the massive stone chamber. The dwarvish defence was a thin and distant, pushing the orcs back by inches. They couldn't hold on forever; their numbers were shrinking all the time while the orcs were pouring in, clambering over the dead and dying with an inexorable bloodlust. He breathed it in, thick as smoke in his burning lungs as he waited for Bolg at the feet of one of the massive stone statues, staring lifelessly out at the massacre with blank granite eyes.

"Struggle." He hissed in Fili's ear, yanking his head back to check his face. A purple-black  bruise was already spreading across his cheekbone, mouth red and sticky and running with blood. His eyes were wide and fixed on Kili, reaching out to him in a desperate search for some sign. Terror had paralysed him, rendered him mute. Kili pulled harder on his scalp, a silent warning for him to hurry up and get in on the act. Fili twisted in his grip, fighting as Kili forced him on his knees. The grip on his hands released and before Fili had a chance to move, Kili had a knife pressed against his throat, holding him in place by his hair. The orcs gave Kili a wide berth, but they still snarled and spat in Fili's direction, working themselves into a frenzy.

A head above the crowd, Fili saw the approaching figure of Bolg shoving his way through, pushing when his soldiers weren't quick enough to give him a clear path. Misshapen and mutilated, he sneered in Fili's direction, looking him up and down and disregarding him with a short scoff. Kili’s grip tightened in his hair, making his eyes water, the knife digging a red line into his neck. Bolg seemed twice as tall as him and three times as wide, but somehow they had to assassinate him. The flames licked at Fili's chest, and for a moment his raw hatred and fury quelled his fears. He wanted nothing more right now than to cut off Bolg's head and throw it into the crowds that clamoured for his blood. Killing Bolg was the final piece of puzzle. It was the only thing that could come close soothing the white-hot rage branded on Fili's heart.

"What are you doing?" Bolg spat in Black Speech, looking not at Fili but at Kili. “I told you to kill him.”

“He’s still useful to us.” Kili responded in kind with venom in his voice, knuckles white on the blade. “How else were you planning on drawing Thorin out? Or were you just going to throw army after army at him until he was finally beaten down?” He licked his lips. “He’s taken the bait before, Bolg. He’ll do it again.”

Bolg stared at Fili, ticking over it in his mind, before he shrugged with a low grunt. “Give me his head, then.”

“No.” Kili’s mouth was dry. “I _know_ Thorin. He’ll do anything if he thinks it will save Fili. Vengeance won't give him the same drive.” He scraped the blade against Fili’s throat, shaving half an inch of sparse golden hair. “Always were his favourite, weren’t you, brother?” He hissed in Westron, mocking him.

“Fuck you.” Fili choked out, toes curling in his boots. Kili’s hand relaxed in his hair. “You _traitor_ , Kili. How could do this to us?”

With a snarl, Kili withdrew the knife and let him go. He kneed Fili in the small of the back and sent him face-down on the stone, winded. “How could you do this to _me?”_ Kili shouted down at his brother, wild, dripping with hatred. The savage anger and pain in his voice sent a chill down Fili’s spine as he flopped like a fish on the stone, struggling to right himself. The words may have been an act but the emotion behind them was real. He still carried that wound of betrayal after all these months, and Fili couldn’t fault him for it. He’d never dare. Kili hauled him up by his elbow, and Fili wavered unsteadily, struggling to keep his footing.

“Have him.” Kili unceremoniously dumped Fili at Bolg’s feet. “Do what you like. I don’t care anymore.” The orc-king gripped Fili by the collar and lifted him up, surveying him as though he were a cut of meat ready for eating. Even though he was trying to look brave, Fili really was afraid now and trying not to show it. Perhaps he didn’t realise how terrifying Bolg would be up close, how rough and harsh Kili would really have to be. Bolg snickered, making a show of breathing in and smacking his lips.

 _I’m going to kill you._ The thought burned in Fili’s head as he swore it over and over. Even now, he was so close. He could wrench his hands free, seize the knife in his shirt and plunge it deep into Bolg’s neck. His fingers itched. How did Kili stand it for so long, playing the loyal servant, holding his tongue and resisting the urge to just stick him in the back and end it? “You piece of shit.” Bolg didn’t need to understand his Westron; the tremor in Fili’s voice, the fire in his eyes and the scowl that set deep lines in his face spoke volumes of hatred, a family history that spanned generations written in his face. “You’re going to regret _ever_ crossing us.”

Bolg spat on the ground at his feet.

* * *

There was something about _defending_ his homeland that brought out a new fire in Thorin. This was a desecration of hallowed ground, the orcs in their home, and it enraged him more than coming across a ravaged Moria – more, even, than Smaug’s senseless destruction in pursuit of their gold. This was for blood, for vengeance, and both sides were aching for it. Flanked by Dain’s iron-helmed soldiers, he and Balin fought desperately for every square inch of ground beneath their feet. They were losing, being pushed back, and they knew it. It was only a matter of time before the paper-thin line of dwarves was torn and broken against this endless onslaught. But Thorin couldn’t think about that; he had to keep on fighting, give it everything he had. He wouldn’t die a coward.

And above the roar of orcs, the clang of iron, Thorin heard the piercing cry of a battle-horn. It was twisted and cruel, the back of his neck prickling at the sound. It wasn’t a retreat; it was too harsh for that, too savage. It was a warning, a call to arms. It was a threat. Thorin looked up at the source of the noise and stopped, his heart seizing inside of himself, mouth slack and eyes wide in a paralysing rush of unfathomable horror.

Bolg stood across the wide hall, halfway the sweeping staircase that led to his throne room. A thousand orcs stood between them, gnashing their teeth and baying like animals for Thorin’s blood. But Bolg, he wasn’t shouting or snarling at Thorin. He stood, making no sound at all. He didn’t need to. He had Fili – _he had Fili –_ in his monstrous hands, holding him by the scruff of the neck like an orphaned kitten. Fili tried to struggle but he was going nowhere, his hands bound, twisting uselessly in Bolg’s iron grip. In his heart, Thorin knew it was a trap. He knew Bolg was trying to draw him out of hiding, from his shield of dwarf-mail and axe-heads. This had played out a century before, when Azog bore the head of his grandfather aloft and crowed at him across a wasteland of rocks and blood. But he was senseless in his desperation. The images of Erebor, of his throne and crown and people, everything he was fighting for, it vanished in his head and all Thorin could see was Fili’s frightened blue eyes framed in a mess of golden curls.

Thorin plunged forward, the ranks of orcs closing around him, pounding him to the ground in an angry tide. He was kicked in the side and a heavy boot trampled on his hand and his sword was wrenched from him. Winded, Thorin tried to get up and fight back but the butt of a spear knocked him down. They hit him over and over to make sure he was beaten before hauling him up by the arms, mocking and cursing them in their hateful tongue. They weren’t going to kill him. The thought was a distant, nearly-inaudible cry through the torrential storm of Thorin’s mind, through the desperate struggle to get to Fili. He was Bolg’s prize. Nobody else had a claim to him. Nobody would dare.

“ _No!”_ Balin howled, seeing it for what it was, a trap. He lunged forward and tried to follow him into the abyss, but a pair, several pairs of hands, seized his arms and shoulders and dragged him back. Thorin had slipped free, but they wouldn’t let Balin go. “No– Thorin, _stop!”_ But it was too late; he was gone, a dark head tearing through the ranks of soldiers that waited with bated breath to kill them.

“Dain!” Balin could see the familiar red beard fifty yards down the line. Dain reeled back in shock, withdrawing, shaking his head as though he couldn’t believe what he’d just witnessed. “Dain!” Balin’s lungs burned. Finally, Dain looked at him, the lines sagging on his face as Balin drew near. “We have to–”

“What?” There was a quaver in his voice and Balin read it all in an instant. There was no going after Thorin. Any attempt at a spearhead would be pushed back. They couldn’t fight their way through in this sort of spread-out combat. “What can we do?” And he _grieved._ Balin could see it. He wasn’t maliciously gleeful at Thorin throwing his own life away. For everything Dain had said and done, he never, ever wanted Thorin to die like this.

A vice clamped around Balin’s heart, squeezing the blood and life out of him, crushing him. Thorin had made his choice, and even Balin, loyal to the end, couldn’t go after him. “Nothing.”

“Balin,” Dain gripped his arm. “Find your kinsfolk. Fight by them. While you breathe, Erebor stands.” Everything was reeling and roaring, moving too fast. Balin’s mouth was dry, lips too slack and slow to form any words. The ground seemed to quake beneath his feet, shuddering, lurching towards the inevitable. They were going to die. Dain was shouting again, his deep bellow rising over the clash of the battle.

While he breathed. Balin swallowed hard and left the rush of iron and flesh behind him, an ember glowing in his chest. This wouldn’t be the end. Not yet.

* * *

“No– No, let me _go!”_ Fili struggled and howled and kicked out and tried to bite, fighting every step as Bolg dragged him along the dizzying walkway towards the damaged throne. There was a heavy, grey light in the massive chamber, filtering coldly through the slit windows. “You sick piece of shit, let me _go!”_

“Big mouth on him.” Bolg sneered. Behind him, Kili said nothing, following in his trained obedience with only the barest flicker of his dark eyes suggesting anything other than perfect, mindless loyalty. Bolg dumped Fili at the foot of the throne, kicking him out of the way and standing with his one eye fixed on the broken slab of stone, the empty socket where the Arkenstone once rested. He closed his eyes and breathed in, smelling four generations of Durin’s sons lingering in the air, on the stone.

Fili got up on his knees and watched, panting, as Bolg sank into the dwarvish throne with a soft groan of pleasure rumbling in his throat. His stomach lurched and Fili gritted his teeth, shaking with the effort to keep in character and play the beaten, helpless prisoner. How dare he– How _dare_ he sit in their throne! His boundless audacity was sickening. He looked over his shoulder at Kili and tried to read his face. The mask had fitted so perfectly over him that even Fili couldn’t tell if he was acting. But he was– he was, Fili reminded himself. Kili had whispered in his ear to struggle, pushed him along when he wasn’t deep enough in the act. _This_ Kili was a lie. The Kili in the tunnel, in his memories, that was the truth.

Bolg’s eye was fixed on Kili too, a sneer that chilled him to the bone spreading across his face. “Untie him.” He gestured to Fili, still kneeling on the stone with the coiled intensity of a snake waiting to strike, the breath rasping in his throat. Without a word, Kili unsheathed his orcish blade and approached his brother, eyes meeting. He kept his gaze flat and dead, stopping just within arm’s reach of Fili, the scimitar held out before him.

“Hold out your hands.” Fili licked his lips, desperately searching Kili’s face for some sort of sign. Kili had to know what Bolg was planning. He had to pass it along. The fear, which was already swelling and blossoming in Fili’s stomach after being dragged by the hair through hordes of orcs, was now sharpened to a dagger-point. Wordlessly, he held out his hands and watched as Kili sliced through the ropes. The moment his hands were free, Kili had the curved point of his blade beneath Fili’s chin, dangerously close to the tendons and arteries of his throat. _Please,_ Fili mouthed, not knowing quite what he was asking Kili to _do_.

“Kill him.” Kili looked over Fili’s head, eyes widening in alarm at Bolg’s command. Far too big to sit properly in the throne, Bolg crouched on the edge, hunched over. He leered at Kili, gripping the carved arms. Fili was shaking, unaware of what Bolg had ordered, but it was clear from his brother’s expression that it was the worst. His eyes flicked from Bolg to Fili and back again, lips slack in a shallow pant. “What are you waiting for?” Bolg spat. “Kill him!”

There wasn’t time to think. Fili had placed himself in Kili’s hands, entrusted his life to his brother, but Kili had frozen in this moment, blank and empty in his terror and at a total loss. Fili didn’t need to understand Black Speech  to know that Bolg had asked for his head. It was up to Fili now to buy them the time they needed. Buy time, that was all they had to do. They just had to keep up this game long enough for Thorin to find them. He gripped the point of the blade at his throat and wrenched it out of Kili’s hands, steel cutting through the leather of his gloves and stinging his palm. Kili lurched forward and Fili took his chance, the scimitar clattering on the stone as he leaped. He tackled Kili and knocked him back, dangerously close to the edge. His hands around Kili’s neck, he pretended to squeeze, teeth gritted.

Of _course_. His back on the stone, Kili fought back a grin. If there was one thing that Bolg liked as much as a murder, it was a show. He wrestled free and landed a good punch to Fili’s jaw, using the moment of breathlessness to slip free and go for his scimitar. Before he could get to his feet, Fili tackled him again, and this time he wasn’t afraid of holding back. They brawled with a raw desperation, not letting the other win and, after some moments, not caring if it hurt. After decades of sparring together, they knew each other’s moves and tendencies and weak spots as well as their own.

Finally, Fili’s hand closed around the hilt of his brother’s blade. Kili tried to leap on him and wrenched it free, but Fili got him in the shoulder and sent him sprawling at Bolg’s feet. Fili stood over him with the scimitar in his hands, breath tearing in his aching lungs. On his hands and knees, Kili kept his eyes firmly on the curve of Fili’s blade. It was a dangerous moment; Kili was vulnerable and Bolg was right behind him, sitting very still now, watching everything with a sick, twisted leer.

Hoping he would find no resistance, Kili stood up. Bolg was leaning on the very edge of the throne with the same expression he’d worn when he forced Kili to fight and kill that bear, as though he was in the front row of a particularly entertaining show. And when Kili reached for Bolg’s waist and pulled out his massive orcish sword, jagged and curved, he knew Bolg would do nothing to stop him, just settle in and enjoy the final act.

The first blow sent them both reeling, the both of them putting all their strength behind it. Kili was tremendously strong with his grandfather’s ring, and Fili had his own stout dwarvish power and spirit. They were almost a match; Kili was faster and stronger, but Fili knew him well enough to keep him pushed back, never letting him in.

“Stop this!” Fili panted, backing away from the throne and glancing over his shoulder. Where was Thorin? An icy stab of horror pricked his stomach as he looked and found the sweeping bridge empty. What if he wasn’t coming? “Kili– please–” Kili’s response was to lunge with a growl, knocking Fili down one knee. He had to roll to get out, lurching to his feet. His muscles were starting to ache from this, and after the all the fighting in the entranceway, Fili didn’t know how long he could keep this up for. How long before Bolg grew bored for this and put an end to it? How long before one of them misstepped and accidentally slashed or impaled the other? They were both bruised and battered, and in his exhaustion, Fili was starting to stumble. He caught Kili’s eyes, wide and frantic in his dirty face, and saw the same thoughts running through his head. Was all of this heartache and danger for nothing?

Why wouldn’t Thorin come? Kili didn’t understand it. _Nothing_ had ever been more important to him than Fili. Fili was his world, his life, his reason for everything. He had never kept his singular affection for Fili a secret. He wouldn’t have been stopped on the way. Bolg had made it explicitly clear, over and over, that anybody who killed him and deprived Bolg the chance would suffer for it. They all knew not to touch the raven-haired dwarf-king. Did somebody forget in the heat of the moment?

And just when the uncertainty blossomed into cold despair and Fili had convinced himself that Thorin wasn’t coming, or he was already dead, a loud shout rang across the bridge, deep and bold and achingly familiar. Fili whirled around to see him, _Thorin_ , bruised and splattered with blood and looking terrible. Two orcs dragged him stumbling and lurching by the arms, his head bent. They let him fall on his hands and knees, and Fili watched, immobile in his shock, the scimitar slack in his hands. He left himself exposed and open and Kili had to take the chance. He swept Fili’s leg and knocked him to the ground. His blade slipped free and before Fili could grab it, he kicked it away, spinning on the polished stone.

Finally, Thorin looked up. His vision was red and hazy and every movement pained him. The sight stole what little breath he could take in his lungs, a choked, soundless cry seizing in his throat. On his own throne crouched Bolg, gripping the stone arms of the chair and leaning forward. At his feet, Fili was forced on his knees with a massive, cruel-looking scimitar at his throat. At first, Thorin didn’t recognise the creature that had his nephew; it just looked like some orc in bone-laid armour. It wasn’t until he saw the flash of brown eyes that it fell into place.

_Kili?!_

No, no, no, no, _no!_ Thorin tried to scream, but nothing came out. It impossible, so wildly, wildly impossible. He was dead, or dreaming, or he’d gone completely mad. Kili wouldn’t ever– _ever_ do this to his brother, to his people.

Would he? A sick horror burst in his gut and Thorin swallowed hard as the urge to heave wracked his chest. He had done this. He had abandoned Kili in Lake-Town, given up the fight for him. Thorin had driven Kili into the arms of the monsters that had corrupted him and torn him apart. His hands closed around nothing, balled on the stone, eyes locked with Kili. Somewhere, dimly, the idea of ever meeting him again lurked in the back of his mind, black and bitter. But the few times he dared to think about it, it wasn’t like this. It was _never_ like this, with Bolg looking over them like a king, with Kili burning in rage and hatred, with Fili a helpless captive in his arms. _Fili._ Thorin choked down a sob as a fresh stab of guilt pierced his heart. Oh, _Fili_ , who had suffered so much for Thorin and borne all of it, had held on to his loyalty longer than Thorin had ever deserved. He felt sick for the both of them, staring in horror at this disgusting pantomime that he’d created, turning them against each other, against _him_ , with his cruelty and heartlessness.

“Don’t.” Thorin tried to stand, but a wave of dizziness overtook him, and he collapsed back on his knees. “Kili– _please.”_ Fili had his eyes squeezed shut, hands on Kili’s wrist.

“Leave us.” Kili spat at the orcs who dragged his uncle in, keeping his grip tight on Fili’s neck. The pair looked past Kili to Bolg, who must have nodded behind him. They both withdrew, and with a heavy _clang,_ the door closed behind them, sealing the four in. It was as still and quiet as a tomb.

“Please.” Thorin begged again, clawing at the stone. “Don’t do this, Kili. He’s your _brother.”_

“You were my uncle!” Fili winced at the harsh voice. “And you still left me to die! This is what you deserve, _both_ of you.” He couldn’t look up at Kili or over at Thorin’s broken face. He kept his eyes trained on the ground now, just breathing in and out. _Just do it,_ he willed his brother to sense him, squeezing his wrist. _Kill him now and get it over with._

“No.” Thorin forced himself to stand, pitching forward a little in a stumble as he tried to walk. “Bolg,” he stared at the orc now, at his mismatched eyes, one lifeless and blind, the other manic in bloodlust. “You don’t want to kill us like this. There’s no pride in slaughtering us like beasts.”

Kili’s heart thudded, his whole body pulsing in time with the heavy beat. He was sure Fili could feel the blade shuddering against his throat. He knew this was coming and he had tried to prepare himself for it, hoping for emptiness. But Kili _hated_ Thorin more than ever as he looked him in the eye, and no amount of solitude in the Grey Mountains could cool that burning hatred. Nothing could ever make him forgive or forget. Everything he had suffered, all the pain and sorrow and anguish that had hollowed him out and filled him up with a darkness that sickened him, was because of _him._ Because Kili was worthless.

“Give me the blade.” Bolg approached Kili with his hand held out. Kili stood frozen, suspended in a deep, brief and somehow timeless moment of silence. His vision dimmed, the white shape of Bolg and the golden gleam of his brother’s main distant and blurred. In this throne room, this hall, this mountain, the imagined voices screeched and whipped around him like sheets of rain in a thunderstorm. The traitor, the murderer, the monster who had turned the four races of Middle-Earth against himself with his treachery and violence. In his head, Kili could see how this played out in the hours, the days and weeks and months and years to come as everybody jostled for his head and put forward their claims to blood and revenge. Nobody, not Fili or Thorin or even Kili himself, could save him from that. Kili wouldn’t redeem himself today, or tomorrow, or even a hundred years from now. All he could do was take that first, devastating step. Everything that Kili had fought and suffered for, every blow, every mark, every curse, every touch of red-hot steel, every stroke of the whip, it came down to this, to something so easy and effortless that it made Kili tremble to consider. A flick of the wrist, the slice of metal through flesh, so close he could feel the heat rising from it in this chilly mountain air.

“You know–” Bolg froze at Kili’s voice, hoarse in his throat and dry as dust. “There’s something I never told you.” He spoke in Black Speech, his upper lip curling in a cold nasty sneer. His voice lowered to a near whisper and the orc-king leaned in to hear him. Shaking on his knees, Fili whimpered. He’d long stopped fighting and now he crouched like a sick dog, hunched and diminished and waiting for it to end. Thorin Oakenshield was staggering, but he was never going to get close enough in time. He shouted in his native tongue, raw, desperate words that echoed in the vastness of the hall and Kili paid no attention to it. He looked up at Bolg and licked his lips, a pulse throbbing visibly in his throat, that cruel half-smile playing on his lips. His eyes looked black in this veiled light. “It wasn’t the orc from Moria that killed your father.”

Then there was a sharp, _horrific_ pain in his stomach, between two pieces of his plate armour. Bolg let out a single, choked groan. Kili wore that same sneer, his expression perfectly controlled and still and when Bolg looked down he saw his own scimitar sticking out of his gut. The world rushed and tumbled and roared around him and he looked from the blade to the hilt to the handle to Kili’s wrist and his arm and elbow and his torso and his face, still set with the practiced stoicism of a seasoned killer. Kili opened his mouth and bared his teeth and allowed the fire to overcome him as he wrenched the blade free. “ _It was me.”_

Bolg lurched back and Fili sprang away, crawling backwards on his hands. Thorin sank to his knees, uttering a short, choked cry. Kili squared his shoulders and raised the massive scimitar, ready for the death knell, ready to do what he’d been aching to since he first laid eyes on that mutilated half-blind face and crush Azog’s dreams before they could ever come to fruition. Bolg saw him, saw what he was going to do and with a deep, animal roar he lunged. The scimitar clashed against steel as Bolg threw himself on top of Kili, using his size, the only weapon he had left, and sent the both of them sprawling against the floor. The blade was knocked out of Kili’s hand and he scrabbled for it, but Bolg’s reach was longer. With blood gushing from his slashed stomach, his fingers curled around the blade, another visceral roar tearing through his throat.

“ _Kili!”_ Fili jumped without a moment’s hesitation, reaching inside his shirt. Kili’s body was so tiny beneath Bolg’s, that orcish sword so massive, hands that could have ripped Kili’s head off, torn him limb from limb. He wrapped one arm around Bolg’s neck to hold on and searched with his knife for the gaps in his armour. The dwarvish steel sank into the fleshy knot of muscles in the hollow of Bolg’s collarbone and he howled, trying to shake Fili off. Free, Kili rolled out from under him and half-ran, half-crawled for his own scimitar where it had been left on the stone. Bolg was staggering now, clawing at Fili, who had slashed deep into Bolg’s neck until the blood was gushing in a black river over his torso and splattering the ground. Finally Bolg found Fili’s shoulder, small as an infant’s in his massive grip, and tore him free with a burst of strength that left him bellowing. He threw Fili as hard as he possibly could against the throne, hoping he would shatter like glass against rock. Fili struck the lip of the seat, hard, and with a breathless cry he crumpled at the feet of it, winded and dazed. Thorin was on his feet now, stumbling forward as fast as he could, mind reeling at the sheer incomprehensibility of what he was witnessing.

Bolg turned to Kili. He was staggering now, blood running in rivers from the wounds the brothers had inflicted, leaving a trail of smears and pools and footprints of black. Kili snarled, refusing to allow the orc-king to get the upper hand again. He didn’t have Bolg’s reach of arm, but he had speed and agility on his side. With Thorin shouting something indistinct behind him, Kili ducked and dove, his sword as useless as pinpricks against Bolg’s armour. But he wasn’t trying to inflict another wound; he and Fili had done that already. He knew, and Bolg too, that he had minutes at best before he succumbed to the blood loss. Bolg tore at the horn on his waist, raised it to his mouth and breathed in. Reinforcements. The walls could muffle Bolg’s deep, bellowing roars but that horn was sharp and piercing and could cut through anything. Kili recklessly sprang forward, ducking under Bolg’s scimitar and lifting his own, aimed at the joint where Bolg’s plate armour gave way to his wrist. The blade was sharp and Kili dly strong, and before the orc-king could utter a note, Kili severed hand from arm and sent the horn tumbling to the ground. Bolg froze, staring in shock at the stump of his wrist which gushed and pulsated with blood.

Thorin froze on the bridge, trapped between his two nephews. He didn’t know who he could even help. The orcs had ripped his weapons away during their beating, and Kili had the only other blade in the room. Thorin knew there was a small armoury at the back of the throne room and up a staircase, but by the time he got there and back, he knew the fight would have been decided. Fili lay on his side, his hair in a curtain over his face, wheezing, trying and failing to get himself up on his elbows.

“Fili,” Thorin threw himself on the ground at his feet and pushed his hair back from his face. Fili’s eyes were screwed up tight, teeth clenched. “Fili, speak to me.” He sucked in a shallow lungful of air, hitching in pain, and those dark blue eyes opened. Thorin got one arm underneath him and sat him up against the throne, hands shaking. Blood dripped from Fili’s mouth, and he didn’t know how long it had been there. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry." There was so much to say, and Thorin didn’t know how to begin. Thorin held his hand lightly over Fili’s chest, feeling the irregular shudder of his lungs. Broken ribs, most likely, and Fili was trying not to antagonise it. “I’m so sorry.”

“Kili.” Fili gripped Thorin’s elbow, looking over his shoulder. They both heard the harsh, choked cry. Bolg was standing five feet from the edge of the bridge, the scimitar lowered in one hand. The other wasn’t there anymore, just a blackened, bleeding stump, and Kili seized the opportunity to ram his blade over his head and through the weave of jagged armour into Bolg’s chest, into his heart.

Kili pushed and pushed and like a puppet Bolg followed him, staggering in his disbelief as his instinct momentarily left him in the shock of the death-blow. He stood very close to the edge, at the precipice over a yawning expanse of blackness that seemed to have no end. Kili pulled the blade out and a spray of life-blood, straight from Bolg’s heart, cascaded on the ground. The sight of his blood flowing so freely now and the inevitability of his death quaked through his limbs as his split heart struggled to beat. The scimitar slipped through his fingers with a dull, disbelieving hollow thud, Bolg realised that he had lost. Kili had tricked him, tricked his father and destroyed them both. Hot, senseless rage boiled in his slashed gut and Bolg knew that was only thing left to do – kill the treacherous fucker who had murdered his father.

Kili kicked Bolg in the stomach with the intent of pushing him over. Bolg was still, reeling on the spot with his heels an inch from the edge of the stone. He would have fallen effortlessly, so Kili thought. But as his foot found Bolg's chest, the dying orc struck. A grin spread across his face and his remaining hand clenched around Kili's ankle.

They both fell.

"No!" Thorin and Fili both screamed, hearts sinking in blind horror. Thorin got on his feet with a fire he didn't know he had left in him. "Kili!" He couldn't breathe. He collapsed at the edge and looked over. " _Kili!_ " His hands curled around the lip of stone, relief surging white-hot in his chest. Kili clung to a protruding buttress several feet down, the whites his eyes flashing as he stared up at his uncle. Fresh horror pricked the relief as Thorin realised Bolg was holding on too, intent on dragging Kili to his death.

"Hold on!" Thorin leaned over as far as he dared, stretching out his arm. "Grab my hand!" He was tantalisingly close. Kili just needed to stretch out. "Trust me, Kili! I won't let you go!"

Groaning, Kili stretched up with every ounce of strength he had and found Thorin’s hand. Thorin gasped at the added weight, lurched forward over the edge and nearly fell to his own death when a pair of sturdy arms found his waist and anchored him to the rock. Fili strained with his broken ribs to bear his share of the weight, cheek pressed against the cold mail on Thorin’s back as he leaned over and down into the darkness.

Kili felt, literally, as though he was being pulled in two. Thorin had both hands around his own, just barely holding on, and Bolg hung off his ankle, unable to anything but pull him down. The muscles and joints of his body were pulled almost to breaking point under the massive weight and his palms was slick with sweat. With his free leg, Kili tried to kick out at Bolg’s head and face. Bolg growled and with the bloodied stump of his other arm, got Kili’s ankle in the crook of his elbow.

“You _bastard,_ ” Kili panted, doing his best to try and shake Bolg off. “Just– _die_ you– _fuck.”_ Kili growled at the needle-sharp pain in his calf; Bolg had bitten through the unarmed leather with his monstrous filed fangs, drawing blood. He fought the urge to scream, biting down on his own lip until the sweet, coppery taste filled his mouth.

“Hold on.” Thorin begged, staring down at Kili’s screwed-up face with terror rushing in his chest. It was a form of torture to be stretched like this, Thorin remembered, pulling and pulling at somebody’s body until the sinews cracked and the bones were pulled from their sockets. “We’ve got you, both of us!” Fili was groaning as he held on, embracing Thorin’s waist as tight as he could.

“Die.” Kili looked down Bolg, still clinging to his leg with everything he had left. There was no strength behind his grip, just a grim endurance, a will to hold on until he died, if that was what it took, to drag Kili down into that yawning back chasm that was eating the both of them alive. “You sick piece of shit,” Kili wrenched his bitten leg free of Bolg’s teeth and bloody stump, hissing through clenched teeth as his skin was shredded to ribbons, “it’s _over.”_ He ground his heel into Bolg’s seeing eye as hard as he could. The orc-king shrieked, but he didn’t let go. Even in death, Kili thought, his grip would remain, stiff as stone while his body went cold. Kili couldn’t keep holding on like this, enduring this excruciating pull at both ends. He felt like any second now he would be torn in half, and Bolg and Thorin would get pieces of him while he bled to death.

With a choked gasp, the grip slackened at his ankle. Kili held his breath and looked down, daring to hope. Yes– _yes_ , Bolg was slipping. In an entranced silence, he watched as Bolg, bleeding from one eye and blind in the other, let go, his mouth a shapeless hole spitting one final curse that his dying lungs couldn’t utter. It was just a single moment, a flash of white in the darkness, the splay of his massive white limbs clawing hopelessly at the air, and he was gone, swallowed up soundlessly in the darkness.

Thorin hauled him up without a moment’s delay, reeling him in by his arms and then with his arms around Kili’s chest, like hauling a drowning body out of water. With a groan, he fell back with Kili still in his arms, feeling his nephew quake beneath the sturdy suit of bone-laid armour. Their cheeks touched and in that moment, Kili was too weak or too dazed to fight back. Thorin held onto him, listening to the hitch of his breath. Fili had a hand on his brother’s shoulder, leaning in and muttering something in his ear, but it seemed as though Kili couldn’t hear him. At first Thorin thought Kili was sobbing as shudders wracked his iron frame, his face hidden beneath his hair and his forehead against Thorin’s shoulder. His arms were absolutely lax, save for the irregular trembling of a particularly forceful gasp. Thorin tightened his grip on Kili and opened his mouth to whisper that it was all right, it was _over_ , that he was sorry, so, so very sorry for what he’d done and he would never, _ever_ abandon Kili again, that he would never let him go, not for any crown or throne or gold-hoard in the entire world.

Kili lifted his head, and in an instant Thorin realised he’d gotten it wrong. Kili wasn’t crying. The convulsive gasps of air made it impossible for him to speak, but his face was dry, his mouth stretched in a wide, familiar grin that Thorin was too afraid to even recall in his memories.

He was _laughing._


	110. Holding On

There was an odd, removed feeling in Kili’s chest as Thorin hauled him up over the edge, as though he was falling too, or floating. He collapsed in Thorin’s arms like a child and Thorin held him close, cradled him as their faces touched and Kili rested his head on his shoulder. He was so _tired_. Moving his arms was like swimming through mud with rocks tied to his wrists, and all Kili could do was lean there while Thorin embraced him and breathe in and out.

 _It was over_ . Kili repeated the thought, held onto it, screamed it over and over in his head but no matter how many times the words echoed in his mind, it just didn’t seem _real_ to him. How could it feel real? How could something that had terrorised him for months, had irrevocably twisted and broken him just be over in a few racing heartbeats, the release of a hand on his leg, a single bellowing cry that faded into the darkness? The finality of what had happened still didn’t quite resonate with him somehow. Kili had been taunted before, and it was hard to trust that he had finally been granted this freedom and grace. No— it wasn't granted. It was won. Thorin’s arms were wrapped close, carrying him, holding him, protecting him. Fili gripped his shoulder, mumbling something indistinct and rushed that he couldn’t catch.

Laughter bubbled up in his chest and Kili couldn't stop it. He didn’t want to. The lightness and exhilarating sense of freedom was creeping in through the exhausted numbness. Bolg was dead. No matter what happened now, if they won or were killed today, Kili had severed his ties with the orcs. No more fear, no more pain, no more constantly looking over his shoulder and keeping one eye open, no more masks, no more lies, no more cruelty. He could be _Kili_ again.

Kili lifted his head, still laughing. Thorin’s battered face was creased in concern and it deepened as he watched Kili laugh. Fili's grip tightened on his shoulder and Thorin held the back of his neck, trying to be comforting. Kili thought there was an uneasiness as he did it, like he was trying to tame a wild animal. The laughter broke off abruptly and Kili swallowed hard as his uncle held him with that uncertainty, staring at him with a mixture of guilt and horror and blank shock. They were strangers to one another in that moment, Kili hovering doubtfully in the middle after swinging wildly from the closest of allies, from the sacred bond of kinship to deep, burning hatred and enmity, to cursing his name and swearing death before he dared to trust his uncle again.

"Kili," Thorin breathed, "Kili, are you..." He trailed off when he realised he didn't know what to say, or more precisely, how to say it. He still struggled to process what he’d seen, how Kili had his brother by the throat, nearly _killed_ him, only to waver in the last moment and turn that brutality towards Bolg himself with a calculated steadiness that couldn’t have been on the spur of the moment. _Who are you?_ was the question Thorin burned to ask, but couldn’t summon the courage to say.

“We need to get out of here.” Kili ripped himself away from Thorin’s stare and his grip, looking down at his bleeding leg. The ground beneath him was pooled with red, the size of his palm, blood dripping. It didn’t hurt yet. Kili felt numb when he looked at it.

“Oh no.” Fili reached under his mail, and Kili heard the sound of tearing fabric. “Kili, you’re bleeding.”

“It’s fine.” But Kili leaned back, resting on his hands as Fili cut away the shredded leather of his trouser leg, just above his boot. “Could have been worse.”

“Will you be able to walk?” Fili caught glimpses of Kili’s as he wound the torn hem of his own shirt around his leg, checking for any grimaces or flashes of pain. A deep, jagged gash ran from an inch below his knee almost mid-calf. Kili had a still, practiced calmness to his face as he watched his brother hastily work, with only the curling of his fingers to suggest he felt anything at all.

“I have to.” He sounded ragged. Kili untangled himself from Thorin, from Fili, and stood up, testing his leg. “It’s fine.” He watched Fili now, his brother wincing as he carefully stood up with a hand on his side. “You’re injured.”

“Not badly.” Thorin’s heart beat heavily, a boom he felt quake in his limbs, as he watched his wounded boys. A helplessness broke out, pushing in a rush of panic in his throat as he realised they had barely anything left. “Just a few bruises.” Kili looked over his shoulder at the closed door, the whites of his eyes gleaming in his black-grey face. “We need to go.”

“Won’t be long until they realise that something’s up.” Kili bent down to pick up Bolg’s scimitar. “We’ve got to be long gone.”

“You planned this.” Thorin realised, that panic and horror growing. “ _This—_ the throne room, it was an act.” The _to save me_ hung in the air, unspoken and unbidden. Kili still wouldn’t look at him, but Fili did, tentative and silent. Fili, who had been rejected by Thorin time and time again, still risked his life for him. He still hoped that they could recover the love and trust that has been so irrevocably shattered.

“You and Bolg are both predictable.” Kili started walking, favouring his uninjured leg but refusing to let it slow him down. Thorin was seized with the violent urge to take them both in his arms like frightened children, hold them close and whisper that they would get through this. “All I had to do was get you alone.”

* * *

At least they were winning. Ilzkhaal took some comfort in that as he followed Tarbaam through the mismatched weave of bodies of orcs, dwarves, elves and men. They had positioned themselves safely (as safe as they could be underneath the downpour of elvish arrows) at the back of the Hall, firing indiscriminately. Now that it had stilled and the enemy pushed back into the twisting passages and yawning caverns of Erebor, Tarbaam hurried them along. It was strangely slow, picking their way through the bodies, some still alive, scrabbling at hacked limbs or trying to push their insides back inside their slashed stomachs. It was the most horrific sight that he’d ever beheld, and all Ilzkhaal could do was keep his eyes forward, putting one step in front of the other. He couldn’t stop, couldn’t help, couldn’t do anything.

Part of it was fear, as well. Fear that if he looked down, he would recognise the bodies at his feet. It was easier for it to remain a blur, an indistinct mass of black and grey and steel-silver without a face. His hands were shaking on his short sword, drawn out of habit rather than necessity, and he breathed through his mouth to try and avoid the coppery tang of death. Ilzkhaal could still taste it though, thick and heavy, like breathing in a cloud of mountain-fog. In his effort to remain blind, to cut himself off from the world he walked in, though, he misjudged his step and slipped, catching himself on a spear sticking out of some poor orc’s chest as he went down.

And then Ilzkhaal saw him.

About eight feet away, crumpled on his side, was Akash. One eye was open and glassy, the other deeply embedded with a silvered elvish arrow. His face was still, serene in its emptiness. There was barely even any blood. If it weren't for his eyes, Ilzkhaal would have thought his cousin was merely sleeping.

The bloodsoaked air seized in his lungs and a numbness spread over Ilzkhaal, from his ears to his toes and fingertips, as sudden as a plunge into deep, icy water. It was incomprehensible, impossible. A choking gasp that jolted his chest in the instinctive urge to breathe, and Ilzkhaal realised with a visceral shredding in his chest that his cousin, his best friend since birth and the only brother he would ever have, was dead.

Someone grabbed at Ilzkhaal’s elbow and hauled him to his feet, but his legs folded beneath him and he pitched onto his knees. He shook so hard his teeth chattered, that painful tearing in his heart spreading to his gut and he was battling the urge to heave. They were shouting in his ear, so close he could feel the wet heat of his breath, but the words were as distant and garbled as though he was shouting through a storm a hundred feet away. He couldn't stop looking at Akash's eyes, one punctured and the other as blank as fogged glass, at the razor-sharp shaft of the arrow, at the white dove-feathers of the fletching, pure, unmarked, graceful and light as air itself.

"No—" The hand around him pulled, forced him back on his feet. Khala, Ilzkhaal recognised distantly. He was dragging Ilzkhaal along, not slowing as he tried to pull back, reaching out to the body of his cousin grew smaller behind him. "No!" Ilzkhaal tore free of Khala's heavy grasp and broke into a staggering run. He took three wobbling steps before a new pair of hands seized him and refused to let go. Ilzkhaal looked up, vision warbled and abstract through his stinging eyes, to see Tarbaam’s face, grim and hard. "I can't—" Tarbaam clapped a hand over Ilzkhaal's mouth, stifling the ragged gasps that wracked his bird-like ribcage.

"Don't fall apart." He hissed, pushing Ilzkhaal's quivering lips hard against his teeth. “Don't you _dare_." Ilzkhaal convulsed, the pressure in his body growing, a burning coal that swelled in his throat and blocked his voice. The overwhelming urge to scream shuddered through his limbs as the grief took root deep inside his chest, the realisation that Akash was dead growing solid, taking shape, that grief outweighing incomprehensible shock. He beat his fists against Tarbaam’s chest, struggling for no reason other than to let out this crippling pressure and pain that had seized control of his body.

There was a crushing sense of collapse in him, something breaking under the weight of his grief. Ilzkhaal could feel the sagging of his muscles, the deflation of pressure as the burning subsided in his throat, his very lungs feeling limp and empty. It was like he was dead himself, standing ankle-deep in the mismatched litter of bodies and organs.

But he wasn't.

Tarbaam, who must have sensed the limpness, released his cruel, desperate hold, and Ilzkhaal wiped at his face, feeling salt on his lips. "Come on," Tarbaam pulled at his wrist, like leading an errant child. Ilzkhaal followed with mute obedience, looking one last time at Akash's body, crumpled and small and hopelessly far away, before it was swallowed up in the rolling tide of death.

* * *

“Easy, easy, easy.” Thangail and Legolas set the elf down slowly. His face was bone-white and tense, graceful limbs shivering uncontrollably as he clutched at his stomach. His hands were slick with blood, a spreading, maroon-red starburst against the green and silver of linen and mail. Ori stood helplessly feeling the blood side down his own cheek as he watched the elves desperately tend to the worst injured. This side-room wasn’t particularly well-hidden, but it was protected with a heavy iron door that locked from the inside and had been left open. Ori stood now with his hand on the bolt, thick as his wrist and firmly in place. They were a broken-down, sparse group of survivors and walking wounded, barely a dozen. Four were uninjured. Three more nursed wounded arms and shoulders and heads, walking but not fighting, two more had to be carried but were awake and talking, and two more were frighteningly close to death. None were skilled in elvish magic to put their bodies back together, and the most experienced healer was currently trying to hold his guts in place as Thangail shouted for somebody to find water, mumbling incoherently with half-lidded eyes.

“We need to find Tauriel.” Legolas grabbed the captain’s shoulder. “Or Dillan— someone with skill. They’re _dying._ ”

“They won’t be the only ones.” Thangail hissed back. “These passages will be crawling with orcs. None of us are going anywhere. It’s a death wish.”

“I’m not going to watch them die!” Legolas stood up. “I don’t care about the orcs. I-I’m not afraid of them.” And he didn’t _look_ afraid either, with his chin held high and fists curled. Thangail, with his hands over the gaping wound in the elf’s stomach, looked down at his bloodied fingers then up at Legolas again, shaking his head.

“If anything happened to you, Thranduil would never forgive me.”

"If anything happens to these people, I'll never forgive myself." Firm in his resolution, Legolas refused to back down. "Don't force me to be a coward."

Thangail returned the hard stare, his smooth, polished jaw thrust out and brow heavy. But he backed down in the end, flattening his red palms and bowing his head. "Very well, then."

* * *

By the time they made it down into the fight, coming across a narrow held by dark-haired elves that didn’t give an inch, the reality of Akash’s death had slowly seeped into Ilzkhaal’s mind. The shock and horror had faded, and the grief dulled to a hammer-blow rather than a knife-wound in his heart. It would have been instantaneous; Akash wouldn’t have even seen it coming. He wouldn’t have had that crippling terror of knowing he was about to die, wouldn’t have suffered the pain and helplessness of his impending demise. Just an arrow through the air, a moment of surprise, maybe a flash of darkness in one eye as the tempered metal blinded him and then buried itself deep, deep inside his brain.

Ilzkhaal shivered. This world now seemed very far away. The screaming, the clang of steel, the bayning of the wargs, it was foggy and distant. He looked on with a fractured disinterest as he strung his bow and let the arrow fly. Perhaps it killed someone, perhaps not. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. He knew it was dangerous, this disconnect with reality. It could get him killed. But he still couldn't bring himself to snap out of it. He felt in a daze, locked inside his own head, imprisoned, and he'd never get out.

Nothing was supposed to be more important than surviving. Kili had told him that. Kili, who had suffered more than Ilzkhaal dared to imagine, who had lost everything he had ever held dear, had become so unrecognisably broken and corrupted that his own family didn't want him anymore, he still held on, willing to do anything it took just to survive. He had a raw, savage instinct that ran deeper than anything; than love or empathy, deeper than any bonds of kinship and loyalty. But Ilzkhaal didn't. Perhaps he was just too fragile for this, too sheltered and innocent, but he couldn't go on. The idea of being alone terrified him more than the thought of dying itself. And now he was alone. Kili had left him, Akash was dead and his few friends scattered in this stone maze, lost in the twisting darkness. He was terrifyingly alone, and all he wanted to do was hold his hands over his ears and scream until it ended, or they killed him, whatever came first.

Crouched behind a fallen pillar and rising to fire his bow. Tarbaam was approached by a tall orc in the black armour of his hometown guard. The orc slapped him on the shoulder, pulled him back to shout in his face. “I need orcs.” His eyes, white as sun-bleached bone apart from two very small pupils, gleamed in his face. “Not Bolg’s rancid lot, ours. Thranduil’s son is trapped in the eastern passages with a squad of archers and we _need_ to root them out.”

Ilzkhaal lowered his bow and watched as Tarbaam ran his tongue over his sharp teeth, thinking. “We get him, we’re one step closer to getting out of this cesspit.” He nodded. “All right. Ten.”

“Twenty.”

“Twelve.”

“Fifteen.”

“Twelve.” Tarbaam lowered his voice, but Ilzkhaal was still beside him and could hear every word. “I’m not spilling more blood than I need to. Twelve and no more.”

The guard snarled, baring his filed row of needle-sharp teeth before scowling in reluctant agreement. “Twelve, and they’re under my command.”

“Nuh-uh. They follow their own.” Tarbaam looked over the guard’s shoulder. “Shatog, over here.” He gestured and the orc scurried across the no-man’s land of open air, bent almost double. “This is…”

“Dulug,” The orc supplied, still snarling.

“Dulug. He’s taking eleven orcs plus you to find the elf-king’s son. He’s trapped somewhere with a team of archers in the eastern passages. We get him, we’re halfway home. Don’t you _dare_ maim him and don’t let any of Bolg’s lot in on it. The stupid brutes will kill him without a second thought.”

“Got it, sir.” Shatog’s eyes darted across the group, sizing them up. “Who can I take?”

“Take Khala as your second, Turkûrz, Urauk, Brumag—”

“Me.” Ilzkhaal jumped in, only distantly realising what it was he said. His mouth was speaking but his mind lagged behind, struggling to catch up.  “Take me with you.”

Shatog softened. “Ilz, no. You’re too—”

“Please.” Ilzkhaal’s voice cracked. He could see it again in his head, the dove feathers and the silvered wood, the slumped, vacant expression on Akash’s face and his single empty eye. He would have been killed by those elves in the galleries, the same elves that now lurked somewhere in the mountains. A hot anger swelled, pushing through his limbs until his fingertips throbbed as he finally started to feel again and make sense of it. Ilzkhaal wasn’t a vengeful creature, but he knew had to do something, _anything_ , to ease the pain of Akash’s death, to equal that murder — for it was a murder, in Ilzkhaal’s eyes. His cousin was just a boy, an untrained civilian who had no desire or right to be here. He didn’t deserve to die. How could he look his aunt and uncle in the eye and say that he did nothing?

“An elvish arrow just killed my cousin.” He said, fighting the tremors in his voice and hoping it would lay the matter to rest. Shatog held his breath and looked over Ilzkhaal’s shoulder at Tarbaam. With despair etched on his face and a heavy acceptance, Tarbaam nodded, closing his eyes. He let Ilzkhaal go because he knew, and they all knew, that he’d stopped caring about himself. They all saw him stagger limply, lifeless and dead-eyed, and it was only now, with the prospect of seeking some sort of revenge for his cousin’s death, that a spark of life had returned.

Tarbaam gripped Shatog’s elbow, the breath racing in his throat. “Watch his back.” Ilzkhaal slung his bow grimly at his side, not looking at anybody.

Shatog eyed the young orc, out of his depth, terrified and grieving but refusing to back down. “Not at the expense of my own.” He muttered before he withdrew. He didn’t have Tarbaam’s selflessness.

* * *

It was _hard._ Dís staggered under the weight, biting her lip until blood filled her mouth. Every step, every jolt and shudder send a fresh rocking wave of agony through her broken shoulder and ripped a breathless scream from her split lip. Dwalin clung to her but couldn’t do anything, his forehead pressed against the juncture of her neck, arm draped across her back and wavering on his unsteady feet.

“It’s all right.” She breathed, gritting her teeth through another ragged step. “I— I’ve got you.” Dís groaned as they turned the corner, and a narrow staircase came into view. “I can do this.” Sucking all the air she could into her lungs, she ploughed on. “We can do this.” Dís squeezed Dwalin’s wrist. “Are you awake?” She gasped at the first step as Dwalin tried and failed to get up under his own steam, and had to drag him. “Speak to me.”

“Mm,” Dwalin’s eyelids flickered for a moment. “Here.”

“Good. Good.” Her limbs were shaking uncontrollably now, weak and flimsy. She was terrified of falling. “Just don’t fall asleep on me, all right? Don’t go to sleep.”

“Yes, sir.” Dwalin mumbled, breaking into a snicker. Dís’ throat tightened as she tought the now very familiar urge to cry. “Staying up.”

Getting up those stairs very well may have been the hardest thing Dís had ever had to do. She was completely devoid of strength, and every step became a battle, every breath of air a struggle. Dwalin seemed to get heavier; he flagged too, his wobbly feet taking less and less of his weight until they dragged and Dís had to haul his entire body up behind her. When she finally reached the top of the staircase, Dís was on the point of collapse. She leaned heavily against the door and pulled with her bad hand on the handle, still holding Dwalin up. The hinges were ancient, decaying after nearly two centuries of disuse, but the door itself had been left open and she was able pull and pull until there was a gap big enough for the both of them to slip inside.

Dís fell to her knees and Dwalin collapsed beside her, half-heartedly scrabbling at the  ground. It reminded her of bird’s nest high in a treetop. The chamber was round, lit only by a single finger of white daylight that came from the ceiling. The lock was five feet across and made of steel. It reminded Dís of a ship’s wheel, a circle with six spokes. With her left arm on fire, Dís looked down at Dwalin’s crumpled figure. “Love,” She reached out and touched his face. “How I turn the lock? Tell me how to?”

“Push.” Dís pulled him up so he leaned against her, his dark eyes foggy, fixed on a distant point that Dís couldn’t see. “Until you hear three clicks.”

“Three clicks.” Staggering, she dragged Dwalin so he leaned against the wall, head lolling on his shoulder. Rubbing her damp palms together, Dís approached the closest massive spoke, gripping it hard and throwing all her weight behind her good hand. At first, nothing moved. Dís cried out but didn’t give up, digging in her heels until she felt the gentle, gradual shift, as slow as ice melting, beneath her hand. This lock was supposed to be turned by half a dozen hardened warrior-dwarves, not one dam on her own, nursing broken bones and barely enough strength to walk anymore. But Dís wouldn’t give up, not ever. She felt the joints quiver and strain in her uninjured arm, and sweat poured down her face, dripping from her bloodied chin. Finally, she felt the first click, sharp and abrupt, jolting through her body. Dís stopped for air and wiped at her forehead, breath heaving. Two more to go.

“You still there, Dwalin?” She groaned as she resumed, pushing with her back on the gear and trying to take backwards steps, eyes fixed on Dwalin’s figure. “Speak to me.”

“Mm, here.” Dwalin had slumped onto one side and didn’t have sense or strength to right himself. “Still here.’

“Good.” She grunted, feeling her teeth would splinter in her head if she kept gritting them like this. Every muscle, and tendon and bone were stretched and pulled and pushed to the point of breaking. “Hey,” She sucked in a ragged breath between her words. “Don’t worry. Soon we’ll have this down, and we’ll win.” Dís closed her eyes. “Then we’ll have a wedding to look forward to.” Dwalin gave a soft grunt at that, the weak sound burrowing deep into her heart. “Where do you want to have it? Main banquet hall? B-Beneath the feet of Durin?” Her head swam with the multiple effort of talking and throwing her weight on the lock, but she had to keep Dwalin awake, and more importantly, keep that hope alive. “What about outside? We’ve already broken enough traditions.”

“Anywhere.” Dwalin mumbled listlessly. “Don’t matter.” Dís groaned, feeling feet move slowly, so slowly, sagging as another heavy click resonated through her screaming bones.

“All right, anywhere.” Her legs were trembling, and she had serious trouble standing up. “We’ll get married, as soon as this is done.” She tried to smile. “Won’t that be lovely? We’ll get the boys and Balin and everyone.” Her hands shook. “And then we’ll finally be together properly, after all this time. We could even have a child.” A smile did grace her face then, faint and shaky and only lasting for a moment. “I’m not too old, not yet.”

Dwalin mumbled something incoherent, more to himself than to her. “Wh-What should we call him? Or her?” Inwardly, she begged, _screamed_ for the damn thing to turn. “After your father? Another little Fundin? Wouldn’t he be so proud?” But Dwalin didn’t say anything now, and her heart seized in terror. “Dwalin! Love, say something. Are you still awake?”

“Mm,” It was so quiet; Dís could barely hear him over her heavy breathing. “Thinking.”

“Good, good. Just stay awake. Think about names.” A sob broke free as the lock _finally_ clicked. She slumped, panting. “It’s done.” Dís spat the blood in her mouth on the floor. “What now, Dwalin? What do I do now?”

“Other way.” He slurred like a drunkard, voice muffled in his chest. “One.” Dís groaned and pitched forward, leading on another spoke and trying to push. Her feet slid across the ground, and she struggled to get a foothold. Her good arm was looped over the wooden bar, the bad dangling uselessly at her side.

“All right.” She panted. “All right, you _bastard_ , just one more. I can do it.” Dís could. She had to have faith in herself, even as her strength failed and despair closed in. It was just pain, she told herself, and that was only in her mind. "So, what about a girl?" Dís hoped for a girl. She longed for an ally. "You— You could call her whatever you liked. She won't have to be named after anybody." One in three; the dark, distant memory bubbled to the surface. The odds would be in her favour this time, wouldn't they?

"Girl's better." Dís beamed at the words, and the rush of pleasure sparked a new life in her, spurred her on. "Already had a boy."

"You have, really, haven't you?" She panted. “I'd like a girl too. I wonder if she'll get your big nose." Dwalin made a gurgling, wheezing that sounded almost like a chuckle. Desperate, Dís gave one last push, throwing all of her weight on the spoke, even her bad shoulder, and while she moaned, low and hollow, the lock clicked beneath her shaking hands. Dís collapsed, falling onto her knees and then slumping on one side, listening as the gears finally clicked, the ground shuddered beneath her, and the rusting, wrist-thick chains that had been pulled taught for a lifetime sagged and creaked and began to move.

"Dwalin," she gasped and crawled, her legs folding beneath her when she tried to stand. "Dwalin, I did it. We did it." She stretched out and found him, dragging her broken body to the wall. "We did it."

Dwalin’s eyes were closed, mouth slack. With a crushing terror, Dís looped one arm around his shoulders and pulled him into her, feeling for a pulse. It was still there, beating determinedly against her fingertips. Dís let out a long, slow breath, feeling her eyes sting. "Are you still awake?"

"Mm," Dwalin was breathing against her shoulder. She gently took one of his hands, lacing their fingers together.

"Stay with me." She begged. "Just hold on for a little while longer. We'll find the others soon." With a searing throb, she remembered what the orc had told her in the pitch-black room. "Kili's here. He's here, somewhere. I’m going to find him, and I’m going to protect him.” Dís felt a twitch as Dwalin clenched his hand in hers. “Soon. I just need to rest.” She felt beaten and drained and wrung out, every muscle in her body limp and exhausted. Moving seemed impossible, but she would get on her feet again soon. She had to. “I’ll find our boy, Dwalin, I promise.”

* * *

The trail got hotter once they came across the bodies — mostly orcs and a few elves, littered on the ground in a failed stand. Ilzkhaal found Galin’s body, stretched out on his back with a deep wound in his chest, eyes half-open and face still contorted in shock and pain, and found he couldn’t look more than half a second, enduring the horror silently with his nails digging into his uninjured palm, faltering in his step before Shatog roughly grabbed at his elbow and hissed at him to hurry up, that he wasn’t going to wait for Ilzkhaal if he fell behind.

Knowing that Galin was dead didn’t spur Ilzkhaal on. He just mourned, more aware than ever of his own weaknesses and frailty as he clambered over the bodies of orcs bigger and stronger than he could ever hope to be. Ahead of him, the scouts sniffed out a trail, twisting deeper into the rock, towards the rest of the elvish armies. They couldn’t let that happen, Dulug snarled. They had to cut the prince off.

Finally, they found them. A flash of green and silver around the corner, and the guard hissed a rush, a charge, an order to leave white-haired prince alone if they valued their lives. How they planned to take Legolas without hurting him, Ilzkhaal had no idea. Surely he would fight to the death rather than allow himself to be captured a second time. He knew what they were capable of. It was so _wrong_ , the way they treated their own humanity as a sickness, something to spread and infect. And for what? To prove they were this way from necessity? It was so circular and pointless and cruel.

The thing about orcs was that they were silent _._ Ori and Legolas didn’t hear a thing until they were almost on them, and by then it was too late. All they could do was turn around, stand and fight, try and run them through and hope they scattered or were slaughtered. There were only six of them and at least a dozen orcs. Outnumbered, although not impossible, if they stood their ground.

Ilzkhaal tried to tell himself he wasn’t afraid. The arrow-shaft flashed in his mind again, silver and white, and his knuckles whitened on his sword. That was inspiration enough. He kept close to Brumag, a boulder of an orc who had always liked Ilzkhaal in the past. It was an indeterminable cluster of swinging swords and deep shouting and the clash of steel, and for a time it seemed as though nobody knew what was happening.

Legolas looked over his shoulder at Ori. “We’ll handle this. _Run_ and find somebody to help the others!” Dry-mouthed, Ori looked at the press of orcs closing in and nodded. He turned and ran, - not fleeing, he wasn’t running away in fear - the clash of steel diluted, a dull echo rather than a deafening roar.

“ _Fuck_! Ilzkhaal!” Shatog looked at who he had left with a snarl. Ilzkhaal was by far the lightest and fastest of his group, and surely even _he_ could take down a single dwarf. He shouted in Black Speech, his order unheard by the elves. “He’s after reinforcements! Don’t let the dwarf get away!”

“On it!” Abandoning Brumag, Ilzkhaal skirted round the edge of the fight, almost out of sight. He was too small to be taken for any serious threat, not when the orcs still outnumbered the elves in this passage. Ilzkhaal ran and caught up with the dwarf easily, sword still drawn in his hand. Beyond catching him, Ilzkhaal’s mind was a blank. He didn’t want to kill him, not a dwarf. How could Shatog order him to kill a dwarf? He knew about Kili, the bastard. Ilzkhaal willed his hands to stop trembling.

But around the corner, the dwarf was waiting, his own blade drawn and a grim determination etched on his face. The way Kili talked about his own heartless people, Ilzkhaal expected someone more hardened and weathered, but this dwarf was young and wide-eyed, with a straggly, carrotish beard trailing off into a couple of skinny braids. Ilzkhaal faltered, and the dwarf stood frozen too, biting on his lower lip. They stared at each other, about fifteen feet apart, for several moments, uncertain, unwilling, until the dwarf swallowed hard and rushed. Ilzkhaal blocked the first blow but was sent reeling back. The dwarf was stouter than he anticipated, with more force behind his sturdy limbs. He tried to remember what Kili had told him when it came to fighting dwarves, how to aim low and use their weight against him, but just _thinking_ about him in that moment was an agonising distraction. He could see Kili’s lips move in his mind’s eye, see the way the light of the lantern threw shadows across the hollows of his broody face, but he couldn’t remember anything that Kili had said. With a gasp, the dwarf knocked him back. The sword skidded away on the stone and Ilzkhaal backed away on his hands and knees until he was up against the wall, the dwarf breathing heavily, fire in his hazel eyes, the point of his sword an inch from Ilzkhaal’s throat.

 _No._ Ilzkhaal’s hands curled uselessly against the stone as he realised he was going to die. He was too terrified to move in that moment, frozen in his horror, and all he could hear was the hollow drumming of his racing heart beating wildly out of time. He shook, mouth lax, unable to form any words. What would he say? Would he beg for his pathetic life in front of this dwarf? He was just a boy like him; they thrust a sword in his hand and ordered him to kill people, and Ilzkhaal knew if he was in the same position, he’d do it too. There was no mercy there. He looked along the blade, at the gloved hands, at his soft, rounded face. And with nothing else to do, Ilzkhaal took a wild shot in the dark, hoping with every fibre of his being that he didn’t miss the mark. “O-Ori?”

Ori froze. “How do you know my name?” His voice was low and gravelly in his exhaustion, and he sounded much older, more weary, than he really was. The orc kept his hands lowered, eyes trained on Ori’s sword. He reminded Ori in that moment of a cornered animal, wild and desperate but yet meek in its capture. He was long-limbed and bony, clearly just a child, dressed for a march but not for war, a bow and quiver of arrows slung over his back. Ori looked the creature up and down, trying to think. Did Legolas shout his name before? It was all such a haze, and he could barely remember.

Ilzkhaal licked his dry lips, knowing that every word was dangerous, every heartbeat from here on out was borrowed and undeserved. “Kili told me.” He breathed, crouched on the ground with his back against the wall. Ori froze then, his sword lowering at his side. “H-He told me all about you, Ori. A-About you and your brothers, and what Thorin did. About how you’re— different.” Ilzkhaal babbled the first things that came to mind and it came out in a broken, disjointed mess.

Ori shook his head, refusing to believe what he had heard. Kili? _Kili had been with orcs again?_ No— _No_ , not after what they’d done to him. Not after—

But then he remembered, in the quiet solitude of that little library in Lake-Town, Kili’s secret admission. He wished he was with the orcs again, that he thought it would be better to run away and never come back. Well, he ran away. What if he had? What if he had forsaken them all again? Hot rage flushed in Ori’s chest and the sword was at the orc’s neck again, a snarl creasing the bridge of his crooked nose. “No.” He spat. "You’re lying. Kili would _never_ join you again, not after what you did.”

Ilzkhaal’s breath hitched as the sword-point dug in his throat, and in his anger, Ori thought very seriously about killing him. He held his hands up in a gesture of surrender, and Ori caught the leather bracelet around his skinny wrist. He stared at the dwarvish braiding, his eyebrows drawn together in a thoughtful frown, eyes darting from Ilzkhaal’s face to his wrist and back again.

“No…” Ori felt like he’d been struck in the chest. “ _No._ ” Kili wouldn’t— He wouldn’t take such an awful, ugly step backwards. He looked at the orc, with his wide, dark eyes and lip quivering. “You’re _lying.”_ He repeated, even as the sick, heavy realisation grew in his stomach that it was most likely true.

“Please,” Ilzkhaal croaked. “I’m not.” Ori blinked rapidly and shook his head. “You want proof that I know him? When Kili was young, a warg attacked him in the forests north of Ered Luin. He still has the scar on his chest and back. He never knew his father. He swears he can hold his liquor, but his face goes bright red when he’s drunk. He’s a restless sleeper but he never snores.” Slowly, the sword lowered from his neck and Ori took a staggering step backwards, shaking his head.

“Oh, Mahal.” He breathed, his sword loose at his side. Ori leaned against the wall beside Ilzkhaal and slid down to the floor, the metal clattering on the stone floor. Ori stared down at his shoes, feeling oddly light as his head swam, trying to process it. “He’s alive.” That was a small seed of relief, something Ori clung to, a floating log in the water that kept him afloat. “You know him?”

Ilzkhaal held his breath in thought, and cleared his throat. “Barely.” Neither of them could move or look at each other; they stared outwards, sombre and thoughtful. “We found him in the woods near the Grey Mountains, weeks ago.” It was so cold down here, and his bare arms were shivering. He drew his limbs in, hands clasped near his chest. “We were— friends.” Ilzkhaal stopped himself, realising he could never admit to Ori, who had loved Kili for years, what he had done. He found himself smiling at the memory, thinking back on how it was before it all went wrong, how sweet and perfect they were. “He needed…” Ilzkhaal swallowed. Whatever he said, it would be too personal, too painful. He needed _Ori_  and Ilzkhaal was a poor copy, some lovestruck kid who was in too deep, and he knew that now. “He just needed someone to talk to, a place to stay sometimes. You know.”

At the hitch in his voice, Ori looked over to the creature at his side, taking in that smile, that softness, and in an instant he knew. He knew everything. It was like looking into a mirror, with everything he had ever felt towards Kili reflected back in a different skin. The churning tightened in his gut, and Ori could feel himself breaking inside. The orc was in love with Kili. And as he interrupted himself and stared down at his hands and picked at the leather bracelet Kili had woven for him, Ori knew with a rolling tide of horror and anger that they weren’t _just_ friends. It was written all over his face, in every syllable that he spoke. He knew what Kili looked like undressed. They got drunk together. They’d shared a bed together. The _you know_ at the end was such a poor cover-up, and Ori could see right through it. He could see everything. Ori had spent _years_ hiding his love for Kili, pretending it didn’t exist and suffering silently, almost losing his life and freedom for it, and in the space of a few weeks this _orc_ just walked right in and…

Ori let out a long, slow breath, trying to calm himself. After several agonisingly silent moments, he cleared his throat, and the orc finally looked at him. “What’s your name?” Ori demanded so he would have something to pin this face to, a shred of evidence. Something, perhaps, to go to Kili with. He imagined shouting in Kili’s face, hitting him until skin bruised and blood flowed. _How could you do this to me?_

“Ilzkhaal.” Ori’s face had collapsed in his shock and outrage, bearing his betrayal silently. He knew. Of course he did. It was like a little thread that pulled them together, thin and fragile as a strand of hair. They were in love with the same fucked-up person, felt the same exhaustion and agony of trying to love somebody so twisted. It didn’t matter what side they were on, who they were, at that moment. Ori wasn’t jealous or enraged, at least not at him. He just looked crushed.

“Ilzkhaal.” Ori repeated, committing it to memory. It still didn’t make sense. Nothing made sense. Knowing he had pushed Kili away, pushed him into the arms of someone else, made him want to scream and beat his head against the stone. He knew that it was impossible to believe for one moment that Kili could have felt anything for him, but the question burned on his tongue, and Ori knew he could never go on from here without knowing. “Did he love you?” His voice broke and Ori blinked back the sting, feeling so utterly betrayed but at the same time sick with guilt, knowing he had lost any chances to keep Kili, that he could never have him. He’d always known that, had always prepared himself for the inevitable day that Kili finally had somebody else, but he had never, ever in his whole life expected this.

Ilzkhaal let out a harsh laugh, rough and orcish, the hair standing up on the back of Ori’s neck. “Kili doesn’t know to love.” It was a cruel indictment, and Ori could hear the bitterness and pain in Ilzkhaal’s voice. “He’s incapable of it. He just uses people and abandons them when he’s done.” Ori watched him wipe at his face self-consciously, sniffing. “But I still love him and I don’t know why.” He would never admit that to anybody, just Ori, the only other person in the world who could understand how he felt.

The air seemed muffled, too thick to breathe in, and Ori found the air coming out of him in ragged gasps. He wanted to shout back that Ilzkhaal was wrong, that Ori _knew_ Kili and that Kili did know how to love, that there was nobody in this world more honest and open and innocent than him, but Ori knew he was clinging to a fantasy. It just wasn’t true anymore. “I do too.” Even though Ori felt like an entirely different person to who he was just a few months ago, he knew he still loved Kili. He always would.

And knowing there was somebody out there like _him_ , not just somebody who liked males, but who liked _Kili_ , actually brought a sense of relief in Ori as he felt for the first time in his life that he wasn’t entirely alone in this. “I’m sorry.” Ilzkhaal said quietly, toying with the leather cuff. “Kili told me how dwarves are with people like us.” Ori held his breath and listened to the gentle murmur. “You’re not sick, you know.”

“I-I know.” He drew his knees up, knowing he had to move, that sitting here was a death wish, and yet it was so hard to tear himself away from this. “It’s not even all dwarves that think like this. Just us.” Ori found his eyes stinging again as the anguish flowed out. “It’s the loneliest feeling in the world.”

And then Ilzkhaal did something that surprised even him. He reached out and squeezed Ori’s shoulder, just once, briefly, and then let go. “Well, you’re not.” At least he had some sort of reciprocation (if it could even be called that). At least he wasn’t treated like a criminal. It was chilling to look at Ori and think of the life he could have led, to be so ashamed and afraid of himself, for being branded as sick and disturbed for a heart he had no control over. Two completely different people living two completely different lives were bound by their love of the same person, who hovered uncertainly on the boundary between them, and in this stillness, they drank each other's company in, feeling that words would break the solemnity of this moment.

“I wonder who won.” Ilzkhaal eventually remembered there was still a battle on and listened for any sounds along the passageways. There was only a dead, brittle silence. “We had more swords, but you were better trained.”

“Legolas wouldn’t let himself lose. Not again.” Ori watched as Ilzkhaal slowly stood up. “You won’t bring him down.”

“They don’t want to kill him.” Ilzkhaal offered the dwarf his hand and Ori took it, getting back onto his feet. “They want him alive.”

Ori realised in an instant what he meant, heart sinking in his chest. “They want to turn him.”

“We’ve done it once, we can do it again.” Ilzkhaal found his sword and put it back in his belt, realising his hands were shaking. “We’re good at breaking people.” He said it dully, as though it was something he had wrestled with and lost a long time ago. “I’m so sorry, Ori.” Ori’s throat tightened when he realised Ilzkhaal wasn’t talking about Legolas anymore. “I tried, I-I really did. But I couldn’t save Kili from himself. I don’t think he wants to be saved.”

Ori shook his head, heart beating faster in his chest. He couldn’t accept that Kili was irredeemable, that there was no way out for him other than death. There had to be something else going on here, something Ilzkhaal had no idea about. “He’s come home.” Ori whispered, holding onto that last shred of hope before it slipped away forever. “He’s come to save _us._ ”

“Ori!” Thinly, he could hear Legolas along the passage. “Ori, are you still there?” Ori gasped, and at his side, Ilzkhaal let out a soft groan, realising at the same time Ori did that it would have meant the other orcs were all dead.

“Go.” Ori licked his dry lips. “Get out of here. Find what’s left of your people and just run.”

“Thank you.” Ilzkhaal whispered. He gripped Ori’s wrist and held on tight for a few moments. “Just— You are honestly not alone.” He pulled free, his eyes dark with an inexpressible pain and a sharp knot bobbing in his throat. Ori held his breath as he slipped away further along the passage, a grey shape that melted into the shadows, turned a corner and was gone. Reeling, Ori pressed his palm against his forehead, damp and clammy.

“I’m here!” Ori finally saw sense to call back, running in the other direction, feeling physically sick as the full ramifications of what Ilzkhaal had told him finally sank in, about Kili, about himself. He wanted to laugh and scream and cry all at once. So Kili made someone else fall in love with him, had been so desperate and lonely and _manipulative_ that he took him to bed, tried and failed to love him back and then left him. And now he was, back, and with these two halves of a story, Ori didn’t know what was true and what was a lie anymore.

“Kili,” he whispered to himself in the darkness, slowly putting all the pieces together. “What have you _done?”_


	111. So Easily Broken

“This way!” Thorin gestured with his new blade, a handsome broadsword studded with fingernail-sized sapphires and inlaid with silver. A king’s sword, although he keenly felt the loss of his old weapons, particularly Thror’s knife. Mahal, if he could have it back now, he could give it to Kili and...

And what, he wasn’t sure. Start to make amends, that first, tentative step towards forgiveness? Was he even worthy of that? Thorin looked at his youngest nephew, grey-skinned and wild-eyed, with his orcish armour. Kili had taken Bolg’s massive scimitar, and he ran with it slung over his shoulder, the blood desiccating and crumbling away. He was yet to say a word to Thorin beyond those tense, clipped orders. He barely even registered Thorin’s presence. Maybe he was wrapped up in the heat of the battle and wanted to remain focused and ready. Maybe it was just too hard for him to even begin to approach that. Thorin didn’t know.

“I can’t believe it.” Fili panted while they ran. “After all this time, it’s finally _over_.”

“Over?” Kili paused. “You think that because Bolg’s dead the orcs will just crumble?” Thorin and Fili stopped at that, watching him. “Do you think they’re leaderless?”

Thorin visibly tensed. “When Azog lost his arm—”

“Bolg is not Azog.” There was a deep, inexpressive pain in Kili’s eyes. He swallowed hard, blinked, and made it disappear. “He’s not clever. He’s insane, bloodthirsty and greedy, but he’s not clever. He’s got a team of generals ready to carry on without him, and I don’t know how many are left.Ugûrz I slaughtered — he was the one chasing you, Fili — and I saw Barash go down in the front hall, but the rest...” He shrugged, looking fleetingly helpless.

Dismay filled his brother’s face. “You mean it’s not over?”

“Not yet.” Kili’s lip curled. “There’s a lot of fight left in this army, Bolg or not.”

Thorin met his gaze. “Tell us who to look for. Give us names and faces and we’ll hunt them down in these halls. We’ll rally together and take them down, one by one.” He looked from Kili to Fili, his wounded, exhausted boys, with blood on their faces and fire in their eyes. All three of them would fight this to the end, together. It was an unspoken agreement forged in the heat of battle. “We'll rid this mountain — _our_ mountain — our line, of this filth, once and for all."

Here it was. This was Kili's absolution — fighting with his brother, his king, out _there_ where everybody could see. It seemed childish and futile now, to think one battle, one grand gesture would undo everything he'd done. He'd flirted with the idea of redemption before, only to have it come crashing down. Kili wouldn't be naive again. No, this wasn't about any fancies of loyalty. This wasn't about clearing his name. Kili realised, standing in this dark passage with Thorin and Fili looking at him, silently begging for his help, _needing_ him, that this was the only opportunity their people would have for years, centuries, perhaps forever, to not just kill a king of orcs, not just win a battle, but completely, utterly, entirely destroy them. Kili wouldn't just kill Azog’s son today. He would burn his empire to the ground.

"You'll have your mountain." Kili vowed. "Our name will be an orcish curse before the day ends."

* * *

By the time Ilzkhaal found another pack of orcs to join, news of Bolg’s death was winding through the halls. The piercing screech of the mourning-cry echoed back at him in the endless halls of stone, picking up steam. Joining the stream of orcs that didn’t know him, his own allies all dead or missing, Ilzkhaal listened with his heart racing as the ugly story was pieced together; Kili had gone in with Bolg, his brother and the dwarf-king Thorin, the door locked behind them. When his retinue grew impatient and wrenched opened the doors, they found only a black splatter of blood before the throne and a massive, severed white hand.

Somewhere, depths of the mountain, Ilzkhaal imagined Bolg lying there, smothered in the impenetrable darkness with his severed stump of an arm, his body splintered and smashed from the fall. Nobody knew how many had fallen over that perilous bridge; perhaps all four of them fell to their deaths and both sides were kingless. Perhaps Thorin Oakenshield had disposed of Bolg and Kili both, stealing away with his good nephew. Perhaps (and this was something that Ilzkhaal both couldn’t bear to think but couldn’t stop contemplating) Kili had killed Bolg himself and made off with his estranged family.

The last one was inconceivable. Utterly, utterly inconceivable. Ilzkhaal was _there._ He saw the way Kili’s face darkened when he talked about his brother. He held him while he cried, when all that rage and anguish came spilling out. That, Ilzkhaal knew, was the real Kili, not some stone-faced assassin. Kili was wounded, perhaps fatally, from what his people had done to him. He was angry and betrayed and just wanted to be loved.

No, there was no way that Kili could ever go back to them. But as Ilzkhaal followed the stream of orc-feet down this passage, to where a chamber of annoyingly plucky dwarves (not Erebor dwarves, but yellow-haired eastern creatures) was blocking an entranceway into the royal halls, he recounted in his head, over and over, the brief, bone-shattering conversation he’d had with Ori, the strange dwarf who suffered the same affliction that he did; loving the unlovable. _He’s come home_ , Ori had whispered. _He’s come to save us._ Of course the idea that Kili was some sort of spy had crossed Ilzkhaal’s mind more times than he’d ever admit to himself. All the pieces were there — he had shown up out of the blue after spending weeks with his own family in a story he never fleshed out. He had lied about killing Azog. He was lying about his allegiance to Bolg. All of those lies… so, so many lies. But Ilzkhaal, who had seen Kili at his most desperate, who thought he knew him better than anyone, refused to believe that Kili could be capable of something so utterly twisted and heartless.

But how could he forget the last night he’d had with Kili? Sitting there, listening to Kili _boast_ that he’d been playing Bolg his whole time for some mysterious end that he’d never quite reveal, listening to him grow cold and threatening when he said Ilzkhaal was too weak to ever know the truth...

The realisation knocked the breath out of him. Ilzkhaal staggered, leaning against the wall as his knees crumpled beneath him. His head swam and as he looked down at his hands, his vision blurred in and out of focus. It couldn’t be true. It _couldn’t_. It just didn’t make sense. How could Kili do this? How could he spend weeks constructing such an elaborate network of lies? Ilzkhaal had told Kili his deepest fears and wildest hopes, had revealed everything about himself. He loved Kili, more fiercely and completely than he’d ever loved anyone else and this whole time, Kili just _used_ him. How could he sleep in Ilzkhaal’s bed, eat his food and drink his drink, _hold his son_ , while at the same time working to destroy them?

Everything had been a lie. Ignored by the flood of footsteps, Izkhaal bowed his head, the rushing whirl reaching a violent climax in his ears, threatening to suck him under. Everything Kili had ever said and done was all part of some intricate scheme and Ilzkhaal was just a pawn, a tool, an alibi. He was _nothing_. How stupid could he have been? How blind and thoughtless was he, to not see that he’d been played this whole time?

“You son of a bitch,” Ilzkhaal whispered brokenly, as though Kili could somehow hear him in this stone maze. The march of orcs had faded, leaving Ilzkhaal alone the dark. Completely alone.

* * *

"Bloody bastards!" Gloin huffed the moment he could take a breath. "Cut one down, and two pop up in their place." They were being pushed back, inch by inch, moment by moment, along a narrow but vital passage that connected the eastern halls to the throne room and the treasures beyond. The aged veterans of Erebor - Balin, Oin, Gloin, and Dori, knew it was vital to hold it.

Balin had to relay the crippling news of Thorin and Fili in jagged shouts, bellowing over the deafening clang of metal. Despair didn't belay them; they redoubled their efforts, this tiny cluster of Durin’s Folk. They fought for the memory of their king. But he looked now and saw them flagging. They needed reinforcements. They needed to find Dís. For a fleeting moment, Balin wondered if she would challenge Dain’s claim to the throne, now she was the last heir of Thror left.

But they couldn't spare even one person; the line was as thin and frail as a spider's web. Balin had been in more than his fair share of desperate last stands in the past, but this was the first time he had ever fought alone, without Dwalin or Thorin at his side. He felt their loss keenly, as though he fought without armour, a wooden toy sword in his hand. Bombur grabbed his arm, pulled him to his knees and bellowed in his ear. "Down!" Arrows whizzed above him, one and then another. They weren't the graceful silver of elves or the yellow of men. They were black. For a horrifying moment, Balin thought they were surrounded and the filth were trying to pick them off one by one. He looked over his shoulder, grip tightening on his axe.

It was Thorin. A choked gasp rattled in his throat and Balin scrabbled to his feet. He was bruised and bloody but _alive._ At his right was Fili and at his left a strange, alien creature in black. Balin thought at first it was an orc, with that grey skin and cruel-looking scimitar slung at his waist, but when he caught a flash of brown eyes as the creature lifted his bow, recognition dawned.

“Kili,” He croaked. Kili snarled, let the arrow fly dangerously close to Balin’s ear. It stuck in the throat of an orc who was going for him, the body falling with a hitch-pitched squeal. The sound jolted Balin back into reality, back to a battle they were so dangerously close to losing.

“Back!” He bellowed. “Rally to Thorin!” All three of them seemed unreal in a way, a hallucination. But when Balin ran back, Bombur and Gloin hot on his heels, took his position beside Fili, he briefly touched the young dwarf’s arm, feeling solid flesh, mail and bone. They formed a spear, piercing the bristling orcish battalion in the heart.     Thorin’s survival breathed a new life into them, and in that moment, they were invincible. They weren’t being pushed back anymore. Spurred on by their king, they soon weren’t just holding their position. The dwarves were moving forward, regaining precious ground. Finally the orcs, realising their defeat, were fleeing. Thorin called a halt in their native tongue, to hold the passage and let them go. Kili pushed on, running after them in an effort to keep up his relentless slaughter and Fili had to grab his arm, pull him back and shout for him to stop. Kili shouted at the fleeing orcs’ backs in their own language, his voice  mangled and hoarse.

“Thorin.” Catching his breath, Balin could scarcely believe it. “How did you get out? I thought it was a trap.”

“It was a trap.” Fili was still holding onto Kili’s arm. Everyone stilled at the rough words, looking at him. Kili wiped at his forehead, smearing a fresh spatter of black blood over his skin. “Bolg fell for it perfectly.”

“Bolg?” Balin echoed as the pieces fell into place. “So he’s…”

“Dead.” Thorin sounded exhausted, but there was a fire burning in his eyes, hot as a gas-flame, and he was smiling at Balin. “Bolg’s dead.”

“We’ve won, then!” Bofur was tempted to cheer. “What are we waiting for? Let’s polish off these bastards.”

“We haven’t won anything.” Kili walked back to the cluster of dwarves, picking his way over the bodies. They stood in a semi-circle with Thorin and Balin in the middle, all looking at him again with a mixed wonder, curiosity, and in one or two of the older dwarves, distrusts. Kili didn’t blame them for that. “I’ve been on the march with Bolg’s army since the Grey Mountains. He was not a good king. We need to take down his generals if we want a chance. They’re the ones that will be in control.”

“We need to link back up with Dain’s soldiers to have a chance.” Gloin said. “We can’t push out further with just the ten of us.”

Thorin looked troubled. “We can’t lose this passage. This is a line right into the central halls. If orcs get into the treasure rooms and the palace itself, we can’t hold them.”

“The throne room’s already taken, and they must know by now that Bolg’s dead.” Kili spoke up. “They’ll be looking for us. From there, they could go almost anywhere.”

“If we had those gates down, we’d cut their armies in pieces.” Thorin muttered. “But they’re on the other side of the Great Hall, and that’s completely lost.”

“We didn’t plan for this.”

“Because you don’t know how orcs think.” Kili looked over his shoulder, back at the empty passage. “They’re not some rabble of mindless servants obeying a single leader. They know exactly what they’re doing.”

“How much do they know?” Balin asked. “What do they know about us?”

Kili shot him a filthy look. “I didn’t rat you out. I’ve never _been_ here before, Balin. I’m as much a stranger in these halls as Bolg was.” Fili gripped his elbow at that, shook his head, and with a sigh, Kili backed down. “Look, there were ten generals, each with about five hundred of their own. That’s Bolg’s army. The others—”

“Others?”

“Conscripts from the Grey Mountains. Bolg bullied a commander in a western outpost town to give him a couple of thousand orcs as a shield-body.” Kili stared briefly at the ground, at a headless, grey-limbed body with dented iron armour, and then looked up, swallowing. “Untrained farmers and artisans, mostly. No doubt they’re all dead by now.”

“We take down the generals, then we break their chain of command.” Balin nodded in understanding. “They won’t have anyone to answer to.”

“Pushing blindly forward with a handful of dwarves guarding the king is pointless.” Kili looked at Thorin. “We need to be smart and regroup with more. Accept we’ve lost this hall and move on.”

Fili shook his head. “We can’t afford to lose this. They’ll be back soon, with more soldiers. We need to be ready. If we find reinforcements, we might have a chance of holding it.”

Thorin stared at them, his nephews, at odds with each other but both practical and clever. They were both right, but there weren’t enough dwarves to both hold this hall and push on. The decision was his to make in the momentary silence of the passage. They waited for his order; his family, his subjects, ready to fight and die for him a heartbeat, looking and listening with nothing but respect and loyalty. Even Kili seemed to have laid aside his previous discord, focusing entirely on the battle.

He was a king again.

* * *

Dís closed her eyes and thought she was dreaming. Flashes of colour danced before her eyes, foggy and indeterminable. There were distant voices, cries for help or for war in a language she didn’t know. She sank, or floated — it was impossible to tell in this suspended reality. The body against her shuddered and the movement brought her back down, or up, back into the stone room that felt as dim and quiet as a tomb.

“Dwalin,” she tightened her fingers around his, “are you still there?” Dwalin mumbled something, words slurring. Dís lifted her head and saw that his eyes were closed now. He was fading. The crushing horror of what was happening filled her slowly, rolling up her body until she was shivering, her heart a lump of ice.

He was dying. She cradled his head in her good hand and gently touched his face. There was no response, no recognition. With a sob breaking in her throat, Dís carefully lay him down so he was on his side. The blood had seeped through her makeshift bandage and matted on the side of his face, congealed and sticky. All colour and life seemed to have bleed out of Dwalin, and just a pale shadow remained.

“This can’t be the end of you.” Tears dripped from her nose, her stupid Durin nose, as she leaned over him, trickling down his chalk-white cheeks and into his beard. “You’ve fought through so much more than this.” Dís seized his hand and pressed it to her lips. His fingers were cold and lifeless. “Please.” She begged against his bloodstained tattoos. “Please, Dwalin, just hold on. Don’t go like this.”

The rage and injustice burned inside of her, turning that ice-heart into a searing coal. Everything they were so close to making together after a century of agonising loneliness was falling apart, piece by piece, and Dís couldn’t hold it together. This was supposed to be the start of something new, a second beginning for them, and yet Dís was slowly realising that she would be leaving this room alone, and would be alone for the rest of her life.

“I have to go.” She rubbed a small circle on the back of his hand with her thumb. “I-I’m so sorry, but I have to. I have to find Kili. You understand, don’t you, love? Of course you do.” With her free hand, Dís wiped at her face. “But I’ll be back with help, as soon as I can. Those elves and their magic, they can fix anything.” But they couldn’t bring back the dead. “Just hold on long enough for me to come back.”

She folded one of his arms and rested his bleeding head on it, supporting his neck and keeping his face down. “Just hold on. I know you can fight this. Bifur lay in the mountains for three days with a bloody great axe in his face. You can hold on for a few hours.” Dís sniffed. “But if you— you don’t, you know I loved you. Ever since Kili was a little baby, I’ve loved you. If I could have chosen anyone to spend my life with, it would have been you in a heartbeat. It’s always been you.” She pressed their foreheads together, lips brushing for what she felt, deep in her heart, to be the last time. “Please, don’t leave me.”

Getting to her feel again was a battle in itself. Her broken shoulder felt like shattered glass grinding into the muscles and veins, every other joint ached, and her limbs were boneless with exhaustion. Her broken, beaten body screamed with every step. She staggered for the doorframe and pulled herself through, her will utterly unbreakable. “I’m coming, Kili.” Dís vowed, walking along the passageway with one hand on the wall. “I’m coming for you.”

* * *

“This way!” Thorin guided the group as they turned a corner, pointing his sword. In the end, he trusted Kili. Not because he believed it was the better plan, or because he wanted to reforge that broken kinship between them, but because he knew the orcish army. He knew what they were capable of. Kili’s cynicism was tempered after months of forced assimilation, and Thorin knew it was dangerous, too dangerous, to underestimate them. “Hurry! Fili, Kili, stay behind and watch our backs.” His nephews obeyed, lingering back to let them all pass — Thorin, Balin, Oin and Gloin, Dori, Bifur Bofur and Bombur. So few.

“Where’s _Amad_?” Kili asked, dark eyes fixed on his brother. “And Dwalin and Nori and Ori?” He gripped Fili’s elbow then, the darkness erupting in a burst of flame. “Where’s Ori?”

Fili paused. Of course; Kili didn’t know anything. He didn’t know about Fili’s betrayal and the ugly mess that followed. The last glimpse he’d seen of Ori was when Thorin had discarded him. “He’s all right.” Fili promised. “I sent him into the galleries with the elvish archers. It’s safe there.”

Kili frowned. “Elves?”

“Long story.” Fili jerked his head towards the dwarves. “Later. We have to move.” It wasn’t enough; he could see it in Kili’s eyes, smouldering away. His brother had become sharper and more perceptive in his exile. He had to be clever if he wanted to survive. Part of Fili was afraid of the truth coming out. What would Kili say when he realised he’d risked their lives for someone who had rejected them both?

A deep rumble in the earth made them all stand still. The air groaned, and, distantly, the ground shuddered. The dwarves formed an instinctive knot, anticipating attack, but the tunnel was deathly silent.

“What was that?” Bofur demanded, wide-eyed. “Are they gettin’ into the walls now?”

Thorin and Balin exchanged looks. “If I didn’t know any better,” Balin said slowly, “I would say that sounded like the gates.”

“Dwalin.” Thorin pressed his palm against the stone wall as his heart lifted. The memory of their last parting stung fresh in his mind, and he clenched his hand into a fist. He was alive, at least. There was still time for Thorin to make amends, to undo the damage he’d done to his closest friend. He mouthed an apology now, as though Dwalin could somehow hear it through the twisting maze of stone. _I’m so sorry._ “That’s held the tunnels to the throne room, at least.” Grimly, Thorin turned his face towards the dark beyond. “We need to find Dain.”

But before they could do that, the now numbingly-familiar clash of steel greeted them. There was an intersection. To the right, the passage continued towards the royal halls. To the left, it opened into the walkway that led ultimately to the city. It wasn’t particularly strategic, but an opening was an opening, and Thorin immediately started to help them, running forward. Halfway down the staircase, still shrouded in darkness, he stopped, sheathing his sword.

As he caught up, Fili saw why. Several dozen Ironfists were holding the chamber, or trying to, against an onslaught of orcs. They fought desperately, but the sun-haired dwarves were losing ground. Soon, they would have to flee, and outnumbered like this they would be cut down one by one in the twisting darkness. Fili’s grip tightened on his weapon. Without another moment’s hesitation, he found himself taking a step down the staircase, and another, before Thorin grabbed his shoulder and hauled him back. “What are you doing?” He hissed venomously, sounding like the Thorin of before.

“They’re defending _our_ home.” Fili shot back, pulling free. “We can’t just leave them to die.” Thorin faltered. In this tangled mess of fractured, tentative alliances and bitter enmity, it was easy to forget that they fought a common foe. But dwarves or not, the Ironfists occupied a very black part of Thorin’s heart. Some things could never be forgiven. Fili’s father was as destructive as Smaug and cruel as Azog with what he had done to Dís, and Thorin would carry that hatred with him forever.

But Fili, who suffered under the Ironfists as a child, who bore the scars on his soul, Fili would defend them. Dain sneered and said it was desperation when he found out about Fili’s alliance, but Thorin knew that wasn’t it at all. It wasn’t about power or pride. Fili had never cared about any of that. He did it out of kindness. All he had done in this battle was defend others without any thought for himself. Fili was a wiser, stronger, kinder dwarf than Thorin could ever hope to be. So Thorin followed him. Wrenching the sword from his sheath, the metal gleamed in a finger of winter daylight as he leaped to the bottom of the stairs, a bellow in his throat.

Fili ran towards the only familiar face he could see. “Úni!” The fur over his shoulders was black with orc-blood and he fought through a nasty-looking gash on his neck, a hair’s-breadth from the artery. Úni reeled at the voice, and staggered back. His bloodied face lit up at the sight of Fili, teeth flashing in a brief grin.

“Fili!” Úni grabbed him and crouched behind a fallen piece of stonework. “Mahal, you don’t know how glad I am to see you.” Worry creased his face, as he looked over the crumbling rock. “We’re stuck here. Víglund was run through and I can’t—” Úni choked up. “I can’t get us out.” Kili and Thorin were listening over Fili’s shoulder. Úni looked at them now, eyes widening. “Are you...”

“The gate.” Thorin clapped Fili on the shoulder, looking across the chamber. It was a heavy, geometric lattice of iron. Kili followed his gaze. The chain was stuck; near the top, Kili saw an iron ring locked in the links, keeping the gate lifted. “It was faulty, so we fixed it stiff. Thror was going to take it out completely and replace it, but Smaug came first.”

“Bastard!” Úni panted. “We’ll never get through—”

“I’ll be two minutes.” Kili jumped over the hunk of stone and into the fray. He was met with howls, screeches of betrayal and curses at the sight of Bolg’s scimitar, which Kili wielded with a lightness and grace that seemed impossible in his small hands.

“Kili!” Fili screamed and made to scrabble over the rock, but Thorin held him back. Kili didn’t need help. Even though he was surrounded, Kili managed fight through. Fili, Thorin and Úni led the dwarves in a renewed attack, trying to spearhead the cluster of orcs and give him cover. Through the bewildering fight, Fili watched, open-mouthed. Kili cut the leg out from under a massive orc, easily twice Kili’s height, grabbed the back of his armour, and _threw_ him several feet. The orc crumpled against the wall, crushing several creatures beneath his massive weight. Kili clambered on his massive frame and jumped. He caught the chain, thrusting Bolg’s scimitar in his belt, and lifting his legs just out of reach, began to climb.

Hand over hand, he seemed unbelievably fast. The iron ring was twelve feet up, dancing from Kili’s weight. It was thicker than the chain itself, fastened with a fist-sized lock that would never be undone. Kili sucked in a breath and looked down. Two orcs were following him, slower, straining to lift themselves up. Someone tried to throw a spear at him and Kili dodged, swearing. There wasn’t anything these for it. His hands balled into fists around the chain, the veins and tendons protruding from his wrists as he summoned every ounce of strength he had left. The ring felt red-hot around his finger. With a grunt, Kili pulled.

Thorin froze, staring in disbelief as Kili broke the chain in two with sheer force, ripping the pulley out of the wall and sending chips of granite flying. The gate fell with a groan, crushing and impaling several orcs unfortunate enough to be caught beneath it. Their screams, brief as they were, and the sickening crunch that followed made the hairs rise on his neck.

Kili fell too, landing breathlessly on his side. His fall was cushioned by some Ironfist body, but his heavy iron armour still stunned him. He lay still for a moment, gasping for air as his head swam. It was long enough for one lucky orc to strike, lunging at Kili with his blade aimed at his neck. Kili rolled to the side and sprang up just in time, killing the orc with a swift, immediate blow to the heart.

On the other side of the iron fence, orcs rattled the bars and howled, as though they could shift several tons of laced metal in their hands. They watched their comrades die one by one, backed up against the gate, some trying hopelessly to squeeze through the gaps and getting killed in the process. The Ironfists were brutal and merciless in their slaughter, having already lost a good dozen or their own, including their leader Víglund, in this room. The orcs would pay in blood.

The scimitar slipped through Kili’s fingers as he watched the cruel scene unfold. It wasn’t a fight; it was _murder_ , the way they pinned the orcs, knowing they couldn’t escape, going for the stomach of limbs, incapacitating them so they bled and suffered before they died, while the others stretched through the bars (some losing their hands for it) to try and fight for their trapped brothers. Kili watched limply, listening to them scream with a deadness in his eyes, his mouth a flat, expressionless line.

The crowd seethed at the gates, howling, and thrashing. Kili stared, feeling the pressure rise in his throat as the noise reached a crescendo. And then through it all, just when it was too deafening and he was about to turn away, Kili caught a chillingly familiar face, narrow and bony, and a pair of wide black eyes.

He gasped, mouth falling open as Ilzkhaal clung to the bars, fighting against the tide of writhing bodies. They stared at one another through the geometric weave of iron, Kili melting in relief that he was still alive, Ilzkhaal contorted in a deep, ugly rage. They were unable to speak to each other through the din, but neither of them needed to in that moment. Ilzkhaal’s fingers curled around the bars and his snarl deepened, twisted unnaturally, and Kili’s mouth sagged, drooping downwards in the sick realisation that Ilzkhaal hated him. This was something he had always been afraid of. It was partly why Kili ended it like he did, cutting Ilzkhaal out before he could uncover the truth. Seeing that pain and betrayal in his soft dark eyes, watching his lips move, trembling with silent curses against his name, it brought out the fear in a rushing wave. Kili had done a messy job of tearing out his heart.

There was no sorry Kili could ever give, because nothing would be enough. Nothing could undo the pain he had caused and as he stood there, watching Izkhaal well up and spill over, clinging to the bars and unable to tear himself away as he was elbowed and jostled and stepped on, Kili felt his own heart breaking from that guilt. He could kill without a second thought, lie his way right to the top in order to get what he wanted, but one boy, who could have been his whole undoing, had brought Kili a hair’s-breadth to the brink, made him question everything he thought he stood for with his judgeless love. And in return, Kili took that love and crushed it in his hands, the same way he caved in Throquûrz’ face and slaughtered Bolg and brought down the gate, sealing the orcs’ doom. All he ever did was destroy.

Seeing Kili didn’t make it hurt any less. Ilzkhaal whispered the worst words he knew, lost in the cacophony of protesting orcs, but he _knew_ that Kili understood it all. He didn’t need to read Ilzkhaal’s lips when the hatred was so plain in his eyes. Crying was embarrassing; he didn’t want to cry, didn’t want to reveal just how much Kili had hurt him, but Ilzkhaal was too exhausted to do anything else. He’d lost too much already — his cousin, his childhood friends, the archers he’d worked with for years, and to lose Kili too, like _this_ , was a knife-wound he didn’t know he could recover from.

And when Kili stared back, open-mouthed, his shoulders slumping as he absorbed the reality of what he was seeing, Ilzkhaal realised he suffered too. There was a real hurt in his eyes, or what looked like it, and as Kili pressed his lips together and swallowed hard, his shoulders heaving, Ilzkhaal dared to believe that he was trying to say sorry for what he’d done. Kili took a step towards him, and another, his eyes fixed on Ilzkhaal like it was some sort of enchantment. He paid no heed to the writhing crowd of orcs that screamed for blood, for dwarf-blood, for Kili-blood. Nothing else in the world seemed to exist.

Ilzhaal pressed his forehead against the iron bar, as though he could squeeze through it. He possibly could, if he tried hard. He was thin enough. It was best that this veil of iron hung between them; Ilzkhaal felt that he would try and kill Kili if he had the chance, take him apart, make him bleed. Nobody had driven Ilzkhaal to thoughts of murder before, not even when his own life was at risk, but when he looked at Kili, all he wanted to do was make him hurt. Kili came closer, those shadowed eyes fixed on him, walking with the fractured shuffle of someone in a dream.

Kili saw it all playing out in Ilzkhaal’s head. He thought the very worst of Kili in that moment — liar, traitor, user. It was all true, and Kili couldn't defend himself. Even if he shouted at the top of his lungs, Ilzkhaal wouldn't hear a word over the roar of heaving, swearing orcs. Any apology that Kili offered now would be so paltry, so pathetic and pointless that it was a waste of breath to utter them. Leaving it like this was one of his worst fears, but as they stood facing each other, deaf and mute, there was nothing that could be said or done.

"Kili!" Fili grabbed at his shoulder and broke the spell. “What are you doing? Quick, we have to go!" He pulled at Kili's arm, trying to hurry him along.  

"I—" Kili's voice broke, and his brother fell still. He finally saw Kili's face, the slack semi-circle of his lips and the way his brows met and his dark eyes. Fili looked over his shoulder, trying to follow the line of his vision, but all he saw was the writhing crowd of orcs, rattling the bars as though they could bend and break them. “I’m coming.”

He turned away, the last in the cluster of the dwarves to lead the chamber, with Fili still holding onto his wrist. The pressure rose in his throat until it burned and his head was swimming again as he realised he would never, ever see Ilzkhaal again.

Ilzkhaal withdrew, fighting his way back through the crowds until he stood on open ground, shadowed as it was. The orcs were growing quiet now as the dwarves left them, the shrieks of anger softening to a mournful proclamation for the dead and dying. He closed his eyes and all he could see was Kili, his face collapsing in a shredding guilt that Ilzkhaal knew — hoped — despite all the lies and betrayal and secrets that he had kept all this time, was real.

As soon as he could, Fili stopped for air. “Kili, are you—”

“I’m fine.” Kili didn’t look at him. He lifted his eyes to the ceiling for a moment, blinked rapidly and quickly dragged his wrist over his face. Did Fili see? Did he notice, in that teeming crowd, a still, solitary figure clinging to the bars? Or did it all look the same to him, a shapeless mass of black and grey? When the brief sting passed, he looked back at his brother and forced a tight, unconvincing smile. “I’m fine.”

“How did you do that?” There wasn’t time for Fili to try and press further, as Thorin grabbed Kili by the arms and shook him. “How did you break iron with your…” Kili had lifted his hands up to try and pull free, bringing his balled fists into Thorin’s eyeline. He trailed off at the sight of Thrain’s heavy silver ring, breath catching in his throat as he took a step back. “No.” He knew in an instant what it meant, what it all meant. The years, decades of hoping, waiting for some kind of answer, for a sign, wondering if his father had made it out alive of Azanulbizar or if he’d been lost amongst the sea of the dead too mutilated to name, if he had been left to wander the wildlands until madness claimed him, if he’d been captured by somebody, imprisoned or murdered. All the wondering, a hundred years of it, dissolved as he looked at the ring on Kili’s finger, an ancient, heavy grief that had slumbered in his mind shaking itself awake with an earth-shattering crash in his head.

“Thorin?” Fili rushed to his uncle’s side as his face went grey, a strangled, wild groan issuing from his throat. “Thorin, what’s wrong?”

There was that look, the look Bolg wanted to see. That horrible revelation as Thorin processed his father’s end, something he knew all along, in the back of his mind, but stubbornly refused to believe without proof. Kili lowered his hands. “Bolg said he was still alive—”

“Bolg gave you my father’s ring.” Kili fell silent. Thorin’s voice quavered. “Did he tell you what it was?”

“An old family heirloom.” Balin, who now saw what Thorin saw, stood quietly, the grief set in deep lines on his aged face as he too realised what it all meant.

“An heirloom.” Thorin repeated, sounding strained. “Kili, that ring is one of the greatest and darkest treasures of our people. It gives the wearer an… an inhuman power and strength.” Even though he had never been told, Kili already knew that. He could feel the ring’s own pulse in the dead of night, throbbing against his finger, feel it grow hot and then sometimes cold regardless of his own body heat. And who could forget what he had done since Bolg had given it to him, how bone and steel alike crumbled in his hand like dried, brittle leaves? Kili was a weapon to Bolg, and the ring was his whetstone, sharpening the blade.

“Why give it to Kili?” The old protectiveness flashed in Fili’s eyes, cautious and mistrusting. He couldn’t believe that Bolg would ever do anything for his brother’s benefit.

“Because it’s not a good power.” Balin spoke up. “It was made by—" He broke off when he realised Kili wouldn't understand who he meant. "It brings despair to anybody who wears it.” For Thrain, though, and for his ancestors before him, it was a price they were willing to pay for the wealth and power that it offered as reward. “None of our people have ever given in to the darkness and fallen under its control, but Bolg would have thought…” Balin didn’t dare to finish.

“He thought wrong. I fought that darkness and I already won.” Kili snarled. His hand balled into a fist at his side, and he turned away from the other three. “You can discuss my soul later. We have to keep moving.”

* * *

The gates did tremendous good, where they held. The battle that was dispersed through twisting passages and halls tightened, and the survivors, assured of their safety behind their webs of iron, could replan, rethink and regroup. Ori and Legolas found Dillan, and Ori took the healer to the injured archers while Legolas vanished, searching for Tauriel or his father. Ori didn’t mind shirking the rush of battle to be a nurse for the wounded. He could do more nurturing and helping than he ever could fighting.

By the time Thorin made it to the central hall, the battle had turned to a desperate final stand, poised precariously on a knife-edge. It was the only way left in (Smaug had blasted through in his initial destruction and destroyed the gate entirely), and the only way out. Kili claimed they had killed two of Bolg’s generals along the way in desperate hand-to-hand clashes that were about escape as much as victory, picking up about fifty of Dain’s soldiers  — leaderless now, their commanders slaughtered, out of reach of Dain, they called Thorin’s name in joy and reverence — along the way.

Now, he, Fili, Kili, Balin and Úni crouched around a gallery window looking down onto the battle below. The orcs, many still on wargs, were matched in skill and numbers against the elves, men and dwarves, who tried and failed to spearhead the black army. They were close enough to make out details, shapes, and figures, while still overseeing the battle as a whole. Thranduil’s hair gleamed liquid silver in the light, and they could see the pinprick-fire of Gandalf’s illuminated staff, and, thin as a needle, Bilbo’s elvish sword, glowing blue. Thorin’s face tightened at the sight, and he looked determinedly somewhere else.

“There.” Kili pointed. “See that orc with the baby skulls for shoulder-plates, near the wall? That’s Khatûrz. He’s a bad one, shrewd as anything and deadly accurate with a spear, but he can be taken down hand-to-hand. He broke his left ankle as a child, and while he claims it doesn’t slow him down, it’s definitely a weakness.”

Úni beamed. “You’re _brilliant.”_

Kili bit back a smile. “On the left side, fighting the men on the steps leading to the throne room, that’s Âshûrz, his brother. He’s the one with the warg’s skull for a helmet.”

“Orcs and their skulls,” Fili muttered. “They’re obsessed with decorative bones.”

Kili looked over his shoulder at him. “Bones are a symbol of what was once living. Gems and metal were always dead.” His gaze returned to the ground below. “He’s a lumbering idiot who only got to where he is because he laughed the loudest at Bolg’s jokes. Easy finish.” Over Kili’s bent head, Balin and Thorin exchanged a glance. “The old orc in the middle, the one fighting Thranduil right now, that’s Mautor. He’s the leader of the Grey Mountains orcs that Bolg pilfered. The moment he’s down, they’ll all run. They’re only interested in the elves. And— damn, damn, where is he…” Kili leaned out further, squinting.

“Kili, stay back!” Fili grabbed one of the broken, protruding bones from his shoulderplates.

“I need to find Grishthak. He’s the worst of ‘em. He’s the only one clever enough to realise I was faking.” Kili was frowning. “ _Ishi_!”

“What does he look like?” Thorin asked as Kili admitted defeat.

“Tall. Almost as tall as Azog. Same breed, but he’s not as pale. One of his ears has been cut off, there’s only a hole left. He’s old, probably the oldest orc out there. Funny enough, he _doesn’t_ put bones on his armour. Could be the only one.” Kili gripped the windowsill, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “We don’t have enough dwarves to go after both.”

Thorin grunted, looking out over the battle again. “The first one. The one you said was clever.”

“Khatûrz?” Thorin nodded at him. “Yeah, I’d say so too. He’s the only one clever enough to plan any sort of positioned attack. Âshûrz would just charge and run, and we can hold that.”

“We attack the flank.” Thorin drew a line in the air. “Two sides, Durin’s Folk at the front, then the Ironfists on the right, boxing him and his soldiers in against the wall.” He looked at Úni now, a scowl pulling at his lips. “Can I trust you to pull off a planned attack, or will you be a pack of savage brutes again?”

Úni drew in a quick breath, temporarily lost for words and a little abashed. “Thorin,” Fili could speak, though, and he did now, his voice remarkably quiet and restrained, “Úni’s my cousin, you know.”

Thorin faltered. “Second.” Úni corrected him. “Second cousin.” He wiped at the blood on his neck and fixed a more serious look on his face, trying to look steady and unshakable. “We’ll hold the right flank. Trust me.”

This was, and everyone knew it, the final stand. It couldn’t keep going on like this. Everybody was wounded and exhausted. Outside, the light had turned to a dull, heavy grey, streaming in through the careful slits of rock. Evening beckoned as Thorin led the charge, his bloodstained sword pale.

Khatûrz was surrounded by a bodyguard; they must have known that he was the last one with any clout left. He was pointing with his spear, shouting across the fray as he tried to bring the orcs into formation. It was daunting; The orcs outnumbered the dwarves two to one here, and they were the hardened warriors, the strongest and toughest that had managed to survive for this long. Kili gritted his teeth and tried to ignore the pain in his leg as he ran, charging on Thorin’s left with Gloin beside him, as though he was part of the company and the family again.

They caught the orcs by surprise with their renewed vigour. Khatûrz’s guard and surrounding retinue were fighting a slim number of Dain’s dwarves, who rallied to Thorin’s call and surged forward in step with him. At first, Khatûrz tried to push back, to bully the smaller creatures down, but Thorin’s iron resolve was contagious, and the dwarves fought with their feet rooted in the stone, refusing to give an inch. Khatûrz tried to spread out his line of defence and hem the dwarves in. That’s when Úni, leading his contingent of Ironfists, rushed to the flank, creating a wall of steel and blood the orcs would struggle to break through.

“Fili!” Thorin shouted over the din. “Stay here and keep boxing them in. Whatever happens, don’t break your position!” Fili nodded. “Kili, come with me. We’ll get him."

“Got it.” Fili and Kili exchanged a brief, knowing glance, silently promising each other that they’ll be back soon. “Go!”

Thorin and Kili had never fought as a pair before. They had sparred — or tried to — on the odd occasion, but Thorin disliked the way that Kili shifted his weight when he fought. Aldin gave him some bad habits in his archery lessons, and no matter how many times Thorin patiently tried to teach Kili to ground himself and fight like a traditional dwarf, Kili simply ignored him and continued to shift on the balls of his feet, ducking and dodging, as spry as a young elf. Thorin couldn’t predict what he’d do next, and it unsettled him. But whether it was the orcs or Thrain’s ring, something had changed in Kili’s stance. The fragility had vanished, and he was a true fighter — focused, assured, quick and cunning. He seemed to predict what was going to happen — a slash of a sword or swing of a club — and dodge out of the way, finding weak spots in that moment of surprise.

Kili pierced through the fray the with needlepoint accuracy, striking into the heart. Surrounded by only half-a-dozen guards now, the rest desperately trying to hold their position, Kili easily cut through two and found their leader, snapping Khatûrz’ spear in two with Bolg’s nasty scimitar. Khatûrz went down on knee, but he was quicker than the lumbering beasts Kili had cut through with ease, anticipating that he would go for his head. He pitched forward with a roar, knocking Kili to the ground. The handle, slick with blood, slipped through Kili’s fingers and as he tried to scrabble for it, Khatûrz half-stunned him with a punch to the head.

They brawled like drunks in the street, with nothing but their fists as weapons. Thorin bellowed, trying to fight through the crowd, but while he was undoubtedly strong and skilled, toughened from two centuries of fighting, he just didn’t have Kili’s speed, and he lagged behind. All he could do was watch helplessly as Khatûrz got one arm around Kili’s neck, trying to choke the life out of him, twisting his left arm behind him until it was close to breaking. Kili struggled in his chokehold, twisting until he could bite down on Khatûrz’s arm until the blood flowed, hanging on doggedly by his teeth and tearing until the orc released him with a howl. Kili spat something grey out of his mouth and whirled around, trying to catch Khatûrz while he was still holding his bleeding forearm.

Remembering the way he turned Throquûrz into a bloodied pulp, Kili intended to go for the head. But he was slow, his head still whirling from the lack of air, pulse thudding so heavily in his ears that he couldn’t hear anything else. His first blow was off-target, bruising but not bone-crunching as it was before, with little strength behind it; Kili had been fighting for so long, bleeding this whole time, bruised and battered from head to toe, and the fire in his heart reduced to fading embers. Khatûrz responded in kind, hitting Kili right on the temple. It knocked the sense from him, vision spinning as the ground rushed up to meet him. Khatûrz hit him again and again, until Kili was half-conscious, the side of his face caked in blood and scrabbling grip as weak as an infant’s on his arm.

“ _Kili!”_ Wildly, Thorin tried to press through and was forced back. “Kili, _wake up!_ ” Khatûrz stood up, two of his guards grabbing Kili by the arms and forcing him on his knees. His head was bent, hair matted against his bloodied face and straggling over his neck. The orc bent down and picked up Bolg’s scimitar, snarling at the blade stained black with the blood of his people. The blood went deathly cold in Thorin’s veins as the creature holding one of Kili’s arms grabbed a handful of hair and forced his head back, exposing his neck to the fading light. They were going to execute him right here and now. They weren’t going to take their time making Kili suffer, tearing him apart piece by piece like they did with Frerin. Kili was a threat, a devastating enemy of theirs, not a toy, and they were going to dispatch of him as soon as they had the chance. “ _Kili!”_ Thorin’s throat was raw and his voice rasped. This was how it ended, how it always ended for them. He was cursed to suffer the very singular agony of watching everyone fall before him — his grandfather, his brother and now his nephew, struggling weakly as they held him down, his neck bent back and bloodstained face towards the ceiling. The nightmare was playing out again before his eyes and although Thorin could see Kili, his ears rang with the memory of Frerin’s screams, crying out for his brother to save him as they tore him apart piece by piece while Thorin just stood there and watched, helpless, too frightened, too _proud_ , to try and save him.

No. With a wild roar, Thorin lunged, pushing his way through and knocking the orcs off their feet. Not again.

There was a high-pitched screeching in his ears, like the hiss of steam. Even though they held him down, Kili felt like he was floating away somehow. Everything was distant. Somewhere, deep in his chest, panic beat at his ribs. _Get up. Move. Fight back._ He tried to move his arms but they felt so weak, held out at his side, bent over crooked knees. When they lifted his head and held it in place, Kili realised with a defeated throb what they were going to do to him. The blood was cold on his face from the winter air, and his leg had stopped hurting. Where was Fili? Kili felt as though his soul had already left his body, and that instinct that had kept him going for so long had burned out. He thought he would fight to the very end, but as Kili remained kneeling on the ground, he knew he’d been beaten. _Don’t let him look_. Kili begged with his mind, too tired to scream. _Please, don’t let him see this._

Kili opened his eyes. Khatûrz was holding Bolg’s scimitar, his face contorted in a hate-filled scowl. “You traitorous scum.” He spat on Kili’s face, but he was too exhausted to even flinch. “I’m going to use your skull as an _ishirai_.” His neck hurt. Kili held his breath as the sword came down, screwing up his eyes so he didn’t have to look, his body limp and boneless, drained of the last of his strength. He hoped Fili wasn’t looking, that he was far away.

Thorin bellowed as he leaped, hoping to at least distract Khatûrz long enough to land a blow. It worked; Khatûrz stiffened, the sword frozen in mid-air a foot from Kili’s waiting head. His eyes widened in surprise at the sight of Thorin charging with his sword over his head. But it was a feint; as Khatûrz tried to protect his head from Thorin’s blow, Thorin threw all his weight onto Khatûrz’ left leg, driving his heavy boot into the ankle and feeling the weakened bone snap in two. Khatûrz shrieked and collapsed, clutching his broken ankle in a moment of senseless agony. The two orcs holding Kili released their grip. Falling forward on his elbows, Kili stared at the ground as Thorin fought them off, backed further and further away from Kili as he dodged their blows.

“Get up.” Kili whispered to himself, head feeling disjointed as his battered body throbbed. He lifted his head and watched, breathing raggedly, as Thorin dealt a death-blow to one orc in the chest and rounded on the other, more desperate and savage than Kili had ever seen him before. Kili got up on his hands and knees and searched for a weapon. The other orc didn’t stand a chance and as Kili’s hands closed around a short scimitar, Thorin cut off his head and let the body tumble silently to the stone. He looked over the crumpled figure at Kili and their eyes met in a flash of understanding that cut through the floating and the dizziness and sent Kili crashing back into reality, the orc-blood bitter in his mouth, his leg throbbing and the ground cold beneath his left palm. Thorin had saved him. Thorin had risked his life for him. _Thorin still loved him_.

The scrape of faltering boots behind him made Kili’s heart seize in his chest. He looked over his shoulder to see Khatûrz on his knees. In his left hand, he had his trusty spear, splintered from where Kili had snapped it, but the point still sharp and fatal.

“ _NO!”_ Kili screamed, trying and failing to stand up, to put his own broken, injured body before the spear-point, to misdirect the blow, to knock Khatûrz to the ground, to do anything he could to stop this from happening. But his arm was already drawn back to his ear and as Kili shouted, he let it fly with the speed and accuracy that he was infamous for. Thorin, still staring at Kili, had only a moment to process what had happened, barely looking up and raising one arm before the broken spear hit him square in the chest.

Thorin staggered back and looked down. At first he felt nothing. He stared at the wooden shaft embedded deep in his body in shock. It was very, very deep, at least a handspan in, the needle-sharp steel piecing his mail at this close range. He tried to breathe, but nothing came in or out. The air choked in his throat and then the pain finally hit him, tearing at his heart and lungs and muscles. With a breathless gasp, Thorin sank to his knees, one hand clinging weakly to the spear at the point where it entered his body.

Ignoring Kili, who was too weak to stand, Khatûrz dragged himself forward on his hands and knees, grunting with every painful scrape. Thorin was choking, trying to pull the spear out of him, his eyes half-lidded and mouth open and slack. Those vacant eyes were fixed on Khatûrz now, and that shock turned into fear, one shaking hand seizing the sword he had dropped and holding it loosely, the point resting on the ground because he didn’t have the strength to lift it. Watching everything, Kili gritted his teeth and forced himself to stand, ignoring his spinning head, the pain in his leg. He stood and with everything he had left in him charged, holding his sword like a lance as he stumbled the precious few steps to the orc. Just as Khatûrz bent down to seize Bolg’s scimitar, Kili leaped on his back, hanging on grimly. He made a wide, ugly slash across Khatûrz’ throat and the orc collapsed, choking and twitching and holding on to his throat uselessly as the blood sprayed through his fingers.

“Thorin,” Abandoning his blade, Kili stumbled towards his uncle and threw himself on his knees. Thorin pitched forward into his arms, forehead on his shoulder, his mailed body shaking uncontrollably. He latched onto Kili’s arm with one hand and clung to his wounded chest with the other. Blood already drenched Thorin’s front and made a pool at his knees, and Kili could see his face was white as bone, eyes ringed with black and the blue dull and faded.

He was dying. Sick with horror, Kili carefully laid him down on the ground and tried to press his hand over the deep wound. Blood spilled freely over his fingers no matter how hard he pushed, and Thorin couldn’t take in more than the faintest of gasps, his gaze already growing unfocused and hazy. “Why did you do this?” Kili whispered. “I-I don’t understand.”

Thorin lifted a trembling hand, his fingers wet with blood that had pumped straight from his heart. He reached up, fogged eyes fixed on Kili, and gently touched his face, smearing a line of blood over the scar that Azog had left behind. “K-Kili,” every breath was a hard-won battle in his lungs, every desperate beating of his heart a victory. Every second of life was more than he deserved. “I-I’m sorry.”

Kili pressed his palm against Thorin’s hand and held it to his face. “I know.” How many times had he laid awake at night, broken and wounded from Azog’s torture and wishing that Thorin was dead? How many times had he sworn that he hated Thorin, hated him more than it was possible for one person to hate? But now it was happening, and Thorin was bleeding out, his breath fading, there was only a shocked numbness. He thought all this time that Thorin had given up on him, that he was never worth saving and he would choose his crown and his gold and his mountain over him without a second thought…

and now Thorin was dying for him.

Kili’s scream had filtered beyond the press of Khatûrz’ guard; Fili, who had grown up with an instinctive hypersensitivity to Kili’s cries, heard the thin shout through the screaming and clanging of battle as clearly as if it was beside him. He pushed through the line of orcs, Balin closed behind, to the source of the noise, horror and panic doubling with every heartbeat. And Fili saw, with a painful clarity, the spear whizz through the air, past Kili, who was on his knees and obviously badly wounded, and into Thorin’s chest. A scream ripped out of his own throat at the sight, tears instantly springing in his eyes as Thorin sank to his knees, staring down at the spear embedded deep, deep, deep into his body.

“Thorin!” Fili ran. Balin was a step behind him, and they charged through the scattered orcs who hadn’t quite made it to the front line, cutting through them like butter, the others close behind. Nothing could have sparked such a fire in the dwarves. Wounds were forgotten, hurts ignored, exhaustion disappearing, and they ran like fifty hale warriors in their first charge, Thorin’s name ringing in the air as Fili’s cry was taken up, rising to a deafening roar.

Thorin listened to the dull echo of his name while he stared at the ceiling. Kili came into view, hovering over him with horror etched in his bloodied face, and disappeared again. The pressure doubled in his chest. He knew he was dying; he could feel it. This ran deeper than any normal battle-wound. He was bleeding too much, his limbs felt too weak, and he couldn’t take in enough air. Panic clawed at his chest. No, _no_ , he wasn’t ready go yet! He still had so much to do, so many wrongs to right. So much had gone wrong and Thorin needed another lifetime, two lifetimes, to fix it. He wasn’t ready and as the reality slowly sank in, wrapping itself around him, as the wound started fading to a hollow throb, Thorin could feel himself slipping away with every faint, faltering beat of his heart.

“No, no, no, no, no!” Fili threw himself on his knees beside Thorin’s head and held on. “No— Thorin, _please.”_ He was crying, Thorin realised, his hand clasped between Fili’s. Balin was on the other side, saying nothing, just looking horrified and heartbroken. “Please,” Fili gasped again, one hand now cradling the back of Thorin’s head, holding him up. Oin was here — when did he get here? — holding his hands over Kili’s, trying to push the blood back in. He looked over at Balin and shook his head.

“Fili,” Balin’s voice trembled. “He’s not going to make it.”

“Find someone!” Fili shouted. “The elves— they have healers, they can fix this. They can—”

“We don’t have time.” The blood was already pooling again beneath Thorin’s prone figure, despite Oin and Kili’s efforts contain it. “He’ll be gone any moment.”

“Thorin,” This would be the last time they would ever speak, and everything Fili wanted to say jostled on his tongue. He wanted to scream that there was still time, that someone had to go back to the elves’ position, that Thorin could hold on long enough. But as Fili looked down at Thorin’s half-lidded eyes, his waxy, bone-white face, he saw so clearly that his uncle was dying and there was nothing that any of them could do to save him. So he said the only thing he could, as weak and pitiful as it was now after everything he had done, all the hurt he’d done and the discord that had shaken this mountain down to the very core. “I-I’m so sorry.”

“No,” Thorin wheezed, finally speaking. Every word was agony, but he had to get this out. “Y-You have no reason to be sorry.” Fili fell silent and watched him, mouth trembling. “I’m sorry. For everything.” Balin was holding his other hand now, gently rubbing his shoulder in an effort to be comforting. “Y-You were right. Always right.” He coughed, blood spilling over his lips, and both Balin and Fili rushed to try and help him.

“Don’t speak,” Balin said gently, but Thorin shook his head.

“No.” He swallowed hard. “Kili,” He lifted his weak voice and Kili looked down at him, hands still uselessly trying to stop the blood. “Please, forgive me.” he begged in between his ragged gasps of air. The shaking seemed to increase. Kili looked down at his hands, drawing in a deep breath.

Kili smiled, small and trembling and sad. “I do.” It was all he could say. Unlike Fili, who was bursting at the seams with things to say, Kili felt at a complete loss. Perhaps it was the knocks he’d had on the head, perhaps it was the shock of what he’d seen, or perhaps he had really become so heartless and dead inside, but Kili couldn’t match Fili’s grief, couldn’t espouse the same apologies and pleas and tears. He watched, dumbly, as the blood continued to pump through his hands, interlocked with Oin’s. He thought he knew Thorin, had him all figured out, but there was love there after all. It didn’t feel like a victory. 

"Fili," Thorin turned to him, holding onto Kili's vow. There was still such a long way to go, and this was only the first step. Even if he wasn’t alive to see and hear it, knowing that Kili would someday truly forgive him, it was a glowing ember in the spreading cold, and he clung to it. “Fili,” he stopped, grunting as a spasm rocked his chest, and continued, “listen to me.” Fili was shaking from head to foot, tears glistening in his eyes as he hung onto every word. “I am so proud of you. You— You are more of a king than I ever was. You— You are going to be the best king Erebor has ever had.”

Fili froze. “What?”

“I r-rescind everything I said.” The throb was growing numb, and Thorin couldn’t feel his fingers and toes through the cold. “You are my heir and nephew, Fili. A-And this is yours. All of it. I-I know you'll do what's right.” Fili’s eyes widened and the knot in his throat bobbed up and down, his knuckles white around Thorin’s hand. “Balin—”

“I heard.” Balin assured him. “I’ll swear it in any court.” Oh, Thorin, the stubborn old fool. Balin had never given up the hope that Thorin would one day forgive his nephews, but he never wanted it like this, with his death so close, those blue eyes darting about as his life rushed before them. It was never supposed to be like this, and yet in his heart of hearts, Balin knew this was the sort of end Thorin wanted — a glorious final charge in battle with enough time at the end to say goodbye. It was just far too soon.

Thorin tried to curl his fingers around Balin’s, but his hands weren’t working anymore. “Dís,” he wheezed, “Dwalin and Dís.” He’d never see either of them again. Wherever they were, he just hoped they were facing it together. Dwalin deserved a better friend, a better king than Thorin had ever been. He threw away that loyalty, knowing just how much Dwalin had suffered for him, in a paranoid, deluded fit of rage. Was that how Dwalin would remember him now? Would Dwalin ever forgive him, in his heart and mind if not in speech? Possibly, possibly not. Thorin didn’t deserve forgiveness. And Dís— All he had ever done to Dís was make her unhappy, take away everything she had loved. He was better off dead to her. Dís had done her very best to love him after the terrible blow they had been dealt and in return he took away everything that mattered to her. Of course she hated him, and there was no amount of apology that could undo that. But he tried, all the same. “Tell them I’m sorry.”

“Of course.” His eldest friend promised. Thorin wanted to say more; he wanted to give them a marriage blessing, tell them to have children, tell them to just be _happy_ for the first time in their lives, but when he looked at Balin through the growing fog, he could see all of it reflected right back in his face. Balin would look after them, look after Fili and Kili too. Balin had always looked after everybody, and contrition rushed as Thorin thought about the hurtful things he’d said to him. He opened his mouth to apologise for his actions, to beg for Balin to forgive him, but as Balin smiled, kindly but sad, the creases deepening around his eyes, Thorin knew that he didn’t need to utter a word, and that Balin understood everything already. Balin had always been there for him, through every loss, every battle, every trial that this cruel, bitter world threw at him.

Mahal, it was coming quick. Thorin could really feel it now. His body had gone numb, it didn’t respond to his call to move, and even though it was dim with early evening in this hall, he could see a bright light up above. Faces rushed before him; everyone he loved and who loved him, both living and dead, with one in particular shining through — Frerin. His greatest and cruellest of mistakes, the blow that so savagely crippled his heart. Perhaps he would see Frerin soon, close his eyes and open them and there he would be, with Thror and Thrain in that uncertain, unknown eternity that dwarves spent their lives wrestling with and puzzling over and still weren’t sure, even at the end. But he hadn’t made that mistake again. At the very end, he had finally managed to do something right. Thorin looked at Kili, still trying valiantly to stop the bleeding, eyes dry but his mouth shaking, and, remembering Frerin, felt strangely at peace with himself.

“Fili,” His voice was the barest whisper. Fili leaned down to hear it, holding his breath. “D-Don’t let him go.” Thorin didn’t need to say who. “Don’t ever let him go.”

A sob broke through Fili’s gritted teeth, and he pressed their foreheads together, throwing his arm over Thorin’s neck and shoulders in a fierce embrace. “I won’t. I-I promise, I’ll never get him go again.” His fingers curled around Thorin’s shoulder and he held onto his uncle, listening to the distant screech of the battle. "I love you." He whispered, unable to remember the last time he’d actually said it. Maybe he never had.

Fili felt the warmth of Thorin’s body against his own, the brittle, shallow gasps of air grow weaker and further apart until with a sudden hitch, Thorin fell utterly still.


	112. Come Up For Air

Somehow, Ilzkhaal staggered away. He forced his way through the press of bodies, getting kicked, punched and elbowed for it, but he felt nothing, not even the solid ground beneath his feet. Everything was smoke and mist, whirling in front of him, disappearing with a breath of wind. It was all so fleeting, flesh and love, life itself. The world was crueller, more untrustworthy, than he ever expected it to be.

The air was stale in his lungs, damp as fungus, and he was choking on it. Ilzkhaal backed away, one hand on the wall, watching the howling crowd of orcs rattle the bars and scream until he could hear nothing else, not even the beating of his own heart, above the screeching. He turned and ran, skidding in a pool of blood and almost falling, following the curve of the tunnel until it opened up into a wide, abandoned hall. Above him, rows of carved dwarves in armour, each standing a hundred feet tall, stood guard against the walls. It was silent; no roaring of orcs, no baying of wargs, no elvish curses or bellowing of dwarves. Ilzkhaal closed his eyes and breathed in, palm flat against a carved dwarvish boot. He balled his hand into a fist, thrumming with hate, wanting nothing more at that moment that to tear it down, to dash it all to pieces.

“Fuck you, Kili.” He whispered. It was harsh and stinging, but it fell like a single grain of sand into a deep pool, floating on the surface, the serenity of the water undisturbed. Ilzkhaal dug his nails into the stone, gritted his teeth and leaned his forehead against the curve of the dwarvish boot. “Fuck you!” He could still see him, the way his face collapsed, walking like an old cripple under a spell, his soul removed from his body. He didn’t want to do it. The idea echoed in his head, soft as a whisper. Kili didn’t want to leave Ilzkhaal like this.

But how could he ever be sure? How could he ever begin to untangle the truth from the lies? Everything had been broken. Ilzkhaal sniffed, turned his face so his cheek was resting on the rock, smooth and cool to the touch. He thought that the constant death would have killed a part of him, but the blood still throbbed, hot and anxious, through his veins. He was here. Ilzkhaal breathed in, smelling gore in the air, cold and sharp as metal. He was still alive.

And he wouldn’t die. He wouldn’t let this be the last day. He wouldn’t go down like Akash, or Shatog and Khala, or Galin. After suffering this much, after being so utterly destroyed, he wouldn’t let the dwarvish filth end him inside their own home. He had already betrayed his own people enough with his foolish, naive heart.

Ilzkhaal bit back a whimper. He was a traitor. The word grew louder and louder in his head until it was searing. That was what everyone would say – how could Ilzkhaal betray his people, his home, his family, for the sake of bedding a dwarf? Again, he remembered the flash of Kili’s eyes on that fateful night in the tent when he said Ilzkhaal was weak. Knowing now what Kili was hiding doubled his fears. Ilzkhaal was weak. And– And–

He let out a groan and sank to his knees as the reality hit him. He was dead. He was worse than dead. It was playing through in his head already – they’d find him, insist that he _must_ have known something. Ilzkhaal was the link, the only one Kili truly opened up to. He may have tried to downplay their relationship, but after what he’d done to Throquûrz, there was no denying that Ilzkhaal was special. If anyone had secrets about Kili, it was him. Bolg’s people were brutal, merciless creatures. They’d hurt him, threaten him, threaten his son, and Ilzkhaal would break, as he always, always did.

He had to get out of here. Ilzkhaal staggered to his feet, leaning on the massive boot as he tried to collect his frantic thoughts. He had to get out – win or lose, he was dead, and the longer he stayed, the more his head start shrank. He had to escape before anyone found him and…

And what? He stopped. Go home? Everyone knew the story about Kili’s betrayal now, and Ilzkhaal’s relationship with him wasn’t a secret. Mautor was nowhere near as cruel as Bolg, but he was still a believer of justice. What happened to Kili’s old friend Nazarg was clear proof of that. Panic was well and truly settling in now, and Ilzkhaal was reeling. He couldn’t go home. He couldn’t go _anywhere_ where anybody knew him. If he wanted to stay alive, Ilzkhaal had to disappear, or else they would hunt him down. He wasn’t strong enough to withstand interrogation or clever enough to come up with a convincing lie. How long could he play the fool before they found out that he had known for some time now the truth about Azog’s death? That alone was a form of treason, cause enough to be flayed alive or given to the wargs or set alight. That was enough to get his whole family killed. If he wanted to stay alive, protect his mother and his son, there was only one thing he could do.

Ilzkhaal ran.

* * *

Fili lifted his head. Thorin stared back at him, eyes half-lidded and frighteningly empty, his slack mouth upturned ever so slightly in a smile. He blinked once, twice, waiting for Thorin to speak, move his lips, breathe, but he was stiff, carved stone beneath his grasp.

He was dead.

Uncle Thorin was dead.

Fili looked up. Oin and Kili had released their hold. Oin wiped his hands on his trousers, eyes downcast, shaking his head. Kili stared down at his fingers dripping red, brow furrowed like he was trying to work through some complex problem. Balin was murmuring some prayer under his breath, eyes closed, two shining tracks seeping into his bloodstained beard. Beyond them, Gloin, Dori  Bifur, Bombur, Bofur, they all sank on one knee, heads bent, protected from the outside battle by both the Ironfists and Dain’s dwarves in a rare moment of grief.

Beneath his hand, Thorin’s throat was still. Even though he could feel his lifeless skin, even though he had looked into those faded, dead eyes, it didn’t seem real to Fili. It couldn’t be – not Thorin. Thorin was inviolable. No matter how many scenarios Fili had run through in his mind of Erebor after this war, in all the what-if’s and alternate realities, there had never been one without Thorin in some shape or form. Fili utterly refused to envision a world without him in it.  

Kili looked at him, one side of his face caked in blood. He had a nasty wound over his left temple, and there was a fractured, dazed look in his eyes that didn’t just come from Thorin’s death. His hand was still around Thorin’s shoulder, and Fili watched as Kili stretched out, fingers stained, Thrain’s ring a purplish-black stone in copper-red. Kili found him and wound their fingers together, resting their clasped hands over the base of Thorin’s lifeless throat. Their eyes locked, both so tired and wounded and beaten, crippled with the weight of this tragedy.

A distant scream rang out. Fili inhaled sharply, battling the piercing throb that swelled in his throat and threatened to burst. He couldn’t cry. Tears were a weakness; they blurred his vision and left his throat dry. Tears were a sign of defeat. His head and shoulders felt heavy already, as though a massive weight had been placed on it. The reality crept in, and ounce by ounce he felt heavier. They were waiting for him, his people, his _subjects_ , waiting for Fili to lead them. He could do it. If Thorin could climb over the body of his brother and grandfather to wound Azog a hundred years ago, then Fili could drive the remnants of this filth out of his home while Thorin slowly cooled in a bed of orc-bodies and bloodied steel.

He squeezed Kili’s hand, feeling the joints of their knuckles bump against one another, slippery with Thorin’s blood. Fili nodded once, and with his head spinning, threw his weight on his other hand and stood up, fresh pain blossoming through his broken ribs, feeling keener, more sensitive, as the shock faded. Kili stood up beside him, hands still clasped. They were a single creature in that moment – the dwarf and the not-dwarf, gold and black, the fixed and the fleeting.

The others slowly lifted their bent heads, staring at Fili with grief, shock, uncertainty and, very faintly, hope. Fili looked around at them all and then to Kili, still holding his hand. “Finish this.” His brother whispered. Fili felt the blood seep through his slashed glove, warm and sticky on his palm.

Fili let go. He bent own, seized his sword, watching it gleam in a fragment of fading white-grey light. There was a collective intake of breath, and Fili walked with his head held high along the length of Thorin’s body towards the orc who had killed him. He brought his razor-sharp blade down on Khatûrz’ neck, over the death-wound Kili had already made, severing neck from body. He held it by the jaw, blood leaking slowly down his leg. “Let’s end the bastards.” His voice was quiet and cold, not the valiant battle-roar from legends and fireside children’s tales, but he stood taller, more resolute, than he ever had before, his words stirring a spell-like fire in the belly of the dwarves.

With Kili on his right and Balin on his left, Fili led a desperate final charge. He had his sword in one hand and Khatûrz’ head in the other. Just before he made contact with the army, already beaten-down and scattered, he flung the orc’s head as hard and far as he could, watching it arc through twenty feet in the air and land behind enemy lines. A screech came up, a wailing of defeat as the last true leader they had left had fallen, and two-thirds of the orcs attempted to flee completely. The rest who stayed were outnumbered, and as the dwarves fought on, the uneven front line of battle crept forward, the elves and men and Dain’s soldiers keeping pace, chasing down the scourge until there was a united front, with Fili at the head. Nobody fought harder or spilled more blood than him. He pulled a second sword from the chest of a fallen orc and fought two-handed, ignoring the wounds he accumulated and pushing through the dizzying exhaustion.

Kili listened to the cries of Westron, Elvish, Khuzdul and Black Speech as they rose in a chorus around him, catching snatches in two tongues he knew well, one distantly, and one that was completely alien to him. There was no doubt now of who was winning; with every step, they pushed the orcs further and further back, closer to the Front Hall and the open, jagged mouth of the ruined gate. His vision blurred and swam occasionally, his head throbbed and he found his limbs clumsy and slow, but Kili refused to stop for a second. A flash of gold caught the edge of his wavering vision, and Kili watched, partially shielded behind Fili’s arm, as Thranduil, a figure of legend in his elvish mail and silvered cloak behind him, head bare save a thin circlet of platinum, smooth and unmarked from the viciousness of battle. He fought Mautor hand-to-hand, both aged and battle-hardened, matching each other blow for blow.

“Come on,” Kili whispered. That was the last link in this broken chain. But they were too evenly-matched to get the upper hand, and Mautor’s guard kept the elves closest around Thranduil more than busy. Mautor was shouting, and although Kili was too far away to hear him, he could guess the words, and they weren’t kind. Then, out of nowhere it seemed, a second mane of flawless white-hold hair joined the first; Legolas, who had been weaving through the crowd, ducked under his father’s raised arm, his leaf-shaped blade sinking into Mautor’s side where the two plates of his armour didn’t quite meet. The old orc howled, pitched forward onto his knees, and Thranduil ended it quickly then, a splatter of blood flecked across his chillingly calm face. Mautor’s guard shrieked, some either cut down in their frozen shock and others throwing down their weapons and fleeing, trying to outrun the elves as they gave chase.

And then it was really over. Fili tried to run after the remnants of orcs as they ran; his legs half as long as theirs, he was forced to give up and he watched, the swords slipping out of his hands, as the longer-limbed elves and men rushed past. He watched breathlessly, hands on his knees. It was taking some time for the realisation to creep in – it was over, they had won, Kili was alive but Thorin wasn’t, _Amad_ was nowhere to be found, and…

Fili was King of Erebor.

Kili clapped him on the arm, muttered something slurred and indistinct in his ear. Fili drew back and looked at him. “What did you say?” He whispered, feeling brittle.

“We did it.” Kili’s grip tightened. “We won.” But it was hollow and bloodstained. Neither of them felt like victors.

“The passages will still be crawling with orcs.” Balin approached the pair, a wan smile beneath the grime and blood and sweat. “But we’ll get ‘em. They’ll spill out like rats on a ship when they realise they’ve lost.”

“Let them.” Kili looked around them, hand still on Fili’s elbow. “We’ve got a fair number of survivors.” He scoured the scene, searching for a familiar face – three familiar faces, chest constricting at the lack of them. _Amad._ Dwalin. Ori. But he couldn’t see them.

“What about us?” Fili asked. “Apart from– from Thorin, are we all right?”

Balin’s head dipped in a single nod. “Bombur’s got a broken arm and Dori’s hip was smashed, but we’re all still alive.”

“You don’t know that.” Kili was turned away from them. “Dwalin’s not here. Neither’s Nori and Ori.”

“Ori's safe.” Fili reassured him. “I sent him into the galleries with…” He trailed off when he finally saw Legolas, talking to his father and gesturing up at the galleries beyond them. “Oh _no.”_

“What?” Kili asked, but Fili was already running. “Fili, what?”

“Legolas!” Fili called. “Please, tell me he’s all right.” Breathlessly, he struggled over the litter of bodies, clutching at his left side.

Thranduil looked over his shoulder at the noise. “Fili?”

“Is he all right?” Fili demanded. “Ori– He didn’t…” He found he couldn’t even bring himself to utter the word.

“Last I saw, he was alive.” The elf-prince looked exhausted, eyes shadowed. “The galleries were overrun within an hour. We fought our way out, but he went back with Dillan to tend to the wounded.” Fili visibly sagged with a heavy sigh of relief, closing his eyes. Thranduil was looking past Fili now, his heavy brows meeting in the middle in a deep frown, hand resting on the sword-hilt at his waist.

“I should have suspected,” He lifted his voice, and Fili stilled. Kili stood ten feet behind him, bow in his hand, reaching halfway towards his quiver where a single arrow remained. “the pupil of Azog would have followed Bolg to Erebor’s gates.”

“No!” Fili angled his body so he stood between them, palms held up and fingers spread. “Thranduil, my brother is a friend–”

“He is no friend of my people.” Thranduil unsheathed his sword slightly, six inches of black-stained iron emerging from the silvered hilt. Kili withdrew his only arrow and drew the string back to his ear, aiming above Fili’s outstretched arm.

“Fine by me.” Kili spat. There was still some fight left in him, it seemed, after all. He was sick of grovelling for forgiveness, rolling over like a beaten dog and whimpering until the blows stopped. And if Thranduil wanted a fight, he'd give him one all right.

“No.” Fili squared his shoulders. “Thranduil, if you want to hurt Kili, you have to get through me.” He’d shield his brother from the world, from the evils both inside his own alliances and outside of it. Thorin’s last wish echoed in his ear, soft as the breath of the sleeping. _Don’t let him go._

“ _Ada!_ ” Legolas seized his father’s wrist. “Don’t.” Thranduil looked down at him, the lines smoothing and re-creasing his forehead as his eyes widened. He wiped with his free hand at the blood on his face and leaving a black smear across his cheek. The distant hubbub of chatter falling silent, Thranduil looked at Legolas, or to be more accurate, his ears, his lip quivering for a moment. He swallowed hard, shook his head, and his grip relaxed a degree on his flawless sword.

“You would choose to have your brother even if it brought death and ruin upon you.” Fili refused to bow his head.

“Every time.” Thranduil studied him, sliding the sword another half-inch into his hilt.

“Where is your uncle?” His tone didn’t change. It was still icy-cold with a biting pang, each word carefully deliberated and rationed out.

“Back there.” Fili jerked his head backwards where they had left him. “On the ground.” Thranduil inhaled sharply with realisation, sliding his blade home and pulling his wrist free of Legolas’ grip.

“He’s dead.” Fili nodded wordlessly, feeling a now too-familiar ache build in the back of his throat. Thranduil’s eyes flicked between two brothers, akin in his eyes to a wild beast and his handler, the fiercest of allies despite whatever enmity one would bring the other. He considered the situation carefully, keeping his face smooth and giving nothing away. Really, there was only one thing he could do right now if he wanted to maintain his hold on Fili, on the gold he was promised, and the future of Erebor as an elvish ally. “Kili,” He raised his voice, watching the dwarf tense, pull the arrow a hairs-breadth further on the bow, “lower your weapon. I will not instigate an attack.”

“Kili.” Fili looked over at his shoulder, pleading with him. Scowling, Kili slowly lowered his bow and replaced the single arrow in his empty quiver.

“Go and comfort your people. Guide them.” Thranduil gestured, open-palmed, at the milling crowds of dwarves looking for friends and brothers, tending to the wounded. “Don’t give Dain any room to step up and play the leader. I’ll speak with you soon.”

“If you see Ori,” Fili asked, “tell him to find me. Right away.” Thranduil took Legolas by the elbow and led him away, not looking back. Legolas hissed something in Thranduil’s ear in their native tongue and Thranduil snapped back, his teeth bared for a terrifying moment. Deep in his bones, Fili knew this was only a reprieve. Thranduil wouldn’t spill Kili’s blood while Thorin’s body was still warm on the ground, but he wouldn’t let the matter lie.

“Why does he do that?" Kili asked. "Talking to you like– like a friend. Like an advisor."

Fili bit his lip. "Because he is." There was a flash of betrayal in Kili's eyes and he was scowling again, trying to make sense of it. "Kili, there is a lot I need to tell you– About Thranduil, about the Ironfists, about Thorin…” Kili stared, distrusting and dark. “You're not the only one who's done something dishonourable. But not now. I have to make sure we're all right. Please, stay next to me and don't talk with anyone."

“Can you at least tell me _why_ they are here?” Kili hissed. He didn’t need to specify who. “Or are you going keep that from me too?”

It stung, but Fili deserved that and much more. “I will explain _everything_ to you tonight. I’ll start at the beginning, from before we were even born, and I won’t leave a single detail out.” Kili’s jaw relaxed. “A-And you’ll do the same?”

Kili chuckled, but there was no joy behind it. It was more of a scoff. “It would take more than one night.” They both walked towards the cluster of dwarves talking amongst themselves, Oin fussing over Dori and Bofur tying a splint to Bombur’s arm. The temporary rush of blood from the confrontation with Thranduil faded, leaving Kili drained and hollow again. “Look, I-I can’t even think about that right now. I need to get Nardur and find _Amad._ You do what you need to here, but I'm going to find her."

"No." Kili stopped walking, standing a little outside the circle. “You're not going anywhere alone." Fili looked over the healthy remnants of the company. “Bofur..."

"No worries, laddie." Bofur caught himself and apologetically cleared his throat. “I mean, Your–"

"Fili." He held up a hand. "Please, just call me Fili. There's no crown on my head yet." He swallowed, inhaled deeply before continuing. “Kili and Bofur are going to go look for _Amad_ and Dwalin. Balin and I will find Dain and inform him about Thorin’s death. On second thought, Gloin, you come too. Bifur and Oin, get Dori to safety. The old banquet hall was our planned hospital, so long as it was clear of bodies. Bombur, can you walk?" Bombur nodded. “L-Listen. Say nothing about what Thorin said before he died. I need to tell Dain myself, and gossip travels fast as an arrowshot. Understand?" There were nods, low mutterings of assent. They _listened_ to him _._ Emboldened, Fili looked over at his brother. “And please, don't mention Kili to any Ironfists. Not until I have a story cleared with _Amad_."

"About what?" Kili frowned at him.

"About who you are." Fili peeled a sticky lock of hair back from his face, speaking quietly in his ear. “They think you're just a bastard from Ered Luin. The longer they think that, the safer you are." He couldn't help thinking – and it seemed almost perverse to consider – that Fíak, if he saw Kili and knew about the brutal things he'd done, would think him a better Ironfist than Fili ever could have been.

"Why are they even here?" Kili demanded again. "What do they want?"

"Thorin made a deal with them a long time ago, and they’ve come to claim it." Fili murmured. Kili frowned, made a silent _what?_ and Fili shook his head. "G-Go and find _Amad_ and get your warg. Quickly. Give her my love." Scowling, Kili turned to leave his brother with Bofur close behind.  

"For what it's worth, Kili," Bofur said kindly as soon as they were alone. "It's jolly good to have you back."

Kili hesitated. He kept running through it all in his mind – Fili's refusal to leave him alone or answer any of his questions, Thranduil’s anger, it confirmed something he had been afraid of ever since he first considered coming back. He wasn't trusted. He wasn't a friend. And Kili didn't know if this constant supervision was to protect him from others or to stop him from running away again. An awful, niggling worry gnawed at the inside of his skull – what if he never had his freedom again? What if locking him up became the only way to keep the peace? No. Fili would never do that to him. Even if it meant losing Erebor itself, Fili would never let him go. That thought didn’t seem comforting to him now, though. He would never forgive himself if he was responsible for his brother’s downfall.

Kili blinked, realising that Bofur had been waiting some time for a response. “I want to say it's good to be back," He spoke carefully, "but I-I don't know yet."

* * *

Were those cheers of victory she could hear echoing along the passage? Dís stopped to listen, leaning with her good arm against the stone wall. It was hard to tell the cause of those cries from a distance, and harder still to discern if they were orcs, dwarves, elves or men. In her hand she held a long knife, the only weapon she had the strength to wield, and she walked slowly with it held out before her. Dwalin’s face flashed through her mind yet again, and she licked her lips, hand tense on the blade until it trembled. She couldn’t break down at the memory of him, not yet. There was still that tiny, splintered fragment of hope, a glittering gem embedded deep in her heart.

Dís pushed on. She made her slow, painstaking way back down the stairs she had taken with Dwalin, picking through the bodies on the landing, taking the steps one at a time, carefully, her teeth gritted. It seemed like a paltry contribution now – a handful of scattered bodies in some back passages. Dwalin deserved better. He was one of those people fit for a heroes’ tale – a good birth, fortitude and bravery, skill as a warrior, a long-lost lover, torn loyalty… He deserved a better end than this.

At the mouth of the passage, where it opened up into the hall and beyond, Dís spied a cluster of elves in hurried conversation. Relief filled her, a slow, rolling wave, and her heart leaped. They wouldn’t be standing about like that if they had lost. She staggered on, tried to move faster, and soon her ageing dwarvish eyes made out the familiar lean shape of Tauriel, hair pulled back in a long red braid, her green linens splattered back.

“Tauriel!” She shouted, breaking into a halting run. The figure turned, and she caught a glimpse of a pale face, “Tauriel– Please– _Please_ , you have to help me!” Dís stumbled, crashing into the wall and scrabbling at the smooth stone, finding no purchase and falling with a short cry onto her knees.

“Oh, no.” Tauriel threw herself on the floor beside Dís. “Are you all right? What’s wrong with your shoulder?” Her sharp eyes missed nothing.

“I’m fine.” Dís pushed her hands away. “Please– you have to help Dwalin.”

Tauriel stilled “Dwalin?”

“Up the stairs, turn left, go past three locked doors. There’s another winding staircase, and at the very top is a small room. I-I had to leave him. I couldn’t carry him.” Dís blinked and felt the wetness slide down her face as she recounted her failure. “I-I couldn’t carry him anymore.”

“What happened?” Tauriel breathed, looking over Dís’s shoulder at the dark passage beyond. “Were you attacked?”

“By orcs.” Dís nodded. “H-He was hit on the head.” She reached out and gripped Tauriel’s arm. “ _Please_. He was still breathing when I left but I don’t know…” It was too hard to finish.

Tauriel stopped. She couldn’t. She had a duty of care to her own people, first and foremost. Thranduil issued orders before the battle began, and she couldn’t go off helping a dwarf. Dís, Fili’s mother, perhaps, but not some former ally of Thorin with no blood connection to the throne. She knew this. But Dís clung to her, mouth trembling, pleading with every fibre of her broken, exhausted body for Tauriel to save him. Their alliance was shaky and fragile to the touch in some ways, borne out of necessity in close quarters. But so much of what Dís had said in their shared room struck a deep chord within Tauriel’s own heart, left her lying awake and staring at the ceiling long after the dam had fallen asleep. She couldn’t love like Dís could, pour so much of herself into another, to submit. Tauriel always felt that would sap the energy from her, drain her, make her hollow. But Dís, despite the hardships Dwalin gave her, was stronger with their love. Tauriel looked at her now, desperate and begging, faced the possibility of Dwalin’s death and she seemed a gaunt shadow of the fierce dam Tauriel remembered seeing only a few hours before.

Pity won out over her stone-cold loyalty. With her heart pounding, Tauriel gently squeezed Dís back. “I’ll do my best.” She got to her feet and whirled around, calling out in her elvish tongue. Two elves broke into a run, gliding over the stone. “Nola will help you–”

“No.” Dís gritted her teeth and pushed herself back up, clinging to the wall as her legs shook. “I don’t need help. I’m still walking.”

“I’ll meet you with Dwalin in the old banquet hall.” Tauriel promised. “Just get there.” She squeezed Dís’ good arm and fled, the other elves behind her. Dís nodded and forced herself to remain standing. Good. She tried to tell herself that Dwalin would be all right now. Tauriel was a skilled healer – if anyone could mend his broken skull, to and undo that damage and bring him back from the edge of death, Dís thought, it would be her.

She’d get to the banquet hall eventually. Dís stumbled along the tunnel and into the main hall, holding the bad arm with the good and studying the scene. It was chaos. Groups of people went back and forth, carrying groaning bodies on stretchers, checking the clutter of bodies to tell the dead from the dying, searing for brothers and cousins, shouting with cupped hands and staring about with wild eyes.

Through the crowd, the two dwarves pushed past, trying to look over the figures that towered head and shoulders above them, through legs, searching for a sign. Those close to Kili fell silent when he saw him – the orc-dressed dwarf, staring forward, bold and proud, daring anybody to approach him.

“Someone _must_ have seen her.” Bofur reasoned, approaching two dwarves from the Iron Hills carrying a dwarf with a missing leg between them. “Fellows, have either of you caught sight of Lady Dís yet?” They shook their heads.

“ _Amad?_ ” Kili threw his head back and yelled, cupping his hands the way the others did. No one else here would be calling out for their mothers, he reasoned. Not with any sense or conviction, at least. “Amad!”

“Master elf,” Bofur tried another. “Have you stumbled across Lady Dís since the battle ended? The mother of Fili and sister of Thorin Oakenshield. You’d know her if you saw her.”

“Sorry, master dwarf. You’d do better asking your own kin.”

“ _Amad!”_

“Lad,” Bofur jogged to catch up with a young Lake-Town man nursing a bleeding arm, staggering towards the banquet hall. “Have you by chance seen a female dwarf? Dark hair, blue eyes. Oh, why am I describing what she looks like? She’ll be the only one.” The man stared right through Bofur, eyes unfocused. He shook his head foggily and then shuffled on, caught in a dream. “Hell. Kili, we’ll never find her like this.”

“ _Amad!_ ” Kili’s voice was already growing hoarse. His head swam. “ _Amad!_ ”

“Hey, stop.” Bofur grabbed his arm. “She’s never going to hear you over all–”

“Shh!” Kili hissed, head cocked to one side. His eyes widened. “ _Amad!”_

“Kili!” Finally, Bofur heard it. It was thin and distant, but there was no mistaking Dís’ elegant, birdlike voice, so distinct from the low hum and rumbling shouts of this masculine crowd.

“ _Amad!”_ Kili broke into a stumbling run, faltering under his wounded leg. His heart soared at the sound of her faint voice, thudding madly in his ears. And– Yes, _yes_ , he could see her too, through the flitting of the crowd.

“ _Kili!”_  At first, she couldn’t place him. He was a disembodied voice, lost in the hall. Finally, she caught sight of a small, dwarvish figure, looking shockingly like an orc with bone-laden black armour and grey skin. She rubbed at her eyes, shook her head and refused to believe it. It couldn’t be. But then he opened his mouth and shouted, and Dís saw his wide eyes and the tattered mop of brown hair she had spent years trying and failing to tame, and with a sob rising in her throat, she pushed herself to run.

They ducked and dodged, pushing others out of the way if they needed to, stumbling from their wounds. Finally, after Kili’s throat was raw from the screaming and his leg shook with the pain, they met with a crash, mail against armour with a teeth-rattling clang, both leaning on each other, reeling from the force of the blow and struggling to remain standing. Kili threw his arms around his mother’s neck and rested his chin on her shoulder, feeling all that intensity and tight-wound stress leaking out of his exhausted limbs. It was _her_ , that familiar smell of skin and hair beneath the bitter tang of orc-blood, her sure, sturdy arms, mailed, shaking with some unknown wound, one at her side and the other across his shoulders, holding him close. It was _Amad._ Kili clung to her, feeling for the first time since he had stepped out of Beorn’s Hall a sort of warmth and security. He felt sheltered, protected.

He was alive. Not just alive – he was _here_ , in her arms, and nothing else in the world mattered in that instant. “Look at me.” She whispered, sniffing. Kili lifted his head and pulled back as Dís put a hand under his chin, looking him in the eye. His mother studied him, the angles of his face, the scar, the grey ash that discoloured his skin, and her face contorted in horror, as though she was looking at a beast or a terrifying stranger. She ran her thumb over the long scar, ash and red dwarf-blood coming away with her touch. “Oh–” Her voice broke, and Dís shook her head, struggling to believe it.

“Oh, Kili.” The blind rage rose in her gut and grew toxic until she couldn’t trust herself to form a coherent sentence. The sight of her child, her precious, sweet baby Kili like this, was more than she ever could have prepared herself for. It wasn’t just the armour, the grey skin, or the scar; the light in Kili’s eyes had died, his smile had faded. Fili had tried to tell her that Kili was irrevocably changed, and Dís didn’t understand for the longest time how it could be possible. Not Kili. But when she saw him now, saw the way his eyes darted at the slightest sound, the hollows in his cheeks, she understood in an instant what Fili had meant.

Kili’s lip was quivering now, eyes welling up as he came within a hair’s-breadth of breaking and tried to force it all back. For a moment, she caught a glimpse of his old self, the frightened child she spent a lifetime trying to protect. “ _A-Amad_ ,” He breathed, voice harsh and ragged, tearing into her chest. “I-I’m so sorry–”

“Hush,” She pulled him into another fierce embrace. He buried himself in her good shoulder, retreating from the world, and Dís rested her chin on his head. She thought by now there would be no tears left but here they came again, wrung out of her like a damp rag. Kili shuddered in her arms and grew weak, holding on to keep himself from falling. “It’s all right.” Dís gently rocked him from side to side, the way she used to when Kili would call out for her in the night, when he came home nursing some scrape or bruise. The damage cut deeper than any of that, deeper than skin and bone, down into Kili’s soul, and there was no way to ever truly repair it, but she held on. She always would.

“I’ve got you.” Kili closed his eyes at the sound of her voice. His head hurt so much and his leg still throbbed. Finally, after all these weeks of keeping it inside, watching his back, letting that anger and pain fester inside of him, veiling what he thought was his true self and at the same time becoming more cold and distant from those old memories until he was unrecognisable – Kili let go. He let it all go, sobbing in her embrace like a frightened child. Once he started, Kili couldn’t stop. It was like removing the keystone from the archway, and now everything was crumbling and falling down around him. The grief and anguish of everything he had lost was crushing him; not just today, with Thorin’s death, but _everything_ since bade his mother goodbye at Ered Luin and set out into the world – Azog, and his orcs, the ruins of Moria, Nazarg, the Wilderland, Mirkwood, Thranduil and Legolas, Lake-Town, the wastelands, Ilzkhaal, Mautor, Bolg… He grabbed handfuls of her mail and clung to her, willing himself to stop but unable to cease his tears. It was the cutting out an arrowhead or cauterising of a wound – it _hurt_ , but it was at the same time a healing, a stemming of the bloodflow. For the first time since he sat on that bloodstained boat in Mirkwood, bowed down with the weight of murder and his childhood lullaby ringing in his ear, Kili began to really, genuinely think that he maybe could come home again. That if he had his mother, everything would be all right. Kili was so terrified that she would be afraid of him when she saw what he'd become, and there was that moment of crippling horror, but that melted away, and she was as fiercely protective and loving as ever. Even if Thorin was dead, even if Thranduil still thought him an enemy, even if every soul in Erebor called for his head, it didn’t matter. He had his mother, who, with her indomitable, judgeless, ever-forgiving and everlasting love, would be there until he took his last breath. No matter what happened to Kili, no matter what he did, he realised as he cried in her arms, she would always love him.


	113. A Feast for the Dead

Kili’s sobs eventually stopped, the shuddering hitch of his iron-clad ribcage slowing to a regular in-and-out. Dís didn’t let go for a moment, still rocking her son gently from side to side until he lifted his head and looked at her, red-eyed, tracks of white through the grey. “I’m sorry.” He whispered again, swallowing hard, his grip faltering on her arms.

Gently, she brushed the hair back from his face. Dís held him differently now, as though, despite the layers of metal and bone over his body, he was as fragile as blown glass. “Don’t be.” She said. “You’ve nothing to apologise to me for, Kili. Ever.”

“You don’t even know what I’ve done.” He said bitterly. Oh, poor Kili. She couldn’t take this; he was so diminished and worn-out and broken. This wasn’t her baby boy. The thought flashed across her mind, black as pitch, a sourness building in her throat. She pushed it down and forced a trembling smile.

“I don’t need to.” Kili was standing on his own now, supporting himself, although he still held onto her. “Where’s your brother?” That gentle hand on his hair tightened. “Is he all right?”

“Fili?” Kili blinked, looking confused at the question. “He’s fine. I think he went to go talk to Dain.”

“He’s with Balin.” Bofur spoke up behind Kili, who jumped at the voice.

“Go find them.” Kili glanced over his shoulder, pinched and pale. “We’ll be all right together.”

“Fili told me to stay with you.” Bofur said firmly. “I’m not just going to—”

“Tell Fili that I don’t need to be watched every second of my damn life.” Bofur quailed at the edge in his voice and the fire in his dark eyes. “He doesn’t need a guard on me. I’m not going to go wild and run off.” Again.

“I don’t think he’s worried about that.” Dís clung to him, felt the heave of his body. “I think he’s worried about protecting _you_ from them.”

“From who?” Bofur shrugged, made a floating motion with his hand around the hall, a silent _everybody_ that left Dís pained. She tightened her grip, knowing in an instant what he meant.

“They’re not touching him.” She vowed, her voice hard as steel and cold as ice. “Nobody’s _ever_ touching him again.” Even though she was injured, Dís held him close against her chest like she could shield him from the world. “Thorin may have failed him, but I will never give up.”

“He didn’t fail me.” Kili mumbled in an exhausted realisation. “A-At least, not in the end.” Bofur’s face sagged at that, and he stared at the bloodstained ground.

Fear struck, quick and sharp as a whip. “What end?” She tried to read the grief and exhaustion in his face, heart quickening in her panic.

Bofur breathed out, long and slow. “Tell her, Kili.”

“Tell me what?” Dís’ grip was painfully tight now. Kili steeled himself, knowing that it was going to hurt the both of them to utter the truth. He didn’t want to do it to her, but at the same time, he couldn’t bear to leave it to someone else. He had to tell her.

“Thorin.” Kili spoke softly, as though he was still in a dream. “I’m so sorry.” Why was he still apologising? “H-He… He didn’t make it, _Amad._ ”

The earth rocked beneath her feet. Dís endured it silently, squeezing her eyes shut as the dull hammerblow of grief beat against her, again and again and again, crushing against her ribs, making it impossible to breathe as a blinding agony constricted in her chest and her heart seemed to stop beating. Thorin — _no._

Her legs gave out and Kili couldn’t support her. They both tumbled to the ground, gasping at the jarring of still-fresh wounds, Dís on her knees and Kili crumpled beside her. He righted himself and wrapped his arms around her, looking up at Bofur over her bent head. _Go_ , he mouthed. The _leave us alone_ was implied, heavily felt. His shoulders bowed, Bofur obliged, vanishing quickly in the two-tall crowd and leaving them. They weren’t particularly out of place, two mourners clinging to each other in this aftermath of battle, and Kili and Dís were given wide enough of a berth to give at least a feeling of privacy.

Dís trembled in a grief that ran deeper than tears — it was a dry shock that robbed her of her senses, left her speechless, shaking so hard her teeth rattled. Part of Kili was terrified. He’d never seen her quite like this, so raw and broken, and although he held her as tight as he dared, he sensed that she was very distant to him, locked inside her own head as the horror tore her apart. He understood, though — They had their differences, they fought, but they were still siblings. And the thought of ever losing Fili forever, even just the thought, left Kili cold with terror.

How long it went on, Dís wasn’t sure. The shock left her blank, vision pure white and a deafening rush in her ears, like a blizzard had swept inside Erebor and blinded her. Thorin, dead. No. It was a broken thought. It didn’t make sense. She could still feel the weight of his body beside hers, pressed in close on their mother’s bed, staring up at the diamond-studded canopy. It wasn’t _possible_.

“Where is he?” Dís lifted her head, trusting herself to speak. She couldn’t wait for the burial dressing, when he would be stiff and waxy, humming prayers in her throat while she washed the blood from his face and sewed his eyes shut and dressed him for his final procession to the grave. “I-I want to see him.”

“You’re injured.” Kili was pale in cracks and streaks beneath the grey, almost white, with no colour to him. Even his eyes seemed faded. “We need to find a healer—”

“Take me to him.” It was harsh and hoarse in her throat and didn’t sound like her. Dís immediately regretted it. Kili flinched, a struck child, but he stood up and held his hand out for her. He led her carefully, skirting around the fallen mish-mash of bodies, mutilated in their slaughter. Passing dwarves and men and elves and orcs alike, it seemed an eternity before they finally reached the place where he had fallen. Kili saw Khatûrz first with his massive, beheaded body, and a little further, the spear still sticking out of his chest, was Thorin.

Such a tiny body in amongst the cluster of broken orcs. He looked like a sleeping child, the runt in a huddled litter of puppies. Dís moaned at the sight of her dead brother, and her grip on Kili’s hand went weak. He was gone. Really, truly gone. When Frerin had died, Dís broke, exploded into screams and sobs, tore at her hair in handfuls, beat at her surviving brother when he tried to touch her. She was blinded in a senseless, violent grief. But this was a collapse inwards, a crushing, a smothering of what little life was left. She felt dead inside as she slipped out of Kili’s grip and staggered forwards, heart frostbitten with a cold that would never shake.

“Oh, you fool.” Dís sank to her knees beside Thorin’s head. His eyes were still half-open, mouth cracked in a smile. He looked as though he was about to speak at any moment. “You old fool.” She peeled back a lock of raven-black hair and tucked it behind his ear, smoothing the curls over his shoulders. As Kili crouched down beside her, Dís pressed her lips against Thorin’s forehead, the skin cold to the touch already.

“He wasn’t alone.” Kili finally choked out. Dís tensed. “W-We were all there. Me and Balin and Fili and the others. We were holding his hand until the end.”

“How did it happen?” Dís kept her eyes trained on Thorin’s lifeless face, combing her fingers through his sticky curls as best she could. Kili let out a stilted, ugly sound that took some time for Dís to place as a sob. She looked up and saw that he had one hand pressed over his mouth and he shook his head, blinking rapidly. “Kili?”

“H-He saved me.” Kili finally regained his composure and splayed out his hands on his lap, palms against his thighs. Dís stilled. “Th-They were going to behead me — the orcs — a-and Thorin just came out of nowhere. He should have known he’d never take them on his own but he…”

He died to protect Kili.

The realisation hit Dís sharply in the chest, as though she herself had been stabbed. She leaned over Thorin, searching his lifeless face for answers. Despite everything, all the anger, and rage and betrayal on both sides, despite failure after failure, Thorin had still kept his promise to her, in the end. He died to keep it. Kili pressed in close, sharing body heat, their arms touching, and as she felt the weight of his body, Dís understood. She had been tempted to scream at the ceilings, to curse Mahal for taking what she had left, but as Kili leaned against her and she heard the shallow breathing in his ear, Dís realised that she wasn’t alone. The last fragment of her old family had vanished for ever, but it didn’t leave her alone. Thorin had ensured with his life that wouldn’t happen to her.

Breathless, Dís seized the body on her arms, faltering only once at the agony at rocked her broken shoulder, and crushed Thorin against her neck in one final embrace. She pressed her face to that tattered curtain of hair and let out a shuddering breath. “Thank you.” Dís whispered against his ear, grabbing fistfuls of jet-black curls that matched her own. “Thank you, brother.”

* * *

It didn’t take long to find Dain. He was sitting patiently on a piece of a pillar that Smaug must have broken while one of his soldiers wound a bandage around his left arm, talking in low, urgent tones to his son, who appeared shaken but physically unharmed. With his good arm, Dain gestured at the milling crowd, like he was giving some sort of order. He pointed in Fili’s general direction, glancing over first and then freezing, eyes wide and mouth slack in shapeless surprise. He pushed the fussing dwarf away as Fili approached him and stood up, face grey from horror or loss of blood, Fili didn’t know.

“Fili,” He croaked, looking him up and down. “You’re alive.”

Fili swallowed back the knot in his throat. “Sorry to disappoint you, Dain,” Keeping his hands still and open at his sides was a battle. Thorin was looking Fili up and down, snarling at him with that tiresome, familiar hatred that came from jealousy as much as it did contempt. It would be deeply, deeply satisfying to finally see his brattish cousin put in his place. “but Erebor isn’t yours yet.”

Dain bristled. “I’ve never had designs on Erebor’s throne—”

“No, you were just the willing servant, weren’t you?” Balin reached out and touched Fili’s elbow, an attempt to hush him, but Fili pulled away. “All you did was fill his head with lies and turn him against me. You _poisoned_ Thorin,” Fili gritted his teeth, “but you couldn’t break that bond between us.”

“All I did was keep Thorin true to Erebor.” The old dwarf argued, and for a moment Fili really thought that Dain believed himself. “I reminded him of his duty as king, the honour of his people. And you! Making allies with liars and savages, scrambling for whatever scrap of power is tossed your way. The shame you brought on our line will not be forgotten, Fili. Not for a hundred years. You made Erebor look _weak_ with your deception. You disgraced the name of dwarves and Thorin will rightly never forgive you.”

“You don’t know.” Fili’s softness stripped Dain of his self-righteous anger. “Haven’t they told you, Dain?”

His nostrils flared beneath his thick moustache. “Told me what?”

Fili held his breath for a moment. “He’s dead.” There was no joy, no grand gestures of sorrow at the announcement. It was small and broken and sad, leaving Dain to reel back in shock as the force of the words hit him, sharp and devastating as though it was his own chest that had been fatally speared. He stumbled back, fell against the fallen pillar and wavered on his legs, staring at the ground as his head slowly shook from side to side.

“No.” he murmured, dragging one hand through his tattered, half-braided beard. At his side, Thorin frowned, eyes darting between them, and lip twitching as he muttered something to himself, taking the situation apart. Struck, Fili watched, tense hands relaxing, as the slow realisation that Dain really loved Thorin, thought of him as a sort of brother despite their differences, and mourned his death. It had been so much easier to imagine Dain as heartless.

“Before he died, Dain,” Fili steeled himself, “Thorin had time to talk to us.” A sharp stare cut through the sagging grief. “He… He renounced his banishment and declared me his heir.”

“Bollocks.” Thorin sneered, before his father had a chance to talk. “You expect us to believe Thorin had some convenient change of heart after he repeatedly spurned you? Do you think we’re _stupid?_ ”

“Thorin.” Dain rumbled a warning, eyes never drifting from Fili for a moment. He’d seen the shock and fear that crippled him when Fili was taken by Bolg, watched helplessly as Thorin threw himself into the heart of the orcish army to try and protect him. There was no doubt in his mind that Thorin loved Fili. Nobody who knew Thorin would try and claim that. It was the second half of Fili’s story that proved harder to believe. “Not now.”

“I don’t want ugliness.” Fili said. “I’m just telling you what happened. If you want to challenge my claim, then challenge it.” Behind him, Fili heard Balin’s sharp intake of air, unsure if Fili was being brave or stupid. “But I am asking, out of respect for Thorin’s memory and for the sacrifices made today, that you wait until we’ve buried him before questioning his final wish.”

Thorn looked like he was going to spit at him. “Scrabbling for time so you can buy more allies.” Fili remained impassive. “Father, don’t listen to him—”

“Hold your tongue, Thorin.” Dain cut across him, his voice aged and weary. “Don’t appear graceless.” Thorin withdrew, wounded and a little abashed but still glaring at Fili with that same intense dislike. “There’s little worse than squabbling over a vacant throne.”

 _Try two._ But Fili kept the retort locked inside. “We’re organising the wounded in the old banquet hall. Do you need any extra help with the wounded? I can try track down an elf healer—”

“You’ll have no luck getting them near my folk, pure-hearted or not.” Dain said crisply, straightening himself. “We’ll look after our own. Don’t worry about us.”

Fili nodded. “I’m sorry.” He murmured after a moment’s silence. “This was _never_ what I wanted.”

Dain examined him carefully, still cautious and mistrusting. His head finally inclined in a slow nod, eyes still locked on Fili’s face. “Of course it wasn’t.” He finally replied, speaking honestly. “Nobody loved Thorin more than you did.”

* * *

“Ori!” Running between the stilted lines of people, Nori shouted with his hands cupped around his mouth, calling and calling until his voice was hoarse. At every small body, every untidy mop of ginger hair in the corner of his eye, Nori’s heart seized and he whirled around, gasping. But it was never him. The more bodies he scanned on the ground, the more he called, the more crowds he pushed through, Nori’s anxiety grew tighter and tighter until he fought to breathe, the terror pushing down on him, crushing him.

He gleaned information in scraps from passers-by, eavesdropping as he ran, too desperate to stop and listen. Kili had returned in the skin and armour of an orc and had slain Bolg. Thorin was dead, it seemed, and Fili was alive. Thranduil and Dain and Bard, too, had lived, and although everyone suffered losses, there were more living than dead. Fili, flanked by both Ironfists and Thorin’s company, led a desperate final charge, driving the orcs back to be finished off. They seemed distant from what Nori had experienced. After being separated from Fili in the front hall, he had been pushed back with several dozen Lake-Town men and a knot of elves, holding wave after wave of shield-body attacks until they were finally pushed back into the tunnels. They were spared from death with the lowering of the gates, and by the time they made it back to the thick of the battle, it was over.

“Ori!” Nori shouted again, voice catching in his raw throat. He’d already tried the galleries where he’d been instructed to stay, found them abandoned. They must have been overrun early on. No bodies, though. Nori took comfort in that. And when he searched the nearby passages, he saw the corpses of elves and orcs but no dwarves. That was another relief, but as time passed and his brother remained missing, it did little to alleviate his fears now. He eventually stumbled into the makeshift hospital — the banquet hall, where the able-bodied ran back and forth carrying their friends and brothers on hastily-made litters, where those who could help bent over the shaking figures of the wounded and dying in long rows, covered and bandaged by whatever spare cloth they could find.

Halfway down the hall, Nori saw a familiar face. He broke into a run, heart pounding at the sight of old Oin’s familiar head bent down in his work as he stitched at the collarbone of a dark-haired dwarf from the Iron Hills. Nori ploughed on forward, calling out as soon as he was in earshot, forgetting he was as deaf as a post in a crowded room. “Oin— Oin! _Oin!_ ” Nori had to shake the old dwarf when he approached him, Oin jumping with surprise and almost dropping the bone needle grasped between his slightly trembling fingers.

“Oh, Mahal, Nori!” He bellowed. “This is delicate work here. You want me to pierce the lad’s veins—”

“Where’s my brother?” Nori panted. “Have you seen him?”

“Of course.” Oin shook his head. “His hip was smashed by some great orc-hammer. I couldn’t do much to help him. He’s not in any immediate danger and insisted I was needed elsewhere, so I’ve given him a stiff drink to tide him over until the elves—”

“Where is he?” Sick with guilt and terror, Nori started to shake. “Wh-Where did you put him?”

“Over by old Bombur, just to the left of the dais up there. They’re keeping each other company…” But Nori already fled, looking horrified. “Oh— Oh, _drat.”_ Oin realised his mistake too late, far too slow to even consider catching up.

Nori found Bombur easily enough, and a second later realised he and Oin were mistaken about each other, his footsteps falling still. Twenty feet away was his brother all right — Dori, lying on his back and looking very pale and unwell, Bombur sitting close beside him and cradling a splinted arm. He was seized with the urge to turn and run, to leave the hypocritical old bastard to his pain and misery as the memories of their last meeting flashed through his mind’s eye. Dori just _stood_ there and refused to stand up for either of them while Thorin dispensed his vicious, paranoid justice, who rejected Nori and Ori as his brothers for the sake of his own skin.

But despite all of that, he found himself walking towards Dori, mechanically, regretting it already but at the same time feeling pulled, like some sort of invisible string connected them, reeling him in. Even though he wanted to, badly, Nori just couldn’t bring himself to walk away. Not when Dori was like this, suffering, almost alone. It was his obligation, he told himself. But he didn’t need to convince himself to feel any pain or sorrow; when he looked at his old fool of a brother on his makeshift bed of torn and half-rotted cloaks, Nori ached with pity for him.

When he was close enough, Nori cleared his throat, shuffling awkwardly on his feet. Dori looked up, face tense and pained. He froze at the sight of his younger brother, uncertain, and with that same sort of discomfort reflected in his own face, Nori got down on his knees at Dori’s head.

“What have you done, huh?” He let out a strained chuckle. “I always told you, you need to watch your back.”

“Nori.” Dori grunted as even the effort of talking caused him pain. Bombur gently, protectively almost, rested his good hand on Dori’s shoulder, sensing potential harm, and after a tense moment, pulled away. “Y-You’re all right.”

“A few scrapes and bruises, but still in one piece.” He rested one hand on the ground, close to where Dori’s lay limp at his own side. “More than can be said for you.”

“Won’t kill me.” Dori groaned. “Oin hopes the elves can fix it good enough to walk again. Said it’s like broken glass in there.” He screwed up his eyes and hissed through another spasm of pain. “Oin gave me some paste of devil’s claw and adderwort and Mahal knows what else, but it hasn’t done a thing.”

“Oh, it’ll kick in.” Bombur warned. “I’ve been told to keep an eye on him. It’ll stop the ache soon enough, but he’ll be a gibbering idiot.”

“H-Have you seen Ori?” He couldn’t fight it back anymore. Dori’s eyes snapped open at his brother’s question, a flash of fear fighting the exhaustion and pain.

“He survived the battle unharmed. We heard he was with the elves, helping one of their healers with the wounded archers.” Bombur spoke gently. “But nothing since.” Nori almost choked on the relief, heart leaping in his throat.

“Oh.” Nori couldn’t say anything else in that moment. His hand snaked forward, so that his fingertips lightly touched Dori’s, and he held it in place.

“I’m sorry.” Dori whispered, staring up at Nori through screwed-up, half-lidded eyes. “For— Mahal, everything.” He hissed, fighting another spasm of pain from his shattered hip. “I was a fool. A stupid, blind fool.”

“You were.” But Nori found his brother’s hand and loosely wrapped his fingers around his callused palm. “But we already knew that, didn’t we?” Dori chuckled weakly at that, shaking his head. “I’m glad you’re all right.” He was. He really was.

“Thought you’d be glad to be shot of me.” The old dwarf mumbled, limply curling his fingers around Nori’s own.

“Don’t be an idiot. You’re still my brother.” Maybe it was more than Dori actually deserved, and maybe Nori did it partly out of obligation, but the sentiment was genuine. His other hand closed against Dori’s, palm to knuckle, his thumb rubbing a tiny circle in the hollow beneath Dori’s wristbone. They were thrown together on this stupid quest, uncertain and wary after decades of separation. Getting to know Dori once more, obstinate and grumpy in his old age, being slowly welcomed as a brother again, had been one of the most pleasant surprises of Nori’s still-young life, and as he knelt beside Dori now, listening to his strained, rattled breathing, he knew, deep in his heart, that he still wanted it.

“I’ll go find Ori soon.” He spoke after a short silence. “I’ll bring him here to come and see you.” Dori nodded, his free hand twitching nervously on his chest. “He’ll be so happy to hear you’re all right.”

“Will he?” Dori sounded unconvinced. “I was awful to him.”

“We both were, really.” Nori admitted. “He’s had a worse deal than either of us, what with how he’s… you know.” Dori just looked sad, the lines in his face heavy with regret, eyes lowered and dull. “But we’ll make it up to him and get through this. We always pull through, don’t we?”

“Somehow.” Dori mumbled. “Takes more than a few orcs to knock us down.”

* * *

“I have to get Nardur.” Kili gently touched his mother on the elbow as she lifted her head. “I had to lock him up, and I’m terrified someone else’ll find him.”

“Nardur?” Dís repeated in a daze.

Kili nodded. “My warg.” He clarified, biting his lip, unsure of how she’d respond to that. Dís gasped quickly and then tried to hide it, wiping at her wet face and sniffing. “He’s tame, _Amad._ He’s my best friend. If I don’t get him soon, someone else will hear him howling, and they’ll—”

“All right, we’ll go and get your warg.” Dís said gently. All she wanted to do was sleep. “Calm down, darling.”

Still, it was hard to believe. She imagined a warg now, the massive fangs and lolling, drooling tongue, the jaws that could snap her legbone in two, the massive paws with three-inch talons. Then she imagined her little boy astride one of them, dressed like this, with his bone-iron armour and ash-grey skin, and shivered. That wasn’t so impossible to believe. Dís walked arm-in-arm with Kili, sneaking glances at the jagged inlay of bones over his iron armour. They were broad bones, yellowed with age and crumbling with decay. The way they fitted over Kili’s own limbs, mangled and splintered and twisted as they were, made her think they could have belonged to a dwarf once.

“Here.” Kili ran towards a door to a narrow storeroom, the iron door bolted fast. Behind it, Dís could hear a whining and a scrabbling. “Nardur, _shau!”_ A rough bark sent the hairs rising on her neck. “ _Fraut!”_ Kili shouted at the beast in Black Speech as he drew the bolt. The door flung open and with a piercing whine and a whimper, a stunted-looking warg, still wearing his saddle, nosed through the gap and into Kili’s arms. The force knocked him into the ground. Nardur whined again, licking furiously at Kili’s face, his lower flanks moving from side to side with the fierce wagging of his tail.

Dís broke into a smile. She couldn’t help herself. It just seemed so _ridiculous_ , the runt of a warg whimpering like a wounded pup in his excitement, pawing at Kili’s lap. Eventually Nardur lay down so he could cuddle with Kili properly, sitting between his splayed legs, tail thumping heavily against the stone. Kili threw his arms around the warg’s neck and buried his face in his fur, voice muffled.

“He doesn’t look like much, but he’s the only one who’s been there for me this whole time.” Kili lifted his head. “Azog gave him to me months ago. I-It was supposed to be a joke, but...” He scratched behind Nardur’s ear, and the warg licked at his chin. “He’s the only one who’s trusted me entirely. Aren’t you, boy?” On cue, Nardur whined again, rolling onto his back and exposing his belly. “Oh, you’re so good. _Sriz gor,_ Nardur. You’re a good boy.” He rubbed Nardur’s furred stomach, smiling. “He won’t attack anyone. I don’t think he sees much of a difference between orcs and others. No one can stop me from keeping him.”

“I don’t know who would be heartless enough to try.” Dís certainly wasn’t. Kili stood up and clicked his fingers, Nardur leaping to his side. His tail still wagged, and he nosed Kili’s side, panting. When he caught sight of Dís, the warg let out a single bark and sniffed the air, head cocked to one side.

Kili growled. “She’s a friend, Nardur. She’s my mama, my _sha_. _Krampûrz. Narish.”_  He gripped the horn of the orcish saddle and led the warg to her. “ _Rûm_ , boy. Come on.” Dís held her breath as Kili slapped Nardur’s flank to get him settled and in order. “Ride him. You look exhausted.”

“A-All right.” Despite her reservations, she was too tired to argue. Cradling the broken arm close, Dís gripped the saddle and swung one leg over the beast’s back. She looked down at her hands, at the desiccating blood, and felt her heart throb heavily, painfully, one, two, three times in her chest. “Kili," she whispered, "we have to go to the banquet hall."

"Yeah, we'll go now." Kili kept his hand on Nardur’s neck, holding him close. “I'm sorry I delayed us, but I couldn't leave him." He looked over his shoulder at her. “ _Amad_ , are you all right?" His forehead creased in worry. Dís opened her mouth to answer, but a gasp ripped through her, and she closed her eyes, breathed slowly, and tried again.

"It's not me," She whispered. "It's... it's Dwalin."

Kili's throat bobbed, and although his expression remained the same, he was blinking rapidly. “He didn't make it?" His voice cracked, and he looked so lost and small. Dís wanted to leap down and embrace him.

"Tauriel said she'd do everything she could." She promised. "But... he was hit so hard. There was so much blood." She reached out, uncertain, and touched Kili on the shoulder. “I-I’m just telling you that the worst may have happened."

Kili bore it silently, the outrage and grief and fear. Losing Dwalin — that was more than he could take. Dwalin was his protector, his fiercest ally, the father he'd never had. There were things he told Dwalin that he didn’t tell anybody else. Nobody else knew Kili's insecurities, his fears and hopes, so intimately. Nobody really understood him like Dwalin did, before all of this had happened. “How did it happen?" Kili finally stumbled out. "Were you there?"

"I was." Dís couldn’t look at him, at that orcish armour. “We were cornered by a pack of orcs. Their leader— he knew me. He knew my name and he knew about Frerin. He must have been there when he— he died." She glanced up. Kili was frowning at the ground, listening to every word. "He taunted me about him a-and I lost my head. I tried to attack him and Dwalin... he shielded me from the blow."

Kili’s wound his fingers through Nardur’s thick fur and squeezed as he realised who his mother was talking about. An orc who knew first-hand the slaughter at Azanulbizar and wanted Kili dead. Only one fit the profile. “Was he missing an ear?" Kili finally tore his eyes away from the ground. “His armour, was it just bones or just iron? Or both?"

"He did." Dís nodded. “And it was just iron." Kili muttered what sounded like an orcish curse under his breath, his stare cold and dark. "You know who I'm talking about, don't you?"

"His name is Grishthak." Kili muttered. "He's easily the worst. He was a close advisor of Azog, and when he died basically became Bolg’s second-in-command. He was the only one who could see through my disguise." He gripped the necklace, felt the familiar bite of the point against his fingertip. Dís noticed but said nothing. "So he hurt Dwalin?" The hand at his neck clenched into a fist.

“It was my fault." Dís admitted. “I let him goad me into it. I should have seen it for what it was, but when he talked about Frerin, I-I just..." Kili walked slowly to spare his leg, leaning on Nardur as much as he could.

"What happened to him?" Kili looked up at her. "Did he get away?"

Dís shook her head. "He tried to chase me down, but I got him in the end." Kili seemed relieved at that, some of that tension in his jaw going slack. “He's definitely dead."

"Good." Kili's voice was low and savage. He turned away from her to spit on the ground, pulling so tight on Nardur that the poor warg yelped in pain, and Kili rubbed his neck gently after he let go, mumbling a distracted apology.

The scale of the damage struck both Dís and Kili when they entered the banquet hall. There were _hundreds_ of men and elves and dwarves, some nursing bandaged limbs, or stumps where they used to be, some barely hanging on as others grasped desperately at pools of blood in their chest. Dís found Kili’s hand and squeezed it — for her own comfort, as much as his.

“Mahal.” She whispered. Before her, she studied the uncountable cost of war; pints of blood and pounds of flesh, severed and shredded and mutilated. Her broken shoulder felt paltry amongst the horror of the dying. An afterthought.

They were looking at him. Kili felt the eyes follow him, dozens and dozens, narrowed in distrust and hate, mouths scowling and teeth bared. He’d learned not to care anymore. They were as numerous and insignificant as ants or flies — insects he could crush with his bare hands, with the press of a fingertip. Kili had wasted enough energy on fear.

Kili kept holding her hand while they walked, keeping her steady on Nardur’s back. Dís looked down and for the first time noticed the heavy silver ring on his finger. Her heart sank in her chest with the cold conformation of a long-known truth. “Who gave you Thrain’s ring?" The question came out, sudden and urgent.

“Bolg." Kili mumbled with the dullness of a story that had already been told. "They took it when they captured him, and held onto it. Bolg thought I'd be a perfect vessel for its dark power, being a dwarf. Being of Durin’s line." He sighed. “I was such a perfect weapon for him."

"Kili, I already told you, you don't have to explain yourself to me." Dís smouldered with the urge to strip herself bare and explain all of it, to take him back a century in her mind and past and just _understand_ , to rip away a century of lies and secrets upon which Kili had founded his identity. But she didn't know where or how to even begin.

“But you..." Kili looked over at her and slowed in his walk. “You don't know what I had to do. Who I had to become." She met his gaze for a moment, but her eyes quickly slid over his shoulder, the softness hardening in her face from grief to a merciless, unforgiving hate.

Kili looked over his shoulder too. Standing in a small knot were four dwarves who must have been some of the Ironfists Fili was talking about. They wore furs on their shoulders over bloodstained armour, beards hanging loose over their chests and hair in dreadlocks, the streaky colour of sun-bleached wheat, sandy blonde, and steely grey. There was a separateness in the way they stood, like they kept their backs to the world and stole cautious glances over their shoulders. One of the greying dwarves caught Kili's gaze and stared back at him, at his armour, his warg, at his hand wound tight with his mother — not with the suspicion that Kili was used to, but with more of a cautious curiosity.

Behind him, Dís inhaled so rapidly the air caught in her chest. "I do." She said, allowing a brief moment of quiet, wondering if or how the words would appear to him.

Walking down the rows of bodies, it was the boots that Dís saw first, iron-shod at the toes, laced tight and furred at the tops. She slipped down from the warg as though in a dream and stumbled — floated — towards his still figure, sinking to her knees at his shoulder and seizing a tattooed hand, the skin warm, but achingly lifeless to the touch.

An elf she couldn’t name was washing his hands in a bowl by Dwalin’s head, opposite her. “Tauriel sends her apologies.” He said. “She wanted to stay and watch him, but His Majesty called her away to aid more wounded.”

“Will he live?” She asked bluntly, feeling cold and disbelieving. Dwalin’s skin was the colour of old porridge.

“Live? Yes.” He wiped his hands on a folded cloth in his lap. “She’s confident of his survival. Recovery…” Dís’ head snapped up. “With head wounds…”

“I know.” She swallowed. “We’ve got old Bifur.” That was fleeting and insignificant. Assured that he would live, relief flooded Dís’ chest like a thick mead, covering her heart, soft and warm and golden. “I don’t care.” She gently stroked his beard, feeling the sharp curve of his jaw between her hand.

“ _Amad?”_ They both looked up at the voice. Kili stood at Dwalin’s feet, one hand on Nardur’s neck, holding him close, the other rubbing against his cheek, smearing the ash and blood so there was a pale smudge on the plane of the bone, just beneath his eyesocket. Dís managed a weak smile, but the elf recoiled, hazel eyes hardening  and his lip curling in unmasked disgust. “I-Is he…”

“He’s alive.” Kili closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, his bone-clad shoulders heaving. He knelt down beside his mother and took Dwalin’s other hand, pressing it between both palms, coaxing life into it. Nardur curled himself up into a ball, sniffing curiously at Dwalin’s leg. Kili mouthed silently, and Dís couldn't make out the shape of his words.

"I'll leave you." Pressing the basin against his hip, the elf rose to his feet. "I'll tell Tauriel you've found him." His sharp eyes were fixed on Dís' shoulder now. “Your shoulder is injured. Should I find—"

"No, thank you." Dís leaned against the wall, settling herself in for a long vigil. "Just a broken bone. I'll be all right for now." He nodded and left them — mother and son, and father by proxy. Dís clung to the remnants of her crude little family, lifting Dwalin’s shoulders up so his head rested in her lap.

“I thought elf magic could do anything." Kili's voice was thick with grief and exhaustion. “Why can't they get him to wake up?"

"Elves aren't as powerful as they'd like to think." Gently, Dís stroked the hair hanging damp against Dwalin’s neck, feeling a stubborn pulse against her fingertips. Kili stared at his sunken face, looking lost in a dream. Nardur whined and nosed against his bloodied knee.

“This hall…” Dís looked up at the vaulted ceiling. “Y-You know,” She swallowed, dry-mouthed, wondering how she could have the audacity to say it and knowing there was no possible way that she couldn’t, “this is where he fell in love with me.”

Kili’s head whipped up. “Who?”

“Dwalin.” She rested a hand on his chest. “Thror used to get me to sing at his feasts. I’d stand on the dais and sing my heart out and people would crowd in to see me. Half the mountain was in love with me. I’d get more gifts and love-tokens in an hour than most dams would get in a lifetime.” The memories were still there, dusty after centuries of neglect. She closed her eyes, blew off the dust and let them shine again. “Thror loved to have me sing whenever he could, for his own people, travelling merchants, trade envoys, visiting princes and kings…” Her lip twitched. “He called me his little songbird.”

“What?” Kili breathed, scrabbling at the pieces of the past he had, unable to put them together through the gaping holes and mis-matched edges. “Dwalin loved you?”

Carefully, to spare her broken arm, Dís reached inside her mail. One-handed, she managed to unpin the brooch that she kept over her heart, showing it to Kili in her flattened palm. “I was twenty when he made this for me. I lost it when Smaug burned the mountain down, but Dwalin found it again. He must have spent a week shovelling through the treasure until he found it.” Her shoulders sagged in a sigh. “He never stopped loving me. Not for a moment.”

“But…” Kili frowned at her. “He didn’t marry you.”

“No.” And she was bitterly, bitterly angry. He could hear it in her voice, see it in the flash of her eyes and twist of her mouth, eagle-like. “Thror got a better offer.”

“My father.” Kili breathed. Dís nodded silently, curling her fingers around the brooch and resting the clenched fist on Dwalin’s chest. “Tell me everything, _Amad._ ” His voice hardened, and Dís flinched away from it. “Please.”


	114. Coming in from the Cold

How could she ever explain to him what had happened? The act of beginning was irrevocable — it would set off a wildfire destined to burn out of control. It was an unstoppable force that could break the two of them apart forever. How could she not be afraid? “I—” Dís’ voice cracked and faltered. She paused and took in a breath before starting again. “I don’t know how how to start.” She admitted, leaving the brooch on Dwalin’s chest as she clasped her hands together.

“From the beginning.” There was a coldness in Kili’s voice that sank down into her bones. She shivered at the chill, sitting with her shoulders hunched. “Start from the beginning.”

Dís glanced up briefly at the vaulted ceiling. “Everyone had their reasons for the marriage. He— Your father fell madly in love with me before we even met. He was obsessed. And Thror— he fell into his old habits.” Kili listened with a hard, unchanging face, his eyes on his knees. “They were our enemies. They lived across the world. It was a mad offer from the Ironfists, but… everything had a price for Thror. Everything.” Her mouth twisted as venom crept into her voice. “Even after he lost Erebor… She had a hold on him. He’d sacrifice anything for another chance at that greatness.”

“What about you?” Kili asked, finally lifting his head. “What was it for you?”

Dís mulled the question over, dully, in her mind. “Duty.” She finally murmured. “I— I was serving my people as best I could. I wanted to help them, and the money the Ironfists paid for me…” She sighed. “The bride-price saved us from total ruin. Thorin never could have established us in Ered Luin without it.”

“So you married a stranger.” His mother nodded. “And you… did you leave? Did he stay?”

“We left for his home.” There was a pang in her gut at the memory. “It hurt less than you’d think. Thror and Frerin were dead, Thrain was missing — All I had left was Thorin, and I…” She withered with shame. “I couldn’t stand to be around him. Part of me hated him, because he killed Frerin.” Kili’s brow furrowed at the blunt words. “Frerin was his brother. He should have protected him at Azanulbizar— and he didn’t, and—” Dís forced herself to stop and breathed, raggedly, in and out. “We convinced ourselves, somehow, that it was for the best if we went our separate ways. That was the lie we clung to.”

There was a pause. “It’s all such a mess, Kili. We were a mess.” Dís’ plaintive voice struck deep in Kili’s chest as she begged for a respite. Kili swallowed his forgiveness down and kept his stare straight and level.

“You can’t go on keeping this from me.” Kili was merciless, and in that moment he dominated her, for the first time in his life. Dís stared into his hard dark eyes and realised she was afraid of him.

“We married.” Dís said. “And he loved me in his own savage, possessive way. He held the power of life and death over me, he cut me off from the only world I ever knew, and he loved me. Not like a person. Like— Like someone would love…”

“A dog.” Kili supplied with a bitterness that made her start. “Or a slave. A possession. Insignificant but still somehow— irreplaceable.” But he wasn’t angry at her. Dís realised that in a moment and watched as Kili grabbed at the fang around his neck, worrying his lower lip between his teeth.

“Oh, Kili.” She slid free of Dwalin and shuffled forward on her knees. “What did they do to you?” Her good hand stretched out to touch his face, his scar, but Kili shied away, swallowing back his grief with a practised ease and fixing her one more with that flat hardness.

“Later.” He whispered. Dís took his hand, though, winding their fingers together, feeling his bloodied palm tense beneath her fingertips. She’d taken of her gloves, and his were just straps of leather over the wrist and palm. The crust of dried blood on his skin, the greasiness of sweat and ash, was a grisly reminder of what she now had.

“You understand.” She murmured, striking at the one bond they still shared. “You know what it’s like to be imprisoned by monsters.” Kili didn’t say anything. “I wish I could tell you how it changed me. But… to be honest, I-I don’t remember how I was before.” Dís sifted through the scattered handfuls of dim memories. “Young. Naive. Frerin thought I was kind.” Kili’s other hand closed over hers, and he cradled her wrist, thumb resting on her scar. “I don’t remember being kind.” She thought of the childlike kindness Kili and Fili had shown over the years — rescuing small animals and crying when they couldn’t be saved, sharing food when the younger was hungry, kissing wounded limbs. With a throb of fear, Dís realised she couldn’t remember ever doing that herself. “I had to be cruel like him if I wanted to survive. When he’d hit me, I had to hit him back. And when that didn’t work, I found another way to cause him pain.” Was this too personal? No. No, and it didn’t matter even if it was. Kili had a right to know all of this and more. He was a product of that pain and suffering, denied the truth for far too long. “I used his love for Fili and I against him, and I wounded his heart. It wasn’t the blows that hurt him. I was heartless, and it made him suffer more than violence ever could.”

“Did you ever love him?” The question was stark and sudden, and it struck the air from her lungs. Dís froze as she considered it. The racing throb of Kili’s pulse betrayed the deadness in his face.

“I…” Dís shifted a little so her back was fully to Dwalin. It was a horrific betrayal, and she could feel the truth beating at her throat, screaming to be let out. She had never, ever told anybody this before. It was so sick, so twisted and disturbed. It disturbed her, still, to think on it, and so she learned long ago to push it down and consider it with the detachedness of a legend or history that was speaking of somebody else. “I’ve never told the truth to anybody.” She whispered. “I think I was ashamed of myself. It was a betrayal of everything I had suffered and bled and fought for, to stand back at the end and say that I had loved him.” Kili’s grip tightened. “But I did. I used to tell myself that it was a servile, stupid love, the way an animal loves their master. That I adapted to his hostility. That I was so starved of love I knowingly ate his poison.” She shook her head. “But I loved him without hatred and violence, at least at the start. Before the Ironfists got inside of him, a-and twisted him, and…” Dís stopped for air, for the rush in her head to fade. “When he was a boy, I loved him as much and as simply as any husband and wife love each other.” She didn’t expect Kili to understand, but he looked at her without an ounce of judgement in his face. He just listened. “I think that frightened me, looking back on it, so I buried it.”

“Have you told Fili this?" Dís shook her head.

“Nobody in the world." She breathed. “Just you." It was a poor consolation, being the sole keeper of one secret after the denial of so many others, but Kili looked into her face and saw the devastation that such an admission had wrought. His dry tongue scraped against the roof of his mouth as he swallowed.

“S-So, you left." He guessed, and guessed correctly. "How?" Every breath of air, every word became a battle. He'd theorised over the years, imagined fantasies, sketched a picture of who his father could be, but nothing was ever this visceral and lurid. Nothing came close. Part of Kili wanted to take his mother by the shoulders and shake her and scream and scream until she finally realised how much he'd been hurt by her lies. Instead, he traced a tiny circle over the shapeless scar on her wrist, looking down at the faded white and wondering.

“I packed up one night and left." Dís could feel her heart thudding within her, deeper and hollower than she had felt for years, as she realised that if she didn't tell Kili the truth now — all of it — then he would never forgive her. She froze.

Kili sensed her hesitation, nails biting into her palm. “No more secrets." He said quietly. "No matter how much you think the truth will hurt me..." Dís was trembling. “Not knowing hurts more, Amad."

"It couldn’t go on." The warg had his head in Kili’s lap, letting out an occasional whining snore and drooling all over his leg. “We would have killed ourselves, or each other. Fili was four years old, and they were already making him witness their depravity. They were going to make an Ironfist out of him. I had to save us. I thought about leaving, about asking Thorin for help. But I was too afraid. So I stayed. And then, one night, he..." Dís couldn't hold his hands anymore. She pulled free and crossed her arms over her chest. “Most Ironfists would say he put me in my place." Her voice was faded, dry as dust. His hands free, Kili gently maneouvered himself out from under Nardur, eyes never leaving her. “He never forced it before. He knew that once he did, I could never love him again. He destroyed whatever love I had left to try and break me.”

“But he didn’t.” Kili’s lips barely moved as he realised what she was saying, or not quite saying. Dishevelled braids slid over her shoulders as Dís shook her head, the the trembling, wrinkled knot of her mouth white with pressure.

“He didn’t.” She repeated, brittle. Kili studied her downcast eyes, that taut, white mouth. His mother had withdrawn into the recesses of her memory, trapped in that pit of vipers. He reached out to touch her, to offer some small, useless token of comfort, and Dís shrank back. If it was anyone else in that moment, the reaction very likely would have been the same, but to Kili, who had never been rejected by her, it was sudden and painful. And as he remembered what she had just told him, an awful, awful thought struck him, a high-pitched, strangled gasp tearing in his throat.

“Fili was four when our f-father violated you?” He finally managed to choke the words out, squeezing his hands into tight fists to try and mask the violent shaking. Dís’ head snapped up, those bleary eyes widening. “Fili was four?” Kili repeated, higher this time, louder, his shoulders heaving up and down beneath his black, orcish armour.

Dís nodded, too afraid to speak or whisper or even breathe. Kili’s gasps of air rose, broke into a sob, and he clutched fistfuls of his hair and bent his head towards his knees. “No.” He moaned, hoarse and broken, grimy nails raking at his scalp. “Please, no.”

It was such a cruel joke of fate. His very existence, his whole life was the lingering consequence of a single, brutal action, a fit of violence, an attempt to break his mother and crush her spirit. His mother was whispering something, leaning in, but Kili couldn’t make it out over the roar in his ears. How could she look at him? How could she hold him, embrace him, love him, without that constant reminder of what had happened to her? "Don't." He growled savagely when Dís tried to touch his face, blocking her hand as though they were in combat. Dís faltered, helpless.

“How could I ever tell you?" Kili screwed up his eyes at her soft, quivering voice. “I-I’m so sorry." She was talking to stone. "But I never—"

“I have to go.” He pitched forward onto his hands, getting onto the balls of his feet. “I-I need— I can’t—- I have to go.” Kili’s teeth chattered from the force of his shaking, and every intake of air was a hard-fought struggle, lungs straining under the crushing weight of his shock. Wobbly, he managed to find his feet, hands on his knees as his head swam.

“No, Kili, please.” Dís rose to follow him. She scrabbled, and caught his elbow. “Stay. Let me explain—”

“You can’t.” Horrified, disgusted at himself, Kili tried to pull away from her. But Dís clung to him and refused to let go, lurching forward and almost losing her balance at the painful jerking of Kili’s arm. “Let me go.”

“No.” And Dís did the only thing she knew how to do, wholly and completely; she loved him. She wrapped her arms as tight as she could around his struggling body, hissing in pain as he jolted the shattered bone. They stood back-to-chest, Kili clawing at her hands, Dís holding on tight with every fibre of her being, speaking in a continuous stream against his ear. “It’s all right, Kili. Please— don’t— oh, please don’t struggle. Just listen to me— listen to me. I did this — I swear — for you, all of it. I just wanted to protect you from the horrors and Fili and I faced. You didn’t need that burden — not you. They never touched you and I wanted to keep it that away. I knew that it would destroy you when you finally knew, a-and I just wanted to spare you that pain as long as I could. I swear.”

“Just stop.” Kili ripped himself free. Dís reeled back, clutching at her broken shoulder. “Please, Amad.” He didn’t want to be around her. His skin was flushed, too hot beneath his armour, heart too big for his chest.

Dís’ breath hitched. “Mahal, Kili, I love you. It goes against every part of my body to hurt you, my boy. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t do that you.” Kili shook his head. There was absolutely no comfort in knowing the truth. After almost eighty years of secrets and veiled truths, the issue of his father became a freshly-opened wound over the last few months with Azog’s interrogation, the orcs insulting his mother, learning of his other tribe from the Lake-Town captain, Fili’s description of the lie they had all created without him knowing. Learning who his father was — what he was, what he had done…

“What am I?” He sounded so lost and confused and frightened. It was heartbreaking. Dís approached him slowly, one hand held out. She wanted to embrace him, pour her love onto him, but at the same time, she was afraid to touch him. Not knowing what else to to, Dís rested her hand on her son’s elbow. The whites of Kili’s eyes flickered, but his hands remained limp at his side.

“You’re my boy.” She said. “Kili, there is nobody in the world, living or dead, that I will ever love more than you and your brother. It doesn’t matter where you came from. It doesn’t matter how it happened. All that matters is that we have each other, the three of us. It’s all we’ve ever needed.”

Kili couldn’t look at her. Of course it mattered. They both knew it did. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?” Although soft, his voice was sharp and accusing. “Just— Why not one single thing? You lied to everybody, didn’t you?” He went on. Guilty, all she could do was nod and accept it. “Why, Amad?” He had told himself there was no strength left for anger, but here it was, flushing hot in his chest like he’d swallowed boiling water, burning in his stomach.

“B-Because.” Her lip quivered. “Because—” Dís tightened her grip. “I wanted to… to shield you from all of that. Thorin fought the Ironfists for Fili with everything he had. Everyone in Erebor held Fili up as the great hope of our people and put all their dreams on him. But nobody else fought for you. You were just Kili.” Tempting fate, she cupped the side of his face, remembering, trying to align that cheeky, impish little face that beamed up at her with what she saw now; a scowl of mistrust, betrayal, a savage hunger gleaming in dark eyes, skin smeared with ash and a long scar standing out of it. “Just my little Kili.”

“Just Kili.” He repeated, growling, bitter with an undirected, uncontrollable fury and hatred, and pulled away from her again. It was the worst thing she could have said, but how was she to know? “If I ever hear that again, Amad, I-I’ll go wild.” Dís swallowed. “Do you have any idea what being just Kili cost me? I’ve always thought I was nothing— that I wasn’t as good as my brother, and we all believed it, a-and it was you. You were the one that started all of this by lying to everybody!”

“I know.” Dís blotted at her eyes with her sleeve. This time she had the sense to keep back. “I failed you. We all failed you.” She paused, but Kili didn’t deign to talk, so she sniffed and continued. “And I’m so, so sorry that I couldn’t do more for you. What I did, I did because I love you. And that’s not reason enough, but…” Kili stared. “It’s the only reason I have.”

It wasn’t enough. It was never enough, and the both of them knew it. Kili opened his mouth to strike back, to say something cruel and hurtful and utterly deserved, when he saw a familiar, friendly face over his mother’s shoulder and backed down, biting hard on the inside of his cheek.

“Oh, good, you’re still here, Kili.” Bofur beamed, not realising at first what he’d stumbled into. “I’ve just been fossicking about, and I nabbed a few things.” A wooden bucket dangled from one hand, and over his forearm was a change of linens in dark blue and black, a corner of an old blanket to dry off. “Thought you’d like a wash and a change.”

“Yes.” Dís’ shoulders visibly slumped. “Yes, thank you.” Still reeling, Kili accepted the bundle of linen and rough cloth and even a pair of boots. He tried not to think about where those in particular had come from, and resolved to scrub the splatter of back on the left toe away.

“Kili,” Dís stretched her hand out. “You can’t just wander off—”

“Stay away from me.” Kili’s voice shook. Dís recoiled as though she had been burned, and he flushed with contrition. “I just want to be alone, Amad.” He hugged the boots close to his chest, softening, looking more afraid than angry. “I-I just— I need to think.”

Dís knew she was beaten. She was reminded of Thorin then, of his frequent solitary brooding. Fili, too, would rather go off and think rather than talk anything out. But Kili never did that. Whenever he had issues in Ered Luin, he went to talk to Dwalin. But he couldn’t do that now, she realised with a sharp pang. “Do you want me to find Fili?” Kili shook his head. He didn’t want anybody else. Oh, Kili. She ached for him. “C-Come back. Please.” He nodded, looking dazed. It was impossible to guess what awful thoughts ran through his head.

“Where can I find some water?” Kili swung the empty bucket in his hand, looking at Bofur now.

“Ah, ‘course.” Bofur shot Dís an inquiring look and a little shrug, but Dís remained silent and still, blinking back the tears, determined to remain calm, to not show how much she was hurting. “There’s a wee room with a pump. Door’s still on it’s hinges, but I think the lock’s beyond repair, I’m afraid. Here, let me show you…”

It was like wading through water. Dís stumbled heavily back to Dwalin’s side and sank to her knees. Nardur was stretched out along the dwarf’s side, legs tucked in and nose buried into Dwalin’s folded arm, snoring softly. Dwalin remained unchanged, still too-pale with black rings beneath his eyes, face occasionally twitching.

“Please—” Dís winced at the crack in her voice, and cleared her throat. “Please,” she whispered, more smoothly, running a fingertip over a deep line in Dwalin’s forehead. “you have to wake up. I can’t—” Her lungs constricted, and she swallowed down the burn. “Kili needs you. He’s so lost, and I can’t help him.” Knowing that she had hurt her child was excruciating. She deserved every insult Kili could throw at her and more. It wasn’t good enough, to say she did it to protect him. It never would be.

Dís wallowed in her failure, leaning against the wall with Dwalin pressed close and the warg curled in beside him, watching the back-and-forth around her as life rose and fell and broke apart. The truth was out there now, but it didn’t matter. Her best efforts to shelter Kili from the horrors that she and Fili had endured couldn’t protect him from something worse, more devastating than anything she could have imagined. In a sick twist of destiny, it even contributed to it.

* * *

Ori didn’t know anything about Kili’s defection, Thorin’s deathbed confession, or Fili’s desperate final charge. As the horn broke in the air around them and the rally sounded through the halls that they had won, he was kneeling on the ground wrist-deep in some poor elf’s chest, holding a heavy artery closed with his fingers, his mail and gloves stripped away and tossed carelessly behind him. In stumbling Elvish, Ori urged the victim to keep breathing, to stay awake, to please, please, please, just hold on long enough for Dillan to come and help him.

The slim hand gripped his thigh, clawing at the bloodied fabric which had been darned and torn and darned again, worn down to holes after months of snow and rock. Leaf-green eyes stared back, limp and somehow desperate, blood and spit bubbling from slack lips as his body spasmed against the smooth-polished rock. Ori gritted his teeth against the piercing scream of the horn and bent his head, leaning over the dying elf. “Please,” he whispered, pressing his free hand against the the elf’s cheek; a nameless stranger, “just a little longer.” But he shuddered against Ori’s hand and green eyes rolled back in their sunken sockets, and as the cheers of victory seeped through the cracks in the stone, the elf groaned and died.

Ori held his own breath, mirrored, suspended in a transient silence as thin and frail as babies’ bones as the heart that was beating against his knuckles stilled. Half-lidded, the elf stared back. The vacant face, the whiteness of his skin, struck Ori, a blow that left his ears ringing and brain throbbing against his skull. He was the colour of marble in the wintry light, blood darkening to black against the whitish-grey in smears and stains and flecks. He was beautiful. Elves were indisputably beautiful creatures, shaped from an otherwordly matter, ageless and immortal. But looking now, Ori realised that despite the agelessness, it was still so fleeting. He could be a twenty years old, or a hundred, or a thousand, but it didn’t matter. He was dead. Ori’s tongue was prickly and swollen in his mouth, throat too tight to speak.

“Ori!” He started at the voice. “I need a spare pair of hands! Quick!”

Amongst the confusion and desperation of trying to save a handful of doomed lives, Ori didn’t think about the dead elf for a long time. He didn’t have the luxury. Hurried from one to the other, Ori helped carry some poor elf who had been slashed across the stomach at close-range, right through the mail, grey and purple entrails pushed back in handfuls by Dillan while he screamed and screamed, Ori holding him down and getting his arms scratched to ribbons.

After they laid him down in the banquet hall, limp and twitching but still alive, Dillan took one look at Ori and told him to go and find his own people, to rest. Too numb and exhausted to argue, Ori searched for a familiar face amongst the crowd — Nori, Fili, Kili— Kili. His nails bit into his palms and he had to stop and take in a deep, long breath. Kili, who had gone running back to the orcs and — literally — thrown himself in their arms. Everything Ilzkhaal had said came rushing back, screaming in his head. Kili doesn’t know how to love.

“Ori!” His eyes snapped open, and he sighed in relief at the familiar voice. Gloin. “Ori — where have you been? Everyone is looking for you?”

“Everyone?” Ori repeated faintly as the dwarf rushed to his side. “Oh, I doubt it.”

“No, everyone.” Gloin insisted. “Fili’s been asking after you for hours — he’s lugging bodies in from the front hall. Wants to know you’re all right. Dori’s laid up with a smashed hip, mumbling about how he’s sorry. Nori keeps insisting you’re not dead, but whatever Oin gave him, it’s driven him round the bend. Brain like a sieve at the moment. And Kili—” Here, Gloin uncomfortably cleared his throat. “Bofur said he wants to see you, too.”

Ori digested it all sluggishly, nodding in time as Gloin spoke. “Where are my brothers?” He finally asked, distantly, sounding regretful that he’d asked.

“Over by the dais.” Gloin pointed. “Want me to pass anything on to Fili?” He didn’t mention Kili. Ori shook his head, too tired to even think about that, and left him, weaving through the crowd and trying to block the groans of the wounded and dying from his head.

Halfway across, Ori stopped. Two Ironfists were sitting on a spread-out cloak, one stripped to the waist and wringing blood-soaked rags out into a bowl of water and the other, a little older, kneeling behind him, running his fingers lightly over a fresh set of stitches that stretched across the younger dwarf’s shoulderblade. They looked at first like cousins or brothers, patching each other up after a fight, but then the older dwarf leaned in and gently brushed a handful of sandy dreadlocks back from his partner’s face. Briefly, he kissed the youngster on the cheek and then murmured something, one arm winding across his bare chest. The other laughed, rested a hand on his knee and leaned into his neck.

It was a flash of an image, caught from a distance between the flitting back-and-forth of dozens of others, but Ori was struck breathless. He closed his eyes and shook his head to try and fling it away from him, but there it was in his artist’s brain, every line and detail, every shadow of muscle beneath bare skin, every bruise and cut and wild lock of matted blonde hair. Feeling weak, Ori leaned forward and rested his hands on his knees. He had to take control of himself again. He had to calm down. It was just a brief moment of tenderness between two lovers, he rationalised, comforting themselves in the exhausting aftermath of war.

He knew exactly what it was that left him senseless. Jealousy. Longing. He clutched at his chest, feeling the crushing ache of his loneliness. Mahal, he felt more isolated now than he could ever remember. It’s not fair. Ori screamed in his head, glaring through the crowd at them, more reserved now, the younger Ironfist being helped into his shirt with only a lingering touch on his forearm to suggest anything else. Why do you get this and not me? He drew his arms around himself, felt the yawning space between them and his ribs, and bit down hard on his lower lip to stop an exhausted roar of frustration from bursting out.

Somehow, Ori found his brothers. Dori was lying on his back with his eyes closed, hands folded across his chest. Nori sat at his head, knees drawn up, one hand on Dori’s shoulder, the other picking at a hole in his trousers. As Ori approached him, he jerked up, clambering onto his feet and staggering, stiffly, arms held out.

“You idiot.” Nori hissed in his ear as they embraced. “Where have you been? I’ve been asking all over. I tried to find you, but Bombur pulled me back. Said Dori was going senseless. You should have found me first thing!”

“I know.” Ori mumbled, going lax in his brother’s arms, resting his head on Nori’s mailed shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

They broke away to look at each other. “Are you all right?” Nori asked, looking into his faded face and instantly knowing the answer. Ori’s lip quivered, and he shook his head. “Oh,” he brought Ori in for another hug, “you’ll get there.” Nori murmured against his ear. “It’s going to be fine.”

Was it? Ori endured the hug as long as he could, but it was constricting and strange, and he wasn’t sure if he liked it. He couldn’t remember the last time Nori hugged him. Maybe he never had. Wiping at his face, he pulled away and then smeared his hand down his bloodied shirt. “I-Is he going to be all right?” Ori breathed, staring over Nori’s shoulder at his eldest brother. Nori nodded and pulled at his elbow, coaxing him over. Ori reluctantly followed.

“Some ruddy great orc knocked him down and smashed a hammer into him. Really, he was lucky, taking it on the bone. Oin reckons if he’d gotten it in the chest or gut, his innards would be soup. Can’t come back from that.” Ori swallowed, remembering the elf with the severed artery who clung to him while he died.

“No,” he shivered. “You can’t.” Ori remained standing, looking down on him and feeling strangely detached. He didn’t want to come any closer.

“He’s sleeping.” Nori stood beside him and rested a hand on his shoulder. “Finally. He was out of it before, drooling and slurring all over the place. I want what Oin gave him.” He chuckled. “He’ll be laid up for a long while, and he’ll have to use a cane ‘till the end, Oin reckons.” Ori bit his lip. “But he’s got his life, and that’s more than some of us.” There was a chilly silence between them, the hubbub of the crowd lapping gently at their ears. “He’s sorry.” Nori said gently when it was clear Ori didn’t want to talk. “For what he did to us, especially you.” Ori stared coldly down at him, hands clenched at his sides. “Give him a chance when he wakes up, all right? Let him make amends.”

“You must think I’m being awful.” Ori shivered inside his shirt, brushing his sweat-curled hair out of his eyes. “He’s my brother, and I can’t even come near him, Nori. I’m— I’m just so angry.” Nori rested a hand on his shoulder. “How could he be so cruel? How could he just— just stand there and let Thorin do that to us? We’re supposed to be a family.”

“Dori knows he screwed up.” Nori tried to calm him, but nothing could quell the trembling of Ori’s limbs. “Like I said, he’s sorry. He loves you, Ori. More than anything. He’s always thought the world of you.”

“He doesn’t.” Ori’s flush of anger died as quickly as it rose in his chest, leaving him feeling limp. “All I’ve done is disappoint him.”

“What? You’re easily the best of us three. What have you done that would disappoint him?” Nori gripped both shoulders now, frowning at him. “Because you’re…?”

“Broken.” Nori sighed at that and shook his head.

“You’re not broken.” He said firmly. “Don’t be ridiculous. Dori’s just been worried about you. He knew what would happen if anyone else ever found out.” Nori forced a smile. “Things’ll be different now, for all of us. You’re not going to be treated differently.”

“Don’t say that.” Ori wrenched free. “It’s just lies. I’ll always be different, Nori. Do you honestly think that Thorin or Balin or Gloin or any of that lot would even look in my direction again? Do you think I can ever get people to trust me, knowing what I am?” His voice wobbled, low and bitter as the jealousy returned tenfold. “Do you think I ever won’t be alone?”

“Hey.” Nori softened. “Has no one told you about Thorin?”

Ori’s breath hitched. “What about him?”

“Well, er…” Nori shuffled uncomfortably. “Thorin died. So for what it’s worth, you won’t have to worry about what he says or thinks anymore. And when Fili takes the crown, he’ll undo all those vile oaths his uncle made.” Ori’s mouth fell open in his surprise. Thorin? Never. Not in Erebor. How was Fili going to take the crown if he’d been banished? How had all of it even happened?

“Who did it?” He finally asked. “Was it Bolg?”

“Bolg? Nah, Kili apparently took care of him.” Nori paused and winced. “Did— Did you know about Kili?” Ori shook his head again, thinking better of it. “Yeah, he’s back. Turned out he’d infiltrated the orcs and gained their trust. He got Fili and Thorin and Bolg alone, and the three of ‘em took the bastard down.”

A crumbling relief filled his stomach. “So— he’s on our side?”

Nori chortled. “Of course he is!” He gave Ori a little shove in the arm. Oh, poor Ilzkhaal. Ori sighed with pity. “Don’t be stupid. Like he’d ever turn on Fili.” But then Nori darkened, the smile falling downwards into a thoughtful frown. “I think he’s taking it all pretty hard. Bofur came by before after dropping off a change of clothes for him, said Kili was acting real quiet, not talking to anyone. Tried to keep him company, but Kili kicked him out. Bofur reckons he and his mother some sort of fight, and with all these Ironfists around, it’s not hard to guess what. Dís was in tears, poor thing. I always knew this would hit her hard, seeing Kili like that, and with Thorin gone and Fili tied up playing king and Dwalin knocked senseless, she’s got nobody to comfort her.”

“I should find him.” Ori mumbled, realising it was the right thing to say, but at the same time, his heart constricting in terror at the thought. He was scared of what he would see, and, even worse, what he would say, standing face-to-face with Kili while Ilzkhaal’s words swirled around in his head. He saw the dwarves again on the insides of his eyelids, and the pressure doubled in his chest and his stomach softened as his body went to war with itself.

“That might be a good idea.” His brother said gently. “Dori’ll be out all night. I’m here to watch him, besides. Just be there for him. Like you were before. Only this time, Thorin’s not here to blow his top if you so much as touch him.” Nori chuckled, but Ori couldn’t even crack a smile. The idea of touching Kili now almost repulsed him, knowing that a pair of orc-hands had been there first, had taken Kili apart and held him more intimately than Ori ever hoped he could. But thought of not going was so impossible and remote that it never even crossed his head.

So of course he went.

* * *

Kili pulled the half-full bucket of water close to himself, between his bare legs, and stared down at the water. The lump of soap Bofur had given him had sunk to the bottom, a dull, pale colour of bone. This little room was lit by a couple of slit windows near the ceiling, and Kili had taken a lantern in with him, but the corners were still dark with shadows and there was a dreary chill in the air, the breath fogging through his lips.

He couldn’t make out much of his reflection in the water, just a shapeless, jagged shadow looming over the bucket. When was the last time he’d even seen his own face? Kili screwed up his face and tried to remember. That’s right — in the Misty Mountains. Leafing through Ori’s drawings while Azog was asleep, curled up before the fire like some sort of pet. He distinctly remembered the humiliation of looking at himself, over and over, so thin and odd and awkward, so unlike his brother and uncle that he could have come from somewhere else entirely.

And half of him did. Kili was still in a sense of shock over what his mother had said. Shock and devastation and outrage. He couldn’t be around her, and when Bofur offered the clothes and soap and a chance to be clean, Kili seized it without a second thought. It wasn’t that he hated her — he could never hate his mother, no matter what she did. But staying there, listening to her repeat herself over and over again under the savage eyes of a thousand strangers distrusting him in his orcish skin, sent him into a panic. She had her reasons for lying. Kili knew and understood them, but he didn’t accept them. Perhaps it was because she had done it to shelter Kili and protect his innocence, a concept now so remote it felt as if it had never existed. But it was impossible to know if things would have been different had Kili known. Would he have had the same anger and insecurity that Fili had when they were children? Would he have grown up harder, smarter, more aware? Would they have tried harder to save him?

It wasn’t worth thinking about. Leaning in, Kili held his breath and plunged his hands in the water. He’d filled the bucket from the still-working pump in the vast kitchens, taken fresh from the belly of the mountain, filtered through miles of rock, cold as ice to the touch and utterly pristine. He splashed the water against his face, hissing at the chill, and seized the greasy lump of soap and the bit of rough cloth Bofur had given him, trying to get a lather going so he could scrub off the ash.

It felt good to grind the coarse fabric across his face. It stung, sharp as needles, and left his cheeks pink. Kili stared down at the smears of grey and black against the off-white cotton weave, the remains of his disguise. “Never again.” He whispered a promise as he wrung it out, feeling the water run down his neck. No more orcs, ever.

Soon Kili was shivering. It wasn’t the wisest idea to strip down entirely. He had been so desperate to shed that armour that he sliced through the leather straps with a knife instead of unbuckling them, tearing at his trousers in his haste to get them off. It was like a fit of madness had seized him, and his orcish clothes were too hot, too tight, and he couldn’t be still for a moment until he got them off. Everything was dirty. Every crevice of his body had some kind of muck or grime or dried blood caked in it, every inch of skin ugly and grey, even where he hadn’t deliberately smeared himself in ash, he was so filthy from the last few weeks. His nails were black and his hair fell into his eyes now and his beard was starting to grow a little thicker. Kili ran his palm over his jaw, frowning. When had that happened? His hair was tangled and matted, so thick with grime he couldn’t get his fingers through it. Bending over, Kili submerged his head into the water and scratched one-handed at his scalp, water rushing over his ears, getting into his nose and stinging his eyes. He sputtered and somehow couldn’t breathe, and a crushing panic rose in his chest. Coughing, Kili lifted his head, leaning over the bucket. Air just wasn’t getting into his lungs, no matter how hard he tried to breathe, and his throat was burning.

Ori rested his hand on the door. He breathed in, felt his heart skip in his chest, at the anticipation of what he would find on the other side. “Kili?” He said softly, listening keenly for a response. Through the wood, Ori thought he heard a grumble of a voice, and with his pulse throbbing in his ears, he lifted the latch.

The air died in his lungs. Kili was kneeling on the ground, naked, hunched over the wooden bucket with his forehead on his folded arms. His shoulders heaved, and Ori’s stomach tightened as the dry, wracking rasp of Kili’s sobs filled the stale air. Every other thought flew from his mind, and Ori stood frozen, listening to the drip of the the water in the tub and that choked breathing, watching the pale curve of Kili’s hunched back shuddering in the gloom. Whisper-soft, Ori stepped back to close the door. The latch clicked, and Kili jumped at the sound, a startled animal at the riverside. Before Ori had the chance to speak, Kili was crouched in a defensive stance behind the half-empty bucket, a knife gleaming orange in his hand.

“Kili!” He gasped, reeling back against the closed door. Kili’s heavy breathing stilled, eyes widening in recognition as he lowered the slim blade. His bare limbs quivered, and with a low groan, Kili bent his head, sinking forward onto his knees. “Oh, Kili.” Ori sank to the ground at Kili’s side and gathered him up, his own clothes growing damp beneath the heavy press of his body, steadily lukewarm after the initial jolt of his chilly skin. He embraced Kili as fiercely as he could, feeling his ribs spasm between his arms, forgetting all sense of propriety and honour and grace. How could he have been afraid of him for even a moment? Seeing him again drove it all away, the fear and anger and distrust, like it never existed. It was Kili, after all this time, after thinking he was gone for good and resigning himself to the fact that he’d missed his chance to help him, after learning how he’d lied and manipulated an orc into his bed. Kili was back, and in that moment, nothing else mattered.

Kili didn’t say anything. He drew one arm around Ori’s neck and clung to him, water running in rivulets over his shoulders. Ori didn’t care at all; he was too busy squeezing the air out of Kili’s lungs and trying not to break down completely. He sniffed against Kili’s hair, burying himself in it, the wet, heaving gasps of air a welcome warmth on his chilly skin. Kili rested his temple against Ori’s collarbone and listened to the racing throb of his heart, concentrating on it until it was drowning out the voices in his head.

Close up, Ori was able to examine Kili in detail. He stared down the slope of Kili’s back, a soft, golden-brown in the lanternlight and glistening with droplets of water. He was as lean as a cat, muscles rippling beneath his skin, twisting around the jut of his shoulderblades and his spine, the shadows of his ribs deepening with each shuddering breath. Jagged scars gleamed white, criss-crossed from his shoulders to the small of his back in broad, angry strokes, an ugly reminder of the horror he had endured. He swallowed back his impotent guilt and outrage and rested his hand on Kili’s back, over the arch of his spine, and the chilly skin twitched at his touch. Kili grabbed a handful of Ori’s bloodied shirt, breath slowly evening out.

How long they remained like that, Ori wasn’t sure. It felt like hours but it had to have only been minutes, maybe even seconds. He stared, mesmerised, at the canvas of Kili’s skin, feeling hot beneath his clothes despite the chilly body pressed against him. The flush deepened in his stomach, swelled outwards through his limbs, and Ori dug in, gritting his teeth against the attack, unable to tear himself away. The longing he had felt watching the Ironfist couple subsided the longer he held on, even though he knew it wasn’t the same. Kili didn’t love him, but Mahal, he still loved Kili. Part of Ori had hoped, desperately, that knowing what Kili had become would have dulled that love when they finally met again. How much of that smiling, wide-eyed jokester that Ori fell in love with was even left? Maybe it was a misplaced relief at his return, maybe it was joy at the physical sensation of holding Kili in his arms. Whatever it was, despite everything he knew, everything that had happened, Ori still loved Kili as fiercely and terribly as he did when they were still dwarrows, when the biggest dangers they had faced were were drawn on paper or imagined in their heads.

Kili lifted his head, and their eyes met. He looked exhausted and devastated, still clinging to Ori with a childlike desperation. “I missed you.” His purple lips barely moved. Ori couldn’t trust himself to say a word in this painful intimacy, with Kili raw and open and naked. They breathed in sync, soft and cautious, chests still touching, Kili’s arm around Ori’s neck, Ori’s hand resting on his back. His lips stung. This was far too close, and they both knew it. It was a fragile, excruciating moment where the boundaries between friends, shield-brothers and lovers had completely vanished, and they held each other with a tenderness and uncertainty, unsure how to go forward from this, with Ori violently wanting Kili, with Kili in mourning, exhausted and terrified of being alone.

Ori seemed afraid, kneeling on the ground with Kili so haphazardly in his arms. Kili watched as he licked his lips and opened his mouth to speak but failed to shape the words. Oh, Ori. He still so plainly loved him. This was the first time they had even met since Kili had found out about it, and looking at Ori now, the way he chanced a smile, the tiny lines deepening around his eyes, he wondered how he didn’t see it before. How did he not decipher the meaning behind those little gasps of fear, the way Ori tensed when he touched him, the looks of longing? He could have Ori so easily if he wanted — they were halfway there already. Kili could feel it. He was close enough to feel Ori’s breath on his lips, his ribs expanding, contracting, his heart throbbing against the cage of bone. It would take so little to change things forever; a lean in, a closing of eyes, meeting of mouths. Kili’s nails bit through the cloth of Ori’s shirt.

He was so very tempted. Not from physical desire, but from a desperation, longing, loss, an attempt to cover over that hole that had been carved out of his heart. Kili just wanted to be loved again, the way Ilzkhaal loved him, with that tenderness and adoration which now seemed so fleeting. Ori’s breath hitched and he kept waiting, waiting for something to happen, studying the flicker of Kili’s eyes. Tentatively, as though afraid he would break the stillness, Ori reached out and peeled back the lock of hair plastered to the side of Kili’s face, half-covering his scar. He tucked it carefully behind Kili’s ear, resting his fingers for a moment against the cleft between Kili’s jaw and neck. Kili was dazed by the touch, as though Ori had struck him instead. The memory of Ilzkhaal, deep in the woods, doing the same thing to him on the day they had met, was dragged to the surface. It was like a breath of fresh air, and it gave Kili a sense of unmistakable clarity.

They weren’t the same. None of it was the same. Ori was older now, and there was a difference in the way he looked at Kili — not hopeful and self-conscious, but with a warmth and a purity that came only with that uncovering of his secret love. Ori loved him plainly and openly, the way he always wanted to, and it wasn’t the same sort of love. He didn't worship Kili — how could he? He didn't have that devotion and idolisation like he had before. It wasn’t something Kili could twist and manipulate and use to his own ends. He couldn’t do it just to make Ori happy, just to keep them close. Because that was what he had done to Ilzkhaal — standing back, weighing it all up, Kili could see how much damage his lies had caused to the both of them, to their relationship. He had used Ilzkhaal and he came dangerously close to using Ori in the same way. Kili wanted to pull away, to tell Ori that he wasn’t deserving of this love, that he was sullied and corrupted and unfaithful, that he wasn’t the same dwarrow that Ori had adored and worshipped all these years. But he looked at Ori and realised that he already knew that. He wasn’t expecting the old Kili. He wasn’t expecting anything at all. He waited, patiently, for Kili to speak, letting his smile do the talking for him.

“I missed you.” Kili said again, unable to form anything else, leaning in to embrace him like a long-lost best friend — and he was, Kili realised as Ori responded in kind, draping an arm over his shoulders. He was.


	115. Stay Close

After the war came for Bilbo, who felt as though he hadn’t really done all that much, a sort of dull, muffled quietness. The elves around him and Gandalf cheered, sang snatches of cheery song, although Thranduil remained grim-faced and silent. Bilbo couldn’t think for a moment about joy and celebration. He dashed from one group to the other, tugging at elbows and desperately begging for answers. _Has anybody seen Thorin Oakenshield?_ The words breathlessly ran together. _What about his nephew, Fili? Has anybody seen them?_

And when he finally found a red-bearded dwarf who sighed and said Thorin had been killed, it knocked the air out of Bilbo’s lungs. He staggered to the staircase that lead to the throne room and sat halfway up, a little apart from the chaos of the hall. He didn’t cry. He didn’t say or do anything at all, just sat there staring out at the world as it continued without him, feeling the grief and guilt take him apart slowly.

After some time, Gandalf came and sat beside him, scraping at his pipe and fiddling with a match. It was a harsh, grating scrape and Bilbo tensed his shoulders and wished he would stop. Gandalf must have sensed his hostility, and he lowered his pipe, turning it over and over in his grimy hands. Around them, people were picking up the pieces, loading the wounded onto hastily knocked-together stretches or slinging them over their shoulders, kneeling at the heads of fallen loved ones, elves and dwarves and men all together trying to make sense of this awful violence.

“Sorry, Bilbo.” He finally said. Bilbo didn’t bother to respond, hands pressed tight between his knees, head bent. He didn’t know if Gandalf was talking about Thorin or the pipe.

“I didn’t want this.” Bilbo finally spoke after another long silence. “A-All this fighting— this _hatred_. It’s my fault. I took the Arkenstone and I…” A ragged gasp broke from his dry throat. “I betrayed him, a-and I never got to apologise for what I did.”

“You did the right thing.” Gandalf said gently, resting a hand on Bilbo’s shoulder. He squeezed it briefly then pulled away. “And Thorin would have have known that in the end.”

“Do you think so?” Bilbo looked up at him, watching the ridiculously bushy eyebrows furrow in thought.

“I spoke to Balin, briefly.” The wizard toyed with his pipe, although he refrained from lighting it. “It seems that Thorin forgave Fili in his last moments and declared him his nephew and heir once more.” Bilbo’s breath caught. He didn’t know that. He only knew that Thorin was dead. “Late as it was, he saw the light.”

“Oh, Fili.” Bilbo murmured. “Poor thing. He must be in pieces. I wonder how he’s doing.”

“Hm, you can ask if you like.” Gandalf jerked his head to the left. Fili, picking his way through the crowd. He had spied Bilbo and jogged towards him, ducking under an elf’s outstretched arm and stumbling rather gracelessly up the stairs.

“Bilbo, Gandalf.” He panted. “Oh, thank Mahal, you’re both all right.” Fili sat down beside Bilbo, mustering a weak smile which faded almost instantly at the sight of Bilbo’s haggard face. “So— you heard?”

Bilbo sniffed and nodded. “H-How are you?” He asked, hunching over a little more. “It must be— Oh, Fili, I’m sorry.” He gasped, feeling his throat start to burn. “I’m so sorry.”

“Hey, don’t— don’t.” Fili draped an arm across his back in a soft hug. “Please. You’ll get me started. I-I’ll..” Fili’s voice broke, and he swallowed audibly. “I’ll be all right, Bilbo. I’ll get there.”

“Have you spoken to Thranduil and Dain?” Gandalf asked him. “I imagine the question of succession would be at the forefront of their minds.”

“Ah, yes.” Fili answered shakily. “I’ve spoken to the both of them. Not together.” He raked a hand through his tangled, matted curls. “Thranduil’s pleased, but at least he has the grace to hide it. Dain is…” He sighed. “He’s upset. I can tell. He really does want the best for Erebor, in his own way. And I’m not part of it. But we’ve both agreed to put that aside for now and just focus on healing the wounded and burying the dead. So I-I guess I’ve bought some time.” Bilbo was leaning into his touch, shivering a little in the winter chill. “Bilbo, um...” Fili stopped and let out a long, shuddering breath. “Do you want to come and see Thorin? We’ve put him in a little room. Not cleaned up yet, _Amad_ will do that when she’s ready, but he’s all laid out. It’s… quiet.”

“I-I’d like that.” Bilbo finally stammered. “Gandalf, will you…”

“No, you go.” Gandalf gave him a small, sad smile. “You say your goodbyes.”

“I guess it doesn’t mean much to him, seeing the body.” Fili said softly as they made their way down the stairs. “Being all-powerful and whatnot. He probably knows exactly where Thorin is now — his spirit.”

“He doesn’t.” Bilbo remembered. “Gandalf doesn’t know where dwarves go. He says nobody really does. I remember asking him when Kili— when we thought…” He cleared his throat. “You know.” Fili nodded. “But he had no idea. He doesn’t know what comes next. At least, not for the dwarves.”

“I just hope it’s peaceful.” Fili led the way through the hall. “A-After everything he’s suffered, I just hope he gets some rest.”

Fili told him how it all happened as they walked — how Kili saved him, how together they tricked and killed Bolg, how Thorin fell protecting Kili and then died in his arms. He choked up near the end and had to stop speaking, so Bilbo told his own story, but it was all rather boring by comparison — just a lot of running and shouting, and desperate slashing at orcs. He wore his ring for most of it.

“Here.” Fili opened a door into a little side-room down a twisting passage. Bilbo saw immediately why they had chosen it  — there was a long, low stone table, the base cracked but otherwise whole, pushed into the centre of the room. On the table was Thorin, stretched out on his back with his hands folded over his chest. He still wore his simple mail and blue coat, covered to the chest in an old travel cloak, lifeless eyes staring at the low ceiling, mouth in a small half-smile. Bilbo held his breath and felt the bottom drop out of his stomach at the sight. With a ragged gasp, Fili closed the door behind them both and leaned against the wall.

“Oh—” Bilbo took a small, shaky step towards the body. “Oh, Fili, he looks so…” He sighed. “So...”

“I-I know.” Fili’s voice quivered. He knew what Bilbo meant. Like he’d finally stopped suffering. “Doesn’t he?” Bilbo approached the table and clutched the edge of it, feeling his knees weaken as he bent his head. “You stay as long as you like. No one’ll disturb you.”

Bilbo looked over his shoulder. Fili’s hand was already on the door. “You’re not staying?” Fili shook his head. His eyes glimmered, very bright, and his mouth quivered.

“I c-can’t.” He breathed. “There’s so much that needs to be done, and I…” Fili sniffed. “I can’t do this yet, Bilbo.” Bilbo nodded in a sad understanding and bowed his head as Fili slipped out, closing the door as softly as he could behind him.

“Oh, Thorin.” Bilbo sighed. He reached out and took one of Thorin’s hands. It was cold to the touch and stiff, like holding stone. A lantern had been left burning at the table by Thorin’s head, illuminating his face. It looked sunken and waxy, despite the orange glow, the once-startling blue eyes faded and almost colourless. “I’m so sorry it had to end like this.” The reality of what was happening pressed down on Bilbo, crushing his fragile heart. “I’m sorry for what I did to you.”

There was no response. There never would be. It was a burden of guilt Bilbo had to bear somehow and bear alone — he took the Arkenstone and gave it to Fili. He betrayed Thorin and plotted against him, and there was no forgiveness for that. It pained Bilbo to think of the last time they even spoke, when Thorin called him a thief and a liar and said he was no longer a friend of their people. “You didn’t mean it, did you?” He breathed. But he did. Of course he did.

“In a way, I don’t blame you.” Bilbo went on. He leaned across the table, resting his elbows on it. Thorin stared unseeingly at the ceiling. “I know you had good intentions. You know — that’s one thing people will always say about you, in spite of whatever you said and did. You thought it was the best you could do for Erebor. No matter how hard it was, or how much it hurt…” He sighed. “Not that that makes it right, because it’s not. You were always a stubborn old fool. Perhaps if I’d— I don’t know.” Bilbo slowly pulled himself up onto the stone and crossed his legs, resting an elbow on one knee, the other hand closing back around Thorin’s. “Why couldn’t you let any of us in?” His voice caught. “If you had— If you just let us, _any_ of us, we could have helped you. You didn’t have to bear this alone, Thorin.” He looked sadly down at that greyish, waxy face, and the lump started rising in his throat, burning with an inexpressible helplessness and grief and guilt, and Bilbo pressed his sleeve hard against his mouth.

He stayed for a long time.

* * *

“I know.” Dís recognised the flash of Tauriel’s eyes, the bird-like curve of disapproval in her mouth. “It was stupid of me to leave it this long.”

“Never.” The elf muttered sarcastically. Dís’ shoulder, although now repaired under Tauriel’s hands, was still swollen and tender to the touch. She had torn up an old shirt of hers for bandages and wrapped it tightly, keeping the joint locked into place, and coaxed Dís into a sling. It would be healed in a week, perhaps less. Could have been sooner, Tauriel warned when she first helped Dís out of her mail, but _someone_ insisted on playing the hero first. Dís had shrugged it off and sat patiently while Tauriel examined the shattered joint, knuckles white and jaw clenched but refusing to utter a cry of pain. She refused to move somewhere private and remained by Dwalin’s side the whole time, her chest still bound up, bare arms shivering in the cold.

Tauriel stayed for a little while afterwards, resting against the wall beside Dís with her legs stretched out. She looked exhausted, hair hanging limp over her pale face, half-open eyes ringed with black. Saving people had drained her after a long day’s fighting, and she struggled to stay awake. They both stared at Kili’s warg, left behind, stretched out in a snooze with one leg occasionally twitching in a dream. “Don’t you think it’s… well, frightening?”

“Him?” Dís leaned forward to scratch the top of Nardur’s head. “He’s just a pup, Kili said, and the runt of his litter. Apparently he’s a bit gormless.” The fur between the warg’s ears was surprising soft to the touch. “Kili loves him to bits, Tauriel. And he needs all the love he can get right now.”

“Kili.” Tauriel repeated, voice hard. She could _never_ forget that image of him clinging to Azog’s body with the grief and helplessness of a child mourning a parent. She saw a frightened boy given over to darkness, consumed by hatred and fear, corrupted by it. Kili was dangerous, and Tauriel would run her knife through his neck in a heartbeat if she was assured there would be no consequence. Legolas’ mutilation put Kili out of the reach of any possible redemption in Tauriel’s eyes. Some things could never be forgiven, and some scars, both on the skin and on the soul, could never heal.

“You would have liked him, if you’d seen him before.” Dís murmured. “Everybody liked Kili. It was impossible to dislike someone as sweet and open as him.” Tauriel said nothing, staring at the sleeping warg. Of course Dís would see it through a different lens. Of course her youngest son could do no wrong in her eyes. But Tauriel valued their friendship, and she kept her mouth closed.

“I know you think I’m wrong.” Dís must have read the tightness around her mouth. “That I’m blinded by love and I can’t see what he’s done. But I do. I know he’s hurt people. I know he hurt someone close to you, and you can’t ever forgive him for it.” Tauriel drew one leg up and rested her wrist on it.

“But you still love him.” She murmured, staring outwards with a frown knitting her brows. Tauriel caught a flash of white as Dís nodded in the corner of her eye.

“Always.” She said simply. “Kili is my _child._ Nothing could diminish my love for him, ever. I’d do everything in my power to protect him if I only had the chance.” Limply, her hands fell into her lap. “If they gave me the _chance_ …” She sighed. “And now I have to put him back together again, if he’ll even let me. He’s so angry and violent now. So… So like them.”

“Like who?” Tauriel asked and waited, but not no response. At her side, Dís mumbled something indistinct. “What?” The elf looked over at her. Dís looked dazed, staring down at her hands. “What did you say?”

Dís slowly looked up. “I didn’t say anything.” Their eyes met, and in a heartbeat, the both of them realised what it meant. A shuddering gasp heaved in Dís’ ribcage and she bent over Dwalin’s head, shaking his arm. “Dwalin?” She choked out. “W-Was that you? What did you say? What’s wrong, love? Talk to me—”

“Wait,” Tauriel said sharply, pulling on her good arm. “Let him get some air.” She rested a hand on his chest, feeling the hitched rise and fall beneath her palm. Dwalin mumbled something else and his eyelids flickered. With a croak, Dís held her hands over her face, shaking. “Dwalin?” Tauriel leaned in as close as she could, speaking firmly and clearly. “Dwalin, can you hear me?”

Blearily, Dwalin screwed up his eyes and turned his face away. He looked in tremendous pain. “Take his hand.” Tauriel instructed quickly, touching his forehead. Dwalin whimpered at the touch and opened his eyes. She saw a sliver of his dark brown before he clamped them shut with a low grunt of pain, the bridge of his nose creasing heavily.

“It’s the light.” Tauriel realised, resting her hand over Dwalin’s eyes. “It’s too bright.” Even in here, with the torches against the walls and the light fading in the windows overhead, it was hurting him. “He needs a blindfold.”

“Here—” Dís shrugged herself out of the sling. “I’ll get another in a moment.” She clasped Dwalin’s hand between hers and bent down as Tauriel wound the cloth around his head. “Dwalin,” She murmured low into his ear. “Love, can you hear me? Are you there?”

A sharp intake of breath greeted her. “Dís…” He groaned, barely audible, briefly squeezing back. “Dís.”

“I’m here.” Dís started laughing from the sheer relief, her heart singing with every ragged sigh of air. “I-I’m here. I’m with you.” She bent down so their foreheads touched. “I’ve got you, Dwalin. Forever.”

“He’s parched. I’ll get water.” Tauriel motioned for Dís to stand and follow. Reluctantly, Dís complied, casting an anxious look at Dwalin over her shoulder. “Listen,” she spoke very softly, “he needs peace and rest to heal. No… strong shocks. Do you understand? Not right away.”

“I can’t do that.” Dís shook her head. “I-I have to tell him. Tauriel, Thorin was his best friend. They were as close as brothers. And Kili—” Her voice caught. “I _have_ to tell him about Kili. Dwalin loved him like a son.”

“Not yet.” She hardened. “Trust me, you need to give him a few hours to put himself back together. Wait until he’s lucid and not in so much pain.” Dís stared, mistrusting and disobedient, but relenting under the elf’s refusal to yield. “Please, listen to me. Make sure he stays awake. Keep talking to him. I’ll find something to drink.”

“Wait.” Dís seized Tauriel’s sleeve. “Balin. Find Balin and tell him right away. I know the uncertainty was killing him. And the boys, Fili and Kili. If you see them…”

“I’ll put the word out.” Tauriel vowed. “Stay with him.”

“I’ll never leave.” And with that, Dís flung herself back at Dwalin’s side, taking his broken head in her hands.

“Are you still awake?” A low groan rumbled in Dwalin’s throat, cracked lips twitching. “Oh, good.” Carefully, she helped him to sit up a little better, head and shoulders in her lap, one hand on her chest. “I didn’t know if you were going to wake up.” Her voice wobbled, and she swallowed hard.

“Where… What happened?” Dwalin finally slurred, head lolling. Dís held him still.

“We won.” Dís bent down and spoke softly. “You’re in the old banquet hall, love, with the other survivors. Everyone—” Her breath halted. “Everyone’s all right. We all made it out. Tauriel’s going to tell the others you’re awake. They’ll be here soon.”

“Balin…”

“Helping Fili in the front halls.” She murmured soothingly. “Barely a scratch on him. He’s a cunning old dog, your brother. Knows exactly how to get through things like this.”

Dwalin groaned. “Thorin?” He must have felt the way Dís tensed beneath him. He must have. “Sorry… I-I have to say sorry.”

Dís bit down very hard on her lip, let the sob well up in her and then break away. Slowly, she breathed out. “You’ll get your chance to say sorry, Dwalin.” She breathed. “Don’t worry about that just now. Just rest.” She stroked the side of his face. “After all, you’ve got a wedding to get better for, don’t you?” A ghostly smile flickered across Dwalin’s face. “That’s right, I haven’t forgotten. I-I bet you thought you could weasel your way out of it.” she teased, grinning down at him even though he couldn’t see it. “No chance.”

“Never.” Dwalin mumbled, his breathing light but steady. “Can’t wait.”

“No,” Dís closed her eyes, allowing herself for one brief moment to feel as though everything would be all right. “I-I can’t either.”

* * *

The cut on Kili’s head had stopped bleeding, and he declared a bandage unnecessary. It was too hard to bind his head over all that hair anyway. But Ori insisted that he at least wrap up his wounded leg until Oin could have a look at it — the jagged teeth marks were still leaking blood. Kili wouldn’t say where he got it. With the his makeshift towel around his waist, he just muttered something about Bolg and tore up his old orcish leathers to wrap up the broken skin.

Ori kept his eyes averted while Kili dried himself off with the bit of old blanket and pulled on his new trousers. They were too big for him, slipping down past his hips, and Ori offered up his own belt. He couldn’t resist looking as Kili arched his back in a long stretch, arms over his head. The scars gleamed white through the scattered curls on Kili’s chest and stomach, neat and precise and clearly deliberate. Kili caught his gaze and hunched over self-consciously, elbows on his knees. “It’s not like I was brave or anything,” he said quickly, looking down into the bucket of dirty water. “I wasn’t. I gave you up in a heartbeat. But I-I just…” He raked a hand through his dripping hair, wincing as it caught on a snag. “They didn't believe me when I said I didn't know."

"Here," Ori fumbled through the bundle of clothing, searching for the comb he had glimpsed before. It was made of pristine white bone, highly polished, inlaid with pearls along the base. He held it out, but Kili didn't take it. Ori paused for a moment, unsure what to do next. Throwing caution to the wind, he shuffled forward and took handful of matted dark hair. His shoulders hitching, Kili let him.

“I still couldn't." Kili was still wrapped up in his thoughts. It was a dangerous ground to tread, and Ori just stepped back and let Kili talk. “ _Amad_ wouldn’t give me his name. She said she can’t."

“Your father?" Ori asked, working from the ends, heart jumping in his chest when he accidentally touched Kili’s bare back. Kili’s hands tensed in his lap and he hunched over a little further, nodding.

“When Azog questioned me," Kili sounded lost in a dream, "he was trying to figure out my relationship with Thorin. He kept asking who my father was. He wanted a name." Ori's hands stilled. “I kept saying that I didn't know, but he wouldn't believe me. The idea that a dwarf couldn't know their father... it was inconceivable."

Ori's stomach clenched in a very familiar pain. “Oh," he finally breathed. “Oh, Kili..."

“I still can’t believe it.” He murmured. “It explains everything but at the same time, it makes no sense. You know?” Ori didn’t know, but he still nodded. “He was such a monster, Ori. He hurt her and Fili. He…” Kili wrung his hands. “I only exist because he attacked her.” Ori’s blood went cold for a moment, and he found himself at a complete loss for words, hands faltering in Kili's hair. “I’m— I’m a…” Even Kili couldn’t finish it. His head sank into his hands and his shoulders quivered.

“I’m so sorry.” He settled in closer to Kili, so their thighs touched. “That’s— It’s horrible. It’s such an awful thing to find out.”

“She kept everything from me. I-I didn’t know he was even an Ironfist, let alone their prince. I don’t know how she did it, but she made sure no one ever told me. She brought everyone in on her secret. You didn't know, did you?" Kili across at Ori, sharp and accusing. “Tell me you didn't know."

Ori shook his head. “Fili told me when the Ironfists turned up at Erebor. I didn't know anything before then."

"What did he tell you?" Kili gripped Ori's wrist, keeping him prisoner with his dark, unyielding stare.

“Just that your father was the son of the Ironfist king. That they didn't know about you and they thought you were born in Ered Luin to some Longbeard dwarf." Kili scoffed and shook his head, letting Ori go.

"Some Longbeard dwarf." He muttered. “At least he didn't ask you to pretend it was Dwalin."

"Fili wouldn't do that to you two." Ori turned the comb over and over on his hands. “They lied to protect you. If you saw what Fili went through... you'd be glad you were spared from that."

"Oh yes, these last few months were a breeze." Kili snapped, and Ori drew back, wounded. He finally pulled his shirt over his head and shielded himself from view. “Sorry." he muttered. "I'm not angry at _you,_ Ori.” He rubbed at his eyes. “Just— everyone.” He groaned, exhausted. “Everything.”

Ori watched him and collected his courage. “Don’t you remember, Kili, when we were young, how we used to wonder who our fathers were? And you always said it didn't matter because you already had two?" Kili studied his face, biting down hard on his lower lip. “That Dwalin and Thorin were all you ever needed?" He nodded without speaking, and Ori ploughed on. “You know, I used to be so _jealous_ of you. You were surrounded by people who loved you more than anything, unconditionally. This whole big family of people who would bend over backwards for you, who…” Ori’s voice cracked. “Who just let you _be_. I would have given anything for your life.”

“My life was a lie.” Kili said quietly, tensely.

“It was a happy lie.” Ori shot back. “And a hell of a lot happier than mine.” Kili’s dark eyes flashed in a moment of protest, but he kept quiet for now. “You had your _mother_ , Kili. Mahal, I would have given anything for that. All I had was Dori, and he tried his best, but…” Ori screwed up his eyes, realising he couldn’t go on as his brother’s face flashed through his mind. “It wasn’t the same. Nothing can ever really come close, can it? No one can love you like a mother can.”

Kili swallowed hard. “No.” And no one else loved him like his mother did. No one else was so unflinchingly complete and devoted to him like she was, despite his countless failings. Fili and Thorin had their moments when they got exasperated with him and snapped, but _Amad_ always thought he was perfect as he was. Even though he was a living reminder of the night his father tried to break her, even though she would have had to look at him every day and know what he did, she still loved him. She turned what should have been a curse into a blessing, and that in itself was a victory. _Amad_ had shed the past completely and refused to let the darkness consume her. It was a seed of hope for Kili — if his mother could love him and his brother, then maybe there was a chance that Kili could rebuild too.

“You’re right.” He sighed. “I am lucky to have her. She’s the best mother anyone could ask for.” Kili resolved to tell her that as soon as he could.

“You’re so lucky, Kili.” Ori’s voice wobbled. “You know? We all want to help you, and we’ll do anything. Anything it takes.”

“I know.” Kili finally admitted. “If I didn’t have Fili and _Amad_ and you and Dwalin…” His tentative smile faded. “I don’t do well on my own, Ori.”

“You don’t have to be alone.” Ori promised, resting a hand on Kili’s knee. “You know, Dwalin had every intention of coming to find you. Fili told me. He promised your mother that he’d do whatever it took to track you down.”

“Really?” Ori nodded. “ _Ishi_ , they’d have strung him up and flayed him over an open fire. It would have been hopeless.” But Kili’s heart still warmed at the thought of Dwalin’s intentions, fruitless as they would have been. It was so like him, so one-eyed and selfless. An uncomfortable thought prickled in the back of Kili’s head — what if he never got the chance to thank Dwalin, to speak to him again? — and he pushed it away.

“I think he was hopeless here. Ever since he… Oh, Mahal, Kili, I don’t know where to begin. So much has _happened_ , with Thorin and Fili and Thranduil and your mother, and Dain and the Ironfists. It’s such an awful, awful mess. We all made enemies of each other. I-I still can’t even talk to Dori. And that _hurts_ , because he’s my brother and I know I should love him, but…” His breath caught. “I feel like I can’t forgive him, and that makes me a terrible person. Like I’m not allowed to be angry while he’s so wounded. You know?”

He certainly did. Kili gently rested a hand on his wrist. “What do you mean?” His callused fingers tightened around the bone and Ori’s heart skipped a beat again at the contact. Would he _ever_ get used to Kili touching him? With a long sigh, he opened his eyes, wondering how he could begin to explain the crippling guilt and anger and betrayal that smouldered in his gut. “Did something happen to him? Did he… not make it?”

“He’s alive.” Ori said shortly, conserving air. “Um, Nori’s with him now. He never forgave me for how I felt about you, you know. He tried, I can tell, but…” He let the comb slip through his lax fingers. “I suppose it just all got too much for him. He spent his whole life building up a name for himself, trying to be honoured and respected despite our mother and in one night, I came along and made a joke out of him.”

Kili hardened. “You’re not a joke. Fuck anyone who thinks that you are. I can’t _believe_ that Thorin would do that to you, after all his talk of love and honour.”

“I would.” Ori muttered. “I accept it, Kili. I’ve accepted it for a long time now. I'm never going to be normal. I'm just… wrong.” He shrugged. It was something he'd come to terms with for a while now.

“No.” Kili said viciously, grip as tight and firm as an iron shackle around his wrist. “There's nothing wrong with you. It's them — dwarves, with their laws and rules. It's not like that for everyone, Ori.” His heart was beating faster, stomach twisting with the guilt. He could he admit to Ori what he'd done? How could Kili look him in the eye and admit he had taken an orc, a boy, to bed and just used him, with no love behind it?

“No, it’s not.” Ori mumbled, waiting for Kili to go on. But Kili remained silent, and after several painful moments of waiting, Ori steeled himself. “I-I heard a rumour,” Kili’s grip was now cutting off the circulation, and Ori’s hand throbbed. “About orcs.” Ori licked his lips. “Is it true that they… sleep with other males? You know.” Kili must have been expecting it, nursing his awful secret, but he still tensed at the question, staring down at his knees.

“They do.” He finally mumbled, relaxing his hands. Ori pulled free and rubbed at his wrist, not shifting his eyes from Kili’s lowered face for a moment. “One in ten was the number I heard. Not a huge amount,” he added, “but… enough for it to be normal, you know. Accepted.”

“Did you know anyone like that?” Ori pressed him. The writhing increased in his stomach, and he inwardly screamed at himself to shut up, to stop it, to leave it alone before Kili admitted something he could never take back. Kili’s eyes flickered upwards at the question, a slight frown on his dark brows.

“Uh…” Even though he knew it wasn’t right, Kili just wanted to wall it up, seal it off and tuck it away in the deepest, darkest recesses of his soul where it would never see the light again. It was just a twisted, awful part of his past, one that was harder to reconcile than almost everything else because it didn’t need to happen _._ Kili didn’t do it to ensure his survival. He wasn’t under any orders. No — he did it because he was frightened and desperate and lonely. There was no one else Kili could answer to.

“I did know someone like you.” He wrapped his arms around his middle. “A lot like you. He was quiet, a little shy, but the moment we started talking, he lit up. It wasn't long until he completely opened up to me.” Kili swallowed the lump in his throat as an ache of longing pushed deep in his chest. He already missed Ilzkhaal terribly. “He trusted me, and I… I abused that trust.” Their eyes met. In that moment, Kili realised he could never keep this a secret. Secret-keeping had already damaged them all so much, and it would be dishonest of Kili to go on as if it had never happened. Covering it up would be a lie in itself. Kili didn’t deserve Ori’s open, complete love while he was nursing a lie. There was no old image of Kili to preserve anymore, no illusions of Kili’s purity. Ori remained still and silent, waiting for him to speak, and Kili could feel his his heart pound, the truth crowding on his tongue. This was, in a way, a new beginning for them, and the idea of going forward with this lie locked up tight in his chest seemed at that moment unfathomable. Ori deserved more than that.

“We slept together.” He finally admitted in a whisper. “I pretended to love him, because I was so… terrified of being alone again.” Ori’s face didn’t move at all. He just listened, his gaze vacant and distracted. “I’m sorry, Ori.” Kili rested a hand cautiously, uneasily, on Ori’s shoulder, not knowing if he even wanted to be touched. “I can’t lie to you about this. I-I can’t keep it a secret.”

It was a relief to Ori. Relief that he didn’t have to go on pretending that he didn’t know. That Kili respected him enough to tell him. The weight shifted on Ori's chest as he breathed out, just a little, no longer crushing. He opened his mouth, ready to demand more information — how often? How far had they actually gone? Did Kili _enjoy_ it? But when he looked into Kili’s eyes and saw how beaten-down and truly sorry he was, Ori’s nerve failed him.

What did it matter? Even if Kili had reciprocated Ilzkhaal’s advances, even if he’d enjoyed it, nothing was ever going to happen between them. Even though Ori was still attracted to Kili, even though he still cared for him, deeply, the love he felt… it wasn’t the same anymore. He didn’t _want_ Kili in that way. The Kili he’d fallen in love with as a dwarrow was completely different to the dwarf who sat before him. He didn’t want to be Kili’s shield against the loneliness. And Ori was different too, he knew it. He had courage and strength that even a few months ago he never would have thought possible. And as he listened to Kili admit that he’d slept with somebody else, there was no flash of jealousy like there was before. He had vowed in that dim passage at Ilzkhaal’s side that he’d always love Kili, but even at a few hours old, that felt like a distant, far-flung memory. There was no longing of what Ori could have had. And Ori realised that he’d moved on. It was the most freeing, exhilarating thought he’d had in months.

“Please—” Growing nervous in the silence, Kili’s hand tightened on his shoulder. “S-Say something. Scream at me, call me a piece of shit, hit me— just, _please_ talk to me, Ori.”

“It’s all right.” Ori forced a tiny smile. Kili faltered. “It’s all right, Kili.”

“How?” Kili demanded. “How can it be all right? You’ve loved me for years, Ori, and I just— I took someone else and…” He shook his head, trying to banish the thoughts out. “I tried to replace you.”

“Really.” Ori wondered how he could even phrase it. “You know, it’s so strange. I spent so long loving you from afar, then mourning you, then being unable to even touch you, then not knowing if you were alive or dead and…” He laughed. “And you’re here, and we’re closer than we’ve ever been and— and, having you here, being _being_ with you since all of that has happened to us, do you what that’s made me realise?”

Kili’s mouth had dried out, listening to Ori, his stomach softening with the relief that Ori didn’t hate him while at the same time that guilt was closing in on him. The battle raged on between his ribs while he listened, the pain growing sharper, more definite, while Ori talked. “I don’t love you like that anymore. I-I mean, I care so much about you, and you’re as close as a brother to me, and I think there’ll always be _something_ there, you know? It’s still a kind of love, but it’s not... not how it used to be. We're both so different to how we once were.”

He paused and gave Kili an opportunity to talk, but he just stared back, mouth half-open as he slowly digested everything that Ori said. “So it’s all right.” After a silence, Ori went on. “ I’m not jealous or bitter or angry. I’m just...” Could he really admit to Kili that he’d met Ilzkhaal and spoken to him? Ori had been wrestling with it. Kili had been honest; it was only fair of Ori to respond in kind. With a sharp sigh, Ori took Kili’s hand down from his shoulder and held on to it.

“Look, I have to confess something.” He spoke quietly, staring down at Kili’s hand, clean now, the scar that gleamed white over the web of blue veins at his wrist, stamped like a brand on a cattle. Ori couldn’t touch it. “I saw him.” Kili’s hand clenched. “The boy. His name is Ilzkhaal, isn’t it?” Kili jerked his fist free at the mention of his name, and Ori looked up to find him panicked and wide-eyed.

“How?” Kili choked out, disbelieving. He wanted to shake Ori down and accuse him of lying. How could they have met? What were the chances in this battle? No, it was impossible. But Ori knew his _name_. How else could he have ever heard it?

“I was with Legolas and the archers. Ilzkhaal and the orcs _he_ was with, I think they were ordered to hunt him down. I ran for reinforcements and he chased me and…” Ori trailed off with a shrug. “He called me Ori. I realised he knew you, and we couldn’t fight each other.”

“No.” Kili felt ill at the thought of Ori and Ilzkhaal coming to blows. “No— No, you couldn’t.” His head was spinning. “So— you knew.” He frowned. “This whole time— you knew what I’d done.”

“I did.” Kili’s head sank into his hands, damp hair falling over his arms, hiding from him. “Hey, don’t.” Carefully, Ori draped a hand over Kili’s shoulders. “It’s all right. I said I wasn’t angry.”

“I knew you were taking it too well.” Kili muttered through his splayed fingers. “You must have thrown a fit when he told you.”

“He didn’t tell me.” Ori kept holding on. “I worked it out. The way he talked about you… It was obvious that he loved you. And when he said you were just friends, it was so obvious that he lied.” Kili remained hunched over. “A-And all right, yes, I was angry at first. I did feel like you’d betrayed me. But it’s different, isn’t it? It’s not a crime for them. And when he started talking about how you treated him… it sort dampened the anger I did feel. I just felt… sad. For both of you.”

Kili finally lifted his head. “What did he say about me? About us?”

“Do you really want to know?” Kili nodded, his hands pulled in close over his heart. He hunched a little more under Ori’s arm, leaning against his side. Oh, he was so small like this, bent over and folded in. “He said you were incapable of loving people. That all you do is use them.”

Kili tensed. “That’s not true. It’s _not._ I do— I love Fili and _Amad_ and Dwalin.” A snarl creased the bridge of his nose. “He didn’t know _anything._ ” But Kili saw how clearly it would have looked to him, how devastating his distance and heartlessness was. “Just because I didn’t love him, I…” It was inexcusable, really, and Kili knew it. “I’m not even fooling myself.” He mumbled gloomily. “I deserve that and worse. I really do.”

Ori ached for him. “He also said that he tried to save you from yourself. But that you didn’t want to be saved. What did he mean, Kili?”

“He meant that I’m a monster.” Kili said with a dull resignation that made Ori’s heart sink. “I… I was not an unwilling prisoner with them, Ori. I had to be cruel. I hurt people. I killed someone with my bare hands. I did awful things and looked like I enjoyed them. And Ilzkhaal, he got close enough to see beneath the act.” Kili looked mournful now, leaning against Ori’s shoulder. “I wish he’d never met me, Ori. But at the same time, I think I would have lost my mind without him. All that pretending, it got under my skin. I could feel myself slipping further and further every day that I spent there, pretending to be this brutal prodigy of Azog who wanted to wreak havoc on Erebor. I felt like… like I wasn’t pretending anymore.” Kili admitted. “It just became so natural. That’s what scared me, Ori — how _easy_ it was to become this person again. I needed a refuge.” He shivered, and it wasn’t entirely from the cold. “So this poor boy got caught in the middle of it. I’ve destroyed him. If the battle didn’t kill him, Bolg’s followers will, without a doubt. He knew me best; they’ll say he must have been aware that I was a traitor. It doesn’t matter if he doesn’t know anything. They’ll torture and kill him anyway.” He pressed his palm over the scar on his collarbone, hidden beneath the linen shirt.

There was nothing Ori could say. what could he say? He felt like anything he could have tried to say would be cruel and judgemental. Yes, Kili had done something awful. He went too far in his quest to conquer the orcs from within and hurt somebody who was innocent. But the memories of his family had failed to be comfort enough in the past; if Kili didn’t have that love, if he’d fallen completely. Cruelty bred and fostered cruelty, and Kili had to find some way of protecting himself. _I don’t do well on my own._ The words were still fresh in Ori’s mind. It was so hard to hold on to his unwavering sense of right and wrong when Kili was involved. He was outraged on Ilzkhaal’s part, disappointed that he could do something so terrible to another person. But at the same time, Ori could see how fragile and guilty was in this moment. It had been so long since someone had been able to help him. He kept his accusations quiet and offered a judgeless understanding instead, doing the best he could to comfort Kili in his obvious agony.

“That’s something you have to come to terms with.” Ori did his best to be diplomatic. “You hurt him to try and save yourself, and you knew exactly what you were doing. You knew that when you came back to us, his life would be forfeit. It’s not my place to say whether that was right or wrong. Nobody really has the right to decide that, except for you. I-I guess just you have to learn to forgive yourself.”

“I can’t.” Kili said bluntly. “I _won’t_ forgive myself, ever. _Fuck,_ Ori, Ilzkhaal was so right. I-I couldn’t love him. How can I love anybody? How could anybody love me?” He stared up at the slit window. It was well into evening now, the sliver of sky a dim, heavy grey. “Sometimes, I think that— that I’ve gone too far. That I can’t come back.”

“Don’t say that.” Panic raced in Ori’s chest. “You’re not irredeemable, Kili. You’re not beyond another chance, and we will all help you.” Kili was pulling at his collar, still staring out the window.

“Like _Amad,”_ he murmured. “She got another chance. She reformed herself so completely, I never knew anything was ever wrong.” He bit his lip. “Even Thorin—” That was still hard to think about. “Even Thorin.”

“Hm?” Ori kept his arm across Kili’s shoulders. “What about Thorin? Did he say something to you before he died?”

Kili turned those dark eyes on him. “He died to save me.” Ori’s hand gripped Kili even tighter. “I was doomed. These orcs, they had me on my knees. They were going to cut my head off and Thorin fought through them to rescue me.” He related it with a colourless, distant air, speaking slowly, still uncertain. “He sacrificed himself for me.”

“He loved you.” Ori murmured. “He couldn’t bear to watch you suffer.” But that wasn’t enough for Kili. He shook his head and pulled away, leaning forward on his hands and staring down at the ground.

“He has hurt me more than _anyone_.” He growled down at the stone. “You know what really got under my skin, Ori? Do you know what hurt more than Azog’s mind-games and beatings? More than Bolg’s generals trying to kill me?” Ori didn’t dare to answer. “It was knowing that I was there because of _him._ He was supposed to protect me. He used to say I was the light in his life, a-and that nothing in the world was more important to him. I genuinely believed that. How could somebody who thought that leave me to die? And what— he makes one last grand gesture with his miserable life, and I’m supposed to instantly forgive everything he’s ever done? I-I watched him die, and I had to say that I forgave him, but I just felt numb. And I still feel numb. I was a fraud, watching Fili and _Amad_ cry for Thorin.” Exhausted, Kili leaned against Ori’s shoulder again, slumping in a low groan of frustration.

“But I still remember how he was — all the good he did for me, all that love he had. And you know, I keep thinking about when he gave me Thror’s knife, the day that Fili left for the Iron Hills when we were dwarrows. _Amad_ told me afterwards it was the last thing he had left of Erebor. He gave everything else away. That knife was his most prized possession, and he gave it to me just to try and cheer me up, to show that he still cared about me even if I couldn't make him proud like Fili could. He loved me once, and I don't know what happened. I don't know how he could leave me. Did he change, Ori? Did I change? It’s... just such a mess.”

“I know.” Ori gently, carefully leaned his own temple against Kili’s damp hair, holding his own weight. “I think Thorin… he tried to be something impossible. He wanted to be this great king of Erebor like in some legend, but the world wouldn't let him. He couldn't compromise. Or he wouldn't.” Kili was breathing slowly, letting Ori talk. “He had the weight of Erebor on his shoulders and he couldn't bear the burden. But I don't doubt for one moment that he loved you. Trust me, he fell apart in here. He was driven mad by that grief.”

“But I still can't forgive him.” Kili’s voice wobbled. “I can't bring myself to, not yet. Don’t tell Fili or _Amad._ It would kill them.”

“Of course not.” Ori promised. “But I hope you get there. Thorin caused chaos because he couldn't forgive, not even his own family, until it was too late to undo that damage. We can't be like them.”

“We can't.” Kili agreed, closing his eyes and heaving a long sigh. “I need to talk to _Amad.”_

“And I need to talk to Dori.” It was a similar sort of hurt that Ori suffered, but it was so much less. Ori would be a hypocrite if he didn’t take his own advice. "They'll all be wondering where we are." 

“We're all right, aren't we, Ori? Kili asked him. “Even after everything I’ve done?” He gave a small, tentative smile, a shadow of that cheeky grin that used to make Ori melt. But it was still there. _Kili_ was still there, beneath any amount of scars and ash and armour. And even if he felt beyond any redemption, Ori would fight for him to clear his name. He wasn't a frightened child anymore, letting Kili slip away in the dark.

“Of course.” Ori vowed with his head still against Kili’s. “We’re fine, Kili. We’ll always be fine.”


	116. One or the Other

“Papa!”

The air was knocked out of his lungs in a desperate, violent hug. Bard closed his eyes and inhaled, and for a moment the soft smell of his son's hair smothered the bitter tang of orc-blood that clung to his clothes and skin, the exhaustion melted away and despite the oppressive darkness of this chilly room, Bard felt as warm as if he stood in a wide-open field on a clear summer afternoon.

“Bain,” he sighed, holding on just as tight. He smiled against the brown net of curls and closed his eyes. “You're all right. You're safe.” The boy didn't speak; with a sniff, he squeezed Bard impossibly tight, something convulsing in his chest. But he was safe. The dusty chamber remained untouched in the upper reaches of the underground castle, the iron vault sound.

“Hey,” Bard pulled away and lifted his son's chin with a bloodied finger, “it's fine. I'm here. We won. Everything is over, Bain, I promise you.” But it wasn't really. Their home was still a bundle of charred sticks at the bottom of the lake. Bain still had shadows under his eyes, the bones too sharp in his hands. The boy sniffed and didn't believe him, grabbing handfuls of his grimy mail. Around their feet was the scattered treasures of Thror — coins and rings and carved boxes bursting with gems — that Bard had hastily cleared aside to make room for his son early in the morning.

“Did anyone die?” Bain asked, small and afraid, staring up at Bard with his wide, childlike eyes, soft as a deer.

“Uh…” the realisation pained Bard. There was no way he could shelter Bain from the horrors below. Life and death had become intertwined; they rested and ate amongst the bodies, leaving the dead where they had fallen in their rush to save the still-living. “Some.” He said carefully. There would be neighbours among the dead, people Bain knew. There was no hiding away up here and expecting his people to pick up the pieces without him. “I have to go back down and help.” Bard explained. “It's my job now, if I want to be their king. Do you want me to leave you here for now or—”

“No.” Bain shook his head. “I'm coming with you. Please, Papa, don't make me stay here alone.” His breath caught. “I-I was really scared in there. I didn't know if you were ever coming back.”

Bard stung. “All right.” he whispered. “Come down with me. But you'll do what I say, all right? You promise you'll go exactly where I tell you to?”

Bain nodded, his drawn, tired face set in a wan attempt at bravado. “Promise.”

* * *

“All right,” Fili sighed, standing over the body of a fallen Ironfist. The dwarf was trapped, pinned by a warg which lay dead on its side, head almost severed completely from its neck by a massive dwarven axe. He was twisted on his side, face obscured by a tangle of bloodied dreadlocks. Struggling and straining, Fili rolled heaved the dead beast aside, revealing more of the dwarf’s body. One leg had been mangled by the warg, and Fili caught a glimpse of splintered bone in a pulpy mess of muscle and flesh. With a wince, he bent down and hooked his hands beneath warrior’s arms. The wounded had been carried out, at least in this hall, and now the grim task remained to take the dead and lay them out for friends and brothers to identify. Pain flared through Fili’s ribs, but he didn’t stop, walking backwards, a wide red brushstroke on the ground in his wake. It was some moments before he realised that the soft, choked groaning he could hear wasn’t just a part of the hum of death that filled the air; it was very close by.

“Oh.” Fili laid the Ironfist down and peeled his hair back. Light grey eyes were half-open, eyelashes fluttering, another whisper-soft groan rattling in his throat as he tried to speak. “Oh!” He was pale beneath the blood-spatter and war-paint but not sallow and waxy, not yet. Fili pressed a hand to his forehead, the skin warm to the touch. Looking at the trail of blood from the mangled leg, it was a miracle the dwarf was still alive. “It’s all right.” Fili promised, scrabbling around. He tore at the leathers of a fallen nearby orc and wound it around and around that broken leg, just below the knee, tying it very tight to cut off the bloodflow. “You’ll make it out of this. We’ll help you.” Fili didn’t know if he was listening, but he kept up a soft chatter all the same, straining as he picked the heavy body up and carried him. The wounded leg dangled from the knee, attached now only by tendons and a few bits of muscle, and Fili couldn’t look at it.

In the banquet hall, Fili staggered a little, arms starting to tremble beneath the weight. “Hey!” He shouted, looking for a familiar face — Oin, if he could find him. But although the initial chaos had died down, it was still a dash of back-and forth, everyone preoccupied with taking care of their own charges. Fili swore under his breath turning around and around in the search for a friend. As he faced the doors again, a familiar pair walked in. Kili and Ori. Fili sighed. _Kili._ He’d changed out of that awful orcish armour and into dwarvish linens, his face scrubbed clean and his hair combed. A grin spread across his face and he staggered towards them, but as their eyes met, Kili’s thoughtful frown deepened, anger flashing across his face. Fili’s heart sank and in a heartbeat he knew that somebody, either Ori or their mother, had told him everything.

Ori came running when he saw the burden in Fili’s arms. “Oh no.” He gasped. “What do you want me to do? Should I find Oin? Is there—”

“Find _someone_. I don’t care who.” Kili eyed the burden in Fili’s arms, standing just a little behind Ori’s shoulder. “Somebody who can help him. Not the elves; the Ironfists won’t go near them.” Staring at the half-dead body, Ori nodded, squeezing Kili on the elbow before he ran off. “Kili—”

“You’re flagging.” Kili cut him off, holding his arms out. There was so much to say, so much that Kili still didn’t know. He needed answers from his brother. How could he keep all of this quiet for so long? Was it mistrust, fear, a desire to protect Kili from that awful part of their lives? “Give him to me.” Without another word, Kili took the wounded dwarf, hoisting him in his arms with the ease of carrying a doll or an infant. Fili sighed as the burden was released, catching his breath with his hands on his knees.

“I’ve stopped the bleeding as best I can,” Kili stared around the room, half-listening. “but I don’t know if it’s enough.”

“The leg’s got to come off clean.” They both stared at it, Fili wincing, Kili flat and emotionless. “He’s still losing blood. Has anyone got a fire on, do you know?”

“Oin said something about boiling water in the old fireplace in the kitchens. That’ll be going. That way.” Kili pushed past Fili in the direction he pointed, breaking into a jog.

The kitchens were narrow and dim, with a low ceiling to keep the heat in. It smelled of smoke, bitter in their nostrils. A Lake-Town man sloshed a pail of water into a large cauldron burning on the open fireplace — massive, made for spit-roasts and the biggest of stews — and, eyes widening at the sight of the wounded dwarf in Kili’s arms, scurried off with the promise of more. Kili laid him out on the long table that once would have borne the weight of whole beasts, skinned and gutted and ready for butchering.

“Do you want to do it, or should I?” Empty cast-iron pots and skillets were still on the shelves and hanging on the walls, the doorway to this room too small for Smaug to even get a claw in. Kili was barbed and shielded, and Fili was afraid to touch him at this moment.

“He’ll fight back.” Kili warned, watching as Fili threw a pot-lid right on the red-hot coals, pushing it in with a poker so it was in the most searing of embers. “But the leg-bone is hell to cut through. It’s like granite.” On the table, the dwarf groaned. He stared up at Kili through half-open eyes, mumbling something hoarse and incoherent. Kili tensed. “I’ll do it.” Fili nodded in assent and dipped a bowl in the hot water, gasping as it sloshed over his hand, and set it aside to cool. “You hold him down.”

Wordlessly, Fili nodded again. Kili tore at the tattered trousers until the leg was bare to the knee, tightening Fili’s makeshift tourniquet until the skin throbbed purple around the leather. After some hurried rifling, he found a long bone-saw, the kind that would have once carved through the skeletons of sheep and bulls and deer. The dwarf must have realised what was happening and tried to sit up with a weak groan, eyes gleaming feverishly in the firelight.

“No, no, no.” Fili climbed up on the table and forced him to lie down, hands on his chest. “Don’t look.” A bloodied hand curled weakly around Fili’s wrist, and his mouth was trembling. “Just hold on.” Fili leaned in, kneeling over him. “Hold on to me.” Still dazed, the grip tightened. “What's your name?” Fili realised he didn't know.

“Hrandr.” The poor dwarf choked on his name, scrabbling at Fili's sleeve.

“I'm Fili.” He kept his voice soft and soothing, hair falling over his shoulders as he smiled down at Hrandr.

He breathed in, stilted in his fear. “I know.”

Kili set his face, squaring his shoulders in these strange new clothes, and gripped the dwarf’s knee, holding the limb down with a bruising strength. The metal teeth bit through skin and Hrandr let out a sharp, breathless cry, tensing every muscle in his limp, exhausted body.

“Keep him still.” Kili muttered as he set about his grisly task. Hrandr’s free leg kicked out, probably on reflex, and Fili promptly sat on it, keeping him pinned to the table, straining with the effort as Hrandr struggled and writhed beneath him. Kili was as quick as he could, but it still seemed to take hours. Blood pooled on the table, despite the tight bindings, and seeped through the boards dripping on the floor. The taste of smoke rose in Kili's mouth, along with the familiar tang of copper.

“Kili,” his brother gasped, looking over his shoulder at him and wincing at the hair-rising sound of iron sawing against bone. Hrandr yelled and arched his back, clawing at Fili’s arms and failing to get any purchase with his thick gloves, Fili trying to grab hold of his wrists. “Please, I’m sorry—”

“ _Not_ the time.” Kili snarled, looking up for just a moment from the half-severed leg. “Talk to him. Keep him focused on you.” He sawed through another inch of bone, gritting his teeth as Hrandr bucked against the table. “ _Ishi_ — Fili, _hold him.”_

“I got it, I got it.” Fili leaned over the dwarf again, seizing his wrists afresh and pinning them to his chest. “Look at me.” He kept his voice sharp and clear, trying to talk over the awful sounds the blade was making. “Just look at me.” Hrandr stared, his grey eyes wide open, blood running down his chin where he’d bitten through his lip. “You’ve made it this far. You’ll keep going. You’re a dwarf, Hrandr. And we dwarves can survive anything.”

“I need a glove.” Kili wrenched at one of Hrandr’s wrists until it came free. “Almost done.” The coals were searing hot. Kili grasped the pot-lid, almost unbearably hot even through the heavy layers of leather, feeling the heat drift onto his face in waves. Smoke rose as he rested it on the table, scorching a ring in the ancient wood. “Ready?”

Fili rocked a little on his knees, swallowing hard. All three of them were tense, Fili holding his breath and pressing down, Kili cracking his knuckles, Hrandr shaking, trying to remain still, his uneven breath growing heavier as Kili seized his leg and pulled it down. The scream was raw and visceral, ringing in Fili’s ears and dragging deep into his stomach. Hrandr pulled free and grasped at Fili’s shoulder, and for a moment Fili tensed, thinking he was trying to escape. But Hrandr was clinging to him, embracing him desperately, adrift without an anchor. So Fili wrapped his arms around Hrandr’s shoulders and crushed him to his chest, and Hrandr shuddered against him; one, two, three vicious throbs of his heart until Kili let go and kicked the burning metal away, where it clattered deafeningly on the stone floor.

His hands closed around the bowl of water. It had cooled enough to drink without scalding. Kili approached the table, where Fili was still holding the dwarf, his body quivering. “Here,” he rasped, holding the bowl out in his bloodstained hands. Fili looked down at the dishevelled mane of blonde dreadlocks and relaxed his hold slowly, murmuring something that Kili couldn't catch. Fili didn't need to hold him anymore, but he stayed all the same. The gesture struck Kili, who knew almost nothing of these people. He knew, or assumed, perhaps, that Fili must have hated them, nursed that anger and fear throughout his life as he tried to run away from the ghost of their father, and yet he still had compassion for them. A ragged gasp broke from Hrandr against Fili's shoulder, and Fili murmured again, saying it was over, that he had made it. Hrandr drank desperately, one hand scrabbling at Kili’s sleeve while he held the vessel, slopping water down his bloodied chin while Fili kept propping him up.

Kili lowered the bowl as the dwarf flagged, Hrandr sagging in Fili’s arms, taking in wolfish gulps of air. “You care.” His lips barely moved; he mouthed the words rather than spoke them. But Fili, who shifted his gaze from this stranger, this possible distant relation, back to his brother, caught it. He nodded, face in a shadowed profile from the firelight.

“They’re people.” Hrandr lolled against Fili’s shoulders, limp in his exhaustion and breathing weakly. There was a protectiveness in the way Fili held him, this dwarf he didn’t know, whose life he saved. He opened his mouth to go on, to add that although they were a savage, cruel, brutal people, they were still _people_ , and there was a stirring somewhere deep within Fili, down in this blood that he shared with them. But he looked at Kili, whose face was fully lit from this angle, and realised that none of it needed to be said. Not to Kili, who had lived among orcs for months while Fili mourned him, who had assimilated so fully into a race of wild, corrupted souls that they trusted him, almost every last one; who had, it almost seemed, a stronger hold on him now than even Fili did.

“I know.” Kili murmured in that moment of quietness, when the only sound was the crackling of the flames and the rough sound of Hrandr’s uneasy breathing. It was an echo of the old days, when all it took was a glance across the campfire, the jerk of a head, the lifting of an eyebrow to communicate, when the two of them were so in tune with one another that they didn’t need words to talk. A crushing relief flooded Fili’s chest, and in spite of the grimness of this situation, a smile flickered across his tired face. Kili smiled back, his lips stretching with the unfamiliarity of it.

“Fili? Your friend Ori told that you’d found one of our— oh, _hell._ ” Kili whirled around at the strange voice in the doorway, his expression hardening as his smile vanished in a snap. “ _Hrandr_.” It was an Ironfist, an old one, with his dreadlocked hair all grey and his coarse beard hastily tucked into his belt. His lined face sagged in horror at the sight. “I thought you were dead.”

“I found him pinned half-alive under a warg-carcass.” Fili explained as the dwarf approached the table. “His leg was mutilated and he wouldn’t stop bleeding. We had to…” He gestured at the severed leg on the table with a hard swallow. The old dwarf looked from Hrandr and Fili to the stranger at their side, remaining quiet, frowning a little as the firelight played across his face. His eyes widened, nostrils flaring in a visible intake of air as he stared at Kili. The flash of recognition in the old dwarf’s expression was as sharp as a knife in Fili’s gut, the horror tearing his insides as something he had feared, suspected, wondered about for so long was finally confirmed.

“Take him back to your people.” Kili spoke before Fili could, not meeting the dwarf’s gaze. “I need to speak to my mother.”

“Yes.” The old dwarf blinked, as though trying to pull himself out of a dream. “I’ll take him.” He took the body, Hrandr weakly mumbling some stilted greeting in recognition of a friend. “Mahal, he’s white as bone. You lucky fool.” Grimly, he set his mouth in a hard line. “Another drop of blood lost and you’d be dead.” He looked over Hrandr’s limp head at Fili. “Thank you.”

Fili led Kili out by the elbow, neither of them speaking until they were well out of earshot, caught up in the hubbub of the banquet hall. Fili breathed out slowly, still holding Kili’s arm, and Kili was staring out into the wide chamber, eyes flitting about from person to person, settling on nothing, his mind obviously very far away.

“Kili—”

“I look like him.” Kili finally turned his eyes to Fili, no longer unfocused and distant. The dark stare cut into him, picking Fili apart, peeling layers away until his soul was naked and exposed. “Did you know?”

“I don’t remember his face.” Fili finally choked out. “Not when he— he was still _him._ There’s no pictures or carvings — nothing.” His hold on Kili grew protective, possessive. The only image he had of his father’s face was the terrifying afternoon in the forest when he tried to take Fili away, when _Amad_ beat him down and almost killed him, his features slashed from the rune-markings of his banishment, skin loose and grey as a dying man’s, eyes sunken in shrivelled sockets.

“ _Amad_ must have known.” Kili talked to himself rather than to his brother, maintaining that awful, crippling stare. “She must have remembered what he looked like.”

“Don’t.” Fili’s voice quivered, and flinched at the sound of it. “Don't ask her. Please, Kili.”

“We can't go back to pretending.” Kili’s voice was small, almost lost in the wide hall, and it starkly reminded Fili how vulnerable his little brother was, how much depriving him of the truth had wounded him. “You can’t protect me from them.” No — Fili had all of his chances to shield Kili from the world, and he’d failed terribly. “Did you know what he did to her?” He went on, the stare softening in his pain. “How he hurt her?”

Fili breathed in deeply and held it, his heart throbbing deep in his chest, as the flashes of memory danced in his mind’s eyes, unbidden and unwanted. His breath trembled as he let it go, the screaming thin and distant, faded after all these years. “I was hiding in the wardrobe.” Kili recoiled from the words, throat bobbing. “I saw everything.”

“Oh.” He finally sighed, unable to say anything else. It caught him off-guard, Fili's admission. He saw the pain in his brother's face from eighty long years of hiding those memories. And it rushed back — the way Fili used to hide when _Amad_ and Thorin argued with one another, the nightmares, the bursts of anger, and he finally realised now the true depths of Fili's terror and how deeply he had suffered as a child, witnessing such cruelty. He just wanted to protect Kili from that. That’s all Fili ever wanted. Although their mother had insisted that before, repeatedly, it wasn’t until now, seeing that raw, savage pain in Fili’s eyes, that he realised how deeply true it rang.

They were both lost for words. The silence grew, Kili not knowing what to say, Fili not wanting to speak, until it grew unbearable. “L-Let’s just find _Amad._ ” Fili cleared his throat, tried to muster up some strength in his voice. “I’m not saying anything to anybody until we talk it all out, together. As a family.”

They found their mother where Kili had left her, kneeling over Dwalin and holding his hand. Balin was there too, across from her, his head bent and face obscured. Nardur was still asleep, curled up against Dwalin’s side, a paw over his snout. Kili stopped short in his walk when he realised Dwalin’s eyes were bound, searching for Fili’s wrist and gripping him tight.

Dís spotted them first, heart leaping in her throat. Her boys, stripped out of their armour and mail, holding hands, Fili murmuring something to Kili while he stared at Dwalin, eyes wide with a childlike terror. The air stopped in her lungs mid-sentence and she swallowed hard, squeezing Dwalin’s fingers tenderly for a moment before letting go. “Give me a moment, love.” She said to him, Balin’s head lifting at her voice and following her gaze.

Kili broke away as Dís rose to her feet, his arms flung out to greet her, only making two steps before she lunged forward and embraced him, feeling his ribs quiver beneath her arms. Fili approached them too, and Dís stretched one arm out to hook him in, the three of them a tangle of limbs and hair. Fili sagged in her arms, resting his head on her shoulder as his hands fell weakly at his sides. Kili squeezed back just as tight, the both of them holding Fili up as his strength left him.

Her boys. Dís rocked them slowly in her tight embrace, blinking back the sting in her eyes as the warmth of their bodies seeped through her mail. Her boys. Had she ever loved them as violently and completely as she did in this moment? With the grief of Thorin’s death weighing heavy on her shoulders, the guilt of those secrets coming to the surface after decades in the shadows, the horror of knowing what Kili had endured and her pride for Fili’s selfless loyalty, and beneath all of that the sweet, exhausting relief that they had survived everything the world threw at them and were back in her arms, scarred and beaten but still whole. Still existing. She wondered how to broach the subject of Kili’s father with him, how to apologise for all the secrets she had kept, slowly rocking back and forth, trying to focus on the sensation of Fili and Kili in her arms, how good it felt just to hold them. As though he sensed her, they locked eyes, Kili an inch or so taller than her now. Without the awful ash all over him, obscuring his features and creating shadows that weren’t there, Dís was finally able to look closely at his face. It was thinner than before, the edges harder, his mouth narrower, the lines of his brow deeper. He looked older than she remembered, almost haggard. It was very hard to draw that familiar comparison with Frerin now. Dís frowned and tried to remember the face of her dead brother, existing only now in a handful of people’s memories, his wide mouth and beaky nose and large, doleful eyes, lowered in permanent reproach. Did Kili ever _really_ look like him, or was it an image she forced on herself? Could she even trust her own memories?

In the middle of these thoughts, Kili, thinking his mother still tight-lipped and guilty over what had last transpired between them, reached out and took her elbow. “It’s all right, _Amad._ ” He said, very softly, although he couldn’t yet smile at her.

Too tired to talk, Dís smiled back and drew him in, resting her head on his shoulder. She breathed in, Kili’s still-damp hair tickling her nose, clean from his wash and smelling of dwarvish soap. Kili held on tight too, grabbing a handful of her mail. It wasn’t over, of course, but the abolition of anger between them shone a light on Dís’ shadowed heart. He would forgive her, and in that forgiveness, perhaps Dís could even talk about _him_ to her boy, if he wanted it, and they could slowly fill in that hole that no one, not Dís or Fili or Thorin or Dwalin or Aldin or anybody had been able to fill.

But it wasn’t time for that yet. Not now. With a little jolt, Kili lifted his head and pulled away from her. “Dwalin.” He breathed. “I—”

With a lightning quickness, Dís grabbed his arm, plastering a hand over his mouth before he could utter another sound. “No.” She warned, feeling her heart seize in her chest and then beat painfully as Kili stared at her, brow creased in his painful confusion. “It’s his head, Kili. He’s badly wounded. We’re trying to spare him from any shock until he’s more himself.”

“What about Thorin?” Fili, finally standing of his own accord. Dís shook her head, mouth tight.

“I have to see him.” Kili’s voice cracked as he pulled her hand away. “I-I have to talk to him.”

“Tomorrow.” Dís promised. “Please, darling, tomorrow. He’s such a mess at the moment. He barely knows what’s going on. We’re trying to make him rest.”

“Fine.” Kili hardened and brushed quickly at his eyes, shrugging his mother off. He turned his face away so neither could see him, swallowing back the burning in his throat and letting out a long, long breath as the frustration swelled in his chest and the scream beat and beat in his throat, demanding to be let out.

Somehow, Kili left him. It tore at something deep inside, turning back and leaving Dwalin to lie in his wounded ignorance, with everything Kili longed to say locked away inside his head. He followed Fili back into the main hall, staring out blindly at the damage he had such a heavy hand in manipulating, nodding silently as Fili said they had to help with moving the dead.

“Kili,” Fili broke the uneasy silence as they both carried the body of some long-limbed elf — Fili at the shoulders, Kili the legs — up the wide staircase into the dry, chilly room awaiting the corpses. “There’s something I have to tell you about— about what happened, while you were away.”

There was a seriousness in his voice, tinged with fear, and it made Kili start and look up. “What?” He breathed, lips barely moving. “What happened?” All the worst thoughts ran through his head — he couldn’t help it — and he gathered up the memories he had already, the way Thranduil spoke to him, the way Thorin took back everything he had previously done. Fili had hinted earlier that something had gone wrong, too afraid to tell Kili what it was. Kili assumed that it was the whole awful mess with the Ironfists that he was hiding, but it was clear now that was only one piece in this jagged, ugly puzzle. “What did you do?”

“It started… Mahal, just after you left, really. When we were first on the boats out to Lake-Town. I knew something was wrong with Thorin even then, but I forced it down. I was still so raw from losing you.” Kili listened with his dark eyes fixed on his brother, eyes impassive, giving nothing away as they slowly ascended the stairs.

“And when— when Smaug left, and we were in the mountain with all that gold and no one else, it consumed him, Kili. He became… changed. Gandalf called it dragon-sickness. And it was. He was sick.” Fili broke for air, realising there were some things — the way he refused to even acknowledge that Kili existed, the burning of his letter — that he could never admit to. “And that’s when Bard and Thranduil appeared in the valley. Smaug razed Lake-Town to the ground before Bard killed him, and they wanted help. Compensation. But Thorin refused to even negotiate. That’s when he called on Dain. And he— he got worse and worse. He stopped sleeping and eating, he wouldn’t talk to anybody. It was heartbreaking. I knew I had to do something.” At the top of the staircase, he stopped again, trying to collect his thoughts and think about how to admit all of this eloquently, how to make his brother understand why he did what he did. Surely Kili _would_ understand, after all the dubious alliances he struck to protect himself. If anyone could, it was him. “If I didn’t, he would have destroyed all of us, and for what? His pride? Some old notion of dwarvish honour? It was senseless, Kili. I had to put a stop to it.” He inhaled sharply. “So I— I planned to overthrow him, to save our home and our people from war.” This wasn’t the part of the story that Fili was scared of telling; it was the afterwards, when he had to admit that Thorin had banished him and yet he still risked both their lives for him, that made his heart quiver with fear.

“Did you do it?” Kili asked, low and urgent, his mind racing to fit everything together as he stilled in his walk. No — Thorin was still in charge during the heat of the battle. He couldn’t have lost his crown. Fili sucked in another breath, one so hard it hollowed out his cheeks for a moment, and nodded. Kili realised in an instant what must have happened — Thorin had defeated him, somehow, Fili lost everything, and yet on his deathbed, Thorin forgave him.

“It was— was Dwalin.” Fili finally breathed. “I brought him in on it. I thought I could trust him. But he— he was the one that told Thorin about the plan.” Kili’s eyes widened. “He couldn’t betray him. I’m sorry, Kili.” He knew how plainly Kili idolised Dwalin, how much it would hurt, knowing that Dwalin chose Thorin over Fili after everything that had happened between the four of them in these last months. “It wasn’t a decision that he made lightly. I-I think Thorin manipulated him and dragged it out of him — at least, I hope.” His shoulders sagged. “I don’t know exactly what he said, and I don’t really think I want to, to be honest. But he told Thorin all right, and Thorin… he lost control. He banished me, and Bilbo and Nori and Ori. They were my accomplices.”

“No.” Kili stared at the ground now, slowly shaking his head from side to side. “He wouldn’t. Dwalin wouldn’t do that to us.”

“I think a part of him may have even agreed that Thorin was right.” Fili went on. “What right did Thranduil and Bard have, knocking on our door and demanding a share of the fortune? If we gave into them from the outset, when would they stop? How much would they take from us? I just wanted peace between us, a-and it was a price I was willing to pay. I don’t care about pride and honour and all of that rot. That’s not what’s important to me.”

“So… Thorin threw you out.” Kili said slowly, eyes travelling up the length of the elf’s body. “Where did you go?” His gaze settled on Fili’s face, cold and penetrating again, mercilessly demanding answers.

“Thranduil.” Fili murmured. “I had nowhere else to turn. Dain was on Thorin’s side, of course, and the Ironfists, they just wanted to take me away, to be some sort of stand-in king and use me for my blood. I had no other choice. What did I have? My claim to the throne was gone, Kili. And I know now that Thranduil, he just wanted to use me for that, to put me on the throne as some sort of puppet and bleed Erebor dry. And I almost let him.”

Hot anger boiled in Kili’s gut. “So Thorin just threw you out? After everything that you’ve done for him? Even though he destroyed his own legacy in doing it?” Fili couldn’t bring himself to respond. “How could he be so cruel to _you?_ ”

“He wasn’t himself.” But it wasn’t enough. Of course it wasn’t. They turned into the dim, dusty room set aside for the dead, and carefully laid the elf down. Kili didn’t talk. He didn’t trust himself to. He seethed to himself, the fury rising as they retraced their steps down the wide passageway, bubbling over and threatening to burst. So Thorin had rejected Fili. _Fili,_ after everything he had done, after decades of loyalty and devotion. Fili, who was in everyone’s eyes Thorin’s perfect heir, who did whatever was asked of himself without a word of complaint, who was willing to sacrifice his happiness, his ideals, his conscience, his _brother_ , for the sake of Erebor. The outrage on Fili’s behalf burned away inside of him, and he ground his teeth together, keeping it all inside for as long as he could.

And after a few moments of silence, that anger towards somebody dead shifted abruptly, with a sharp snap, quick as a rope breaking in half. _They still saved him._ Fili still risked his life, Kili’s life, for Thorin’s, insisting that they work together to save him, laying a trap so they could get to him, sparing Thorin from a certain death at Bolg’s hand. The entire time, Fili had lied. A lie by omission was still a lie, and Kili felt the sharp knife-wound of betrayal dig into him, clenching his hands into fists so tight his palms stung from the nails biting into his skin.

He didn’t need words to express his rage; Fili could see it, could sense it, could hear it in the heavy, ragged way his brother was breathing. Kili had used his wits, far sharper than anyone had given him credit for, and figured it all out. “I couldn’t leave him.” Kili recoiled from the words, pulling up short in his walk and looking over at him with that painful, cutting stare. “I-I know he didn’t deserve it, but if I didn’t at least try to save him, I never could have lived with myself.” Kili’s curled fists were trembling, and he kept his mouth closed. “He’s our uncle.” He could feel the pressure building in his throat, stinging under the effort of maintaining his composure. “A-And he’s already gone, and I can’t— Kili, I can’t.” His face crumpling, he plastered his hands over his mouth, but he couldn’t muffle the whine that slipped out, pathetic and broken as a sickly pup.

That small sound pierced the mail that Kili had wrapped around his own wounded heart, unravelling it, thin and ineffectual as loose threads of spider-silk. There was something infectious about the devoted, complete way that he loved Thorin, with a dogged naivety that survived even the most heartless of rejections, that endured the cruellest blows that Thorin could have inflicted. Fili still saw the best in Thorin. He still loved him, still wanted to save him. Kili _ached_ for his brother in a burst of empathy that seemed strange to him now, an alien emotion that he’d forgotten how to feel. As Fili tried to swallow back the sobs that he wasn’t ready to give into, Kili stepped towards him, daring to give the thinnest, most fleeting of smiles.

It wasn’t the tight familial embrace they had shared earlier. Kili roughly slung one arm around his brother’s neck and squeezed, just for a moment, before relaxing his grip, letting Fili lean into him. It was brief and self-conscious and not entirely without some lingering anger, but they both felt relief course through them, breaking through the fear and guilt and frustration. Fili sighed, one hand clutching at the front of Kili’s shirt, cheeks touching. “It’s all right.” Kili said quietly. Holding a grudge was unthinkable; not with Fili. Not now. Not after everything that he had said. Kili held onto him in that quiet, fragile moment, that hot anger slowly ebbing away as Fili sniffed into his shoulder, trying desperately to hold himself together.

As Kili thought that his brother really would break down, right here, in front of everyone, Fili pulled away and rubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand. “I-I didn’t want this.” He stared up at the ceiling, willing the beads of moisture from his eyes. “A-And now…” His shoulders bowed in a heavy sigh, Fili shook his head. “I just miss him so much. I want him _back_.”

“I know you do.” Kili murmured, staring down at his own feet, afraid of looking his brother in the eye. He heard a scoff at that and looked up quickly to find Fili shaking his head at him, exasperated, exhausted.

“You still hate him. Mahal, Kili, _why?_ Why him? Why not me or Balin or Dwalin?” His voice rose slowly. “We found your clothes. We were the ones that thought you were dead. O-Or what about Ori? He kept quiet and let you slip away. We all sat by in Lake-Town and did nothing while you fought your way out. We’re to blame as much as Thorin, if not more.”

“You don’t understand.” Kili said shortly, sharply. A warning. “He was supposed to protect me—”

“We _all_ were.” It wasn’t good enough. “I’m your brother, and Dwalin— he’s the closest thing to a father you’ve ever had. We would have laid down our lives for you, given the chance. We all—”

“No— you don’t _understand_.” Kili gritted his teeth. “All right? I…” He sighed heavily and raked his hands through his hair, wondering how he could put it all to words. “Loving Thorin, it got me nowhere. Rage and hatred and pain became the only things I knew and I— I needed to turn that against something.” He spoke slowly, his voice stilted as he tried to put his thoughts in order. Some of it came with their own quiet revelation, and Kili had to stop and think for a moment, letting the little spark bloom and then die in his head all in a flash. “I couldn’t just keep on crying and shaking and waiting for you to save me. I tried hating Azog and the orcs, but it just added to the scars.” He’d never said any of this before, to anyone. Fili fell silent and listened, a little frown pulling his fair brows together. “I felt like all I had to hold onto was that hatred, and then Azog reached out to me. He broke me, and then he built me back up again, and the closer I got to him, the further it pulled me away from Thorin. I started feeding on that pain and hate, and I— I forgot who Thorin used to be for me. All that hurt just smothered it. And then all I had was Azog.”

“What changed?” Fili dared to ask, feeling as though Kili’s letter only told half of the story. Had he been trying to say this the whole time? How much had Fili missed in Lake-Town in his blind ignorance, clinging to that hopeless idea that the damage Azog had wrought could be so effortlessly undone? “Why did you kill him?”

Kili shrugged and gave a tired, sad, half-smile. “You, idiot. When I realised that Azog was going to make me hurt you, it broke the spell he had me under. _Nothing_ could turn me against you, Fili. Seeing that poor elf, knowing you would be next…” He swallowed hard. “He did his best, but when it came down to it, that love for you couldn’t be swayed by the hatred he planted in me. Nothing could.”

For a moment, Fili didn’t know what to say. Over that now-familiar throb in his ribs, he felt the sharp point of a folded page sticking into his chest, over his undershirt and beneath his linens. “You did hold onto me, didn’t you?” He fished it out now, grubby and creased and with a corner torn off. It seemed appropriate. “Th-This is yours.”

Kili didn’t need to open it to know what it was. His heart leapt as he took the folded drawing, staring down at it in his shaking hands. “I wondered what happened to this.” He murmured. “Did Ori tell you about it?” Fili nodded. “I wish I’d kept it. It would have done me good in the last few weeks. Thank you for looking after this for me.”

“Why did you go back to them?” Fili asked, passionately, the question burning inside of him for hours and hours now. They started walking again, Kili first and Fili following him, taking the steps slowly with a quiet air of conspiracy that kept them isolated from the flitting to-and-fro of the others.

Kili bit the inside of his cheek, folding up the drawing one more time so it would fit in his pocket as he walked. “Honestly?” He sighed. “To save a friend. I was chased into the northern borders of Mirkwood, and there I ran into a pack of orcs. They treated me like an ally, and it was through them that I— You remember my letter?” Fili nodded. “Do you remember how I talked about this orc-healer, the one who told me to come back?”

“A little.”

“I can’t put into words how much Nazarg meant to me. He saved my life. Not just by healing me after Azog beat me half to death, but— well, in the beginning, there was this secret little rebellion between us, against Azog. He wasn’t one of Azog’s soldiers; he was a free orc from Moria who had been bullied and ordered into coming. And Nazarg hated him for what he did to me. He couldn’t keep me from turning against Thorin, but he gave me hope. He said that I would come back to you all, and that we would all be a family again. And, you know, I needed that hope. I held onto it.”

“And then Thorin broke it into a thousand pieces.” Fili murmured sadly. Thorin’s double-edged betrayal of Kili stung sharper now with the remembrance that he had made a similar painful decision to try and strengthen his own allegiances. He hoped it wouldn’t have the same awful outcome.

Kili stung too with the same memory, and he nodded, pausing for a heartbeat before continuing his story. “After we fled together, he headed north to the mountains, trying to barter passage home. News of Azog’s death had reached them by then, and they figured out who he was. He said it was all him; he had killed Azog, and I had been kidnapped again by the elves. He really saved my skin with that one. And when I found out that they still had him, alive, in their dungeons, I had to rescue him.” Kili willed his brother to understand. “He knew he was doomed, and in his last act, he tried to spare me the horror that he faced. So I played the part he wrote for me, made friends, got to know the place — where the guards ate and slept, what hours they patrolled. And the day before Bolg came, I got him out.”

“Wow.” Fili breathed, following him down along the wide-ceiling passage that led back into the hall. “So you…” Kili looked over at him, one eyebrow arched as he waited for his brother’s judgements and assumptions. But his thoughts were nothing of the sort. There was a strange nobility in Kili’s deception, even if it wasn’t for the reasons Fili first guessed. “Just when I think I could know you again, you surprise me.” The words could either be cruel or kind, and Kili studied him carefully. But Fili was smiling, albeit soft and sad and with a shadow in his eyes. “Please tell me they didn’t hurt you.”

Kili took a moment to answer, remembering the choking rush of water, the near-broken hand. “No,” he half-lied, his face remaining still. “it wasn’t like that. They treated me like they did their own masters. I could have anything I wanted. Sometimes, I was even happy.” He finally admitted. “I could see myself staying, almost. Living among them. Work hard in the daytime, drink too much at night and stumble home to a warm bed. It didn’t seem so bad.” That stillness flickered in his face, and Kili swallowed hard. Although he tried to hide it, there was a horror in Fili’s expression, wide-eyed, nostrils flared, his mouth creased and wrinkled. “I know. I got too close.” A hand drifted up to his neck, palm pressed against the juncture of his shoulder and throat. “I let myself fall too far. I didn’t need to...” With a little jerk, Kili inhaled sharply, like waking up from a dream, putting a pair of wide black eyes deep, deep into the back of his mind. “But it’s over now, Fili. There’s no going back, I promise you.”

“Good.” Fili seized his hand, and finding the wrist, squeezed it tight, feeling the ridge of Kili’s tendons against the pad of his thumbs before letting go. “I can’t lose you again. I’d go mad.” He didn’t like the way Kili looked ahead just then, unfocused and distant. The terror doubled in his chest. “Kili, I promise, nothing will hurt you. I’ll protect you with everything I have. This is your _home_. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you. I’m not making the mistakes our family made so many times. You’re more important than to me than anything.”

At first, Kili didn’t know what to say. The thought of leaving had occurred to him more than once since Thorin had died, and every time he was left tight-chested and sick. He knew that Fili would swear a thousand oaths of loyalty and do his best to keep them, no matter the cost. The stakes were higher now than they were a few short hours ago, when Thorin was still alive. Fili had so much more to gain, but at the same time, so much more to lose. Kili knew how precarious his own situation was; the king’s brother, closest confidante and trusted advisor, an orc-friend and traitor. It sounded ridiculous even in Kili’s own head. How would the other dwarves react? How could Kili ever be completely trusted and counted among their allies after his shocking betrayal? How could he trust himself? Kili still felt trapped in this limbo, this in-between, walking a fine line between two worlds. Even though he wore his dwarvish linens again and washed the ash from his face, there was still a painful tugging deep in his chest, an ache that he knew would fade in time but never vanish completely. It wasn’t as simple as Ori claimed it could be. The marks that Azog left behind weren’t just on his skin; Kili had changed, transformed, in a way that nobody else could ever fully understand or accept, in ways even Kili was still slowly realising.

With all of this in mind, Kili breathed in. “You’re more important to _me_ than anything, too.” That was why he couldn’t make any promises about this.

* * *

A few hours after dusk, they finally broke for a cheerless dinner. Fili and Kili with Thorin’s Company, or what was left of it — Gandalf, Bilbo, Oin, Gloin, Bifur, Bofur, Bombur and Balin. Nori and Ori refused to leave their brother’s side, even though Oin reported he was mumbling like a drunkard in his sleep, and Dís remained with Dwalin, who had been carried into a side-room up some stairs and down a passageway, separate from the hubbub of the banquet hall where he could finally get some rest. Kili disappeared for half an hour to ‘feed Nardur,’ something Fili couldn’t bear lingering over, trying not to look at the sticky blackness around the warg’s muzzle when they returned.

But Kili really did try. He answered questions when they were asked, mostly, and although he kept to himself at Fili’s elbow, he listened when others talked, smiling in the right places as his eyelids drooped. Eventually, the thoughtful, borderline suspicious (and who could blame them?) stares relaxed, although Gandalf kept giving Kili little glances out of the corner of his eye, particularly at his left hand.  There was this sort of unspoken agreement between all of them that they wouldn’t talk about what happened to Kili, or to Fili either, during their exile from Erebor. They talked a lot about Thorin, sharing the warmer stories, and gossiped about every other race and clan that lingered inside the mountain, feeling themselves the only true inhabitants.

Obviously wrestling with the problem, Gandalf waited until most of the dwarves had drifted off to bed, leaving Balin, Fili, Kili, Oin, Gloin (that could not be helped), Bilbo and himself. He stared very hard at Kili’s left hand now, the deep blue gem flashing as he softly stroked the soft fur on top of the warg’s head while he lay in Kili’s lap, fire-yellow eyes staring into the fire.

“Kili,” and he tensed at the voice, expecting what was to come. Kili’s eyes shifted from Nardur to him. “Where did you get that ring?”

“I knew you were going to ask that.” He sighed, curling his left hand in a fist and covering it with his right. “Bolg gave it to me on the march southwards. Wanted to see what I’d do with it.” Gandalf tented his fingers in thought, those dark, beady eyes staring into Kili with his massive brow furrowed.

“Extraordinary.” He finally said. Fili listened keenly, hanging on to every word. “Bolg kept it for himself.”

“He wanted to show it to Thorin.” Kili said dully, like the conversation already bored him. “To show him that Thrain had long since died in their keep.”

“He didn’t.” Balin’s head jerked up at Gandalf’s words. “Not until recently. I saw him just a few months ago in—”

“Dol Guldur.” Kili supplied, relaxing his hands now. “Bolg said he had aged, but not that he was still alive.” Balin heaved a long, long sigh, his head bent.

“He couldn’t remember me.” Gandalf said gently. “Decades of suffering and enchantment left him unable to recall even his own name. Dol Guldur fell; we could at least do that, but I couldn’t save him, in the end. I wanted Thorin to be the first to know, Fili, so I decided not to tell you until…”

“He worked it out.” Fili mumbled. “When he saw the ring on Kili’s finger.”

“We were so close to him.” Gloin’s whisper filled the void. “Less than a hundred miles. We could have—”

“You could have _what?_ ” Kili spat, his voice so vicious that even Nardur lifted his head with a soft whine. Fili rested a hand on his shoulder with a little shake of his head, but Kili shrugged him off, glaring at Gloin, daring him to continue his thought.

“Nothing.” He backed down, head bowed in his contrition. Oin, too, stared at the ground. “Nothing, Kili.”

“There was no bringing him back.” Gandalf sighed, pained at his own words. “Even if I could have saved him, the Thrain you knew died a long time ago under their torment.”

“Poor Thrain.” Bilbo murmured, his own hand in his pocket, thoughtfully fingering his ring. “What an awful end.”

“For so long.” Balin’s voice was brittle. Kili scratched the top of Nardur’s head and tried to soothe him, listening. “H-He could have ended it, but he held on. Some part of him still must have had some hope.”

“It wasn't hope.” Kili muttered, staring into the embers of their little fire. “Azog would have stamped that out. It would have been fear. Azog would have done just enough to keep the fear of death in him.” He breathed in, quickly, remembering that gloomy night on the boat. “We pride ourselves on our ability to suffer and endure. Azog knew that.” His eyes flickered upwards, and with a start, Kili realised everyone else was staring at him. “Azog loved mind games, and toying with people, figuring out how to break them down and use them as weapons or playthings. Thrain must have been strong, if all they did was lock him up in that tower. Part of Azog must have been afraid of him.” He forced a grim smile. “He was stronger than I was.”

Fili took a moment to speak, aching for his brother, wondering what he could say. “You were smarter.” He said, his voice very low. “You beat them.”

“And now they’re all gone.” Kili lifted his head at Balin’s voice. “The blood-feud has ended, and we won.” His words were grave, but there was a soft, kindly look in his eyes. His heart lifted just a little. “You two did what Thror and Thrain and Thorin couldn’t. Take pride in that.”

“It was all Kili.” Fili assured the group. “It was his plan. He killed Bolg. And he told us which generals to go after, what were their weaknesses. I don’t think we would have won this without you.” He addressed Kili now. “You’re a hero.” But Kili had shifted his gaze back to the fire, toying with the curved fang strung about his neck, and he wouldn’t answer.

They all bedded down together in a low-ceilinged room close to the banquet hall, spreading out blankets and cloaks and anything they could find, keeping close together to share their warmth. But Kili lay down a little apart from the others, even Fili, and cuddled up close to Nardur, his face half-buried in the warg’s neck, for comfort or protection or heat, Fili didn’t know, but it seemed it wasn’t something he could offer.

Despite his exhaustion, Kili slept fitfully. How could he truly sleep? How could he rest with the day’s events playing out over and over in his head? It still seemed unreal, some sort of dream. Thorin was dead, as was Bolg, and he lay in Erebor, a prince and a brother and a son again, returned to his family alive but not undamaged. Kili closed his eyes and saw Thorin’s face dancing before him, the broken words staggering from his slack mouth as he begged for Kili to forgive him.

Some time in the night, very late, Kili, who had fallen into a light doze, jerked awake at a low growl near his head. Nardur. Not the sleepy whimper of a dream, but sharp and uneasy. A warning. Kili opened one eye, and for a moment it was all shadows swimming and wriggling about as his vision adjusted to the darkness. There was no lanternlight; only the moon, a pale sliver in a tiny window near the ceiling, a dusting of stars. Through the darkness, Kili caught a tiny glint of silver on the edge of a drawn blade.

His heart seized in his chest. Both eyes now wide open, Kili reached slowly, silently, for the knife still strapped to his waist. The shadows solidified. Against the gloomy walls, Kili could just about make out a figure, tall and thin, almost waifish. Nardur growled again, louder, as Kili’s hand closed around the hilt of his own weapon. Distantly, Kili heard a sharp intake of breath, the scrape of a boot-heel on stone as his would-be assassin pulled up short in his walk at the sound of the warg’s growl. Then with the rustle of clothing, the figure retreated into the shadows.

Kili breathed out slowly and relaxed his hand on the blade, lying on his back and staring at the sliver of moonlight on the ceiling. His heart thudded in his head, deafening, his ribcage quaking. “ _Sriz_ , Nardur.” He whispered, pressing his mouth against the warg’s ear. With a soft whine, Nardur licked at his arm. “Good boy. Such a good boy.” So they wanted to slash his throat and escape in the darkness. It wasn’t the first attempt on his life, of course, but it was the most brazen and chilling. To do it here, where he lay not twenty feet from his brother, surrounded by allies after his exoneration… A shudder crept down Kili’s spine and he swallowed hard, every nerve of his body on edge, muscles tensing at the barest sound — a sigh, a snuffle, a rasp of cloth.

He watched the slice of moonlight stretch longer across the ceiling for a time, but nothing else happened. Nardur, it seemed, had scared off whoever had designs on ending his life, at least for the rest of the night. Sleep wasn’t coming soon, not in this room, and after a time, Kili sat up with a long sigh, and pushed the makeshift blanket aside. Leaving his boots behind (they would only make noise, and his socks were thick and warm), Kili padded out of the gloomy room, one hand on Nardur’s neck, the other holding his knife, gently guiding him down the passage to where he knew his mother would be resting. No one, Kili rationalised, would ever consider for a moment they could kill him in front of her and get away with it. Whoever it was that approached him when he was half-asleep, they wanted to do the deed in absolute secrecy and fled at the first whisper of conflict.

“I’ll be back in a moment, darling.” Kili froze as he rounded the corner and caught his mother’s voice, shrinking into the shadows. “I’ll get you some more water and something to eat. But please, try to get back to sleep, if you can.” At first, he wanted to step out into the light and announce himself, but a second thought struck Kili, and he hung back, watching her retreating figure as she walked down the other end of the passage with the stub of a candle. The door had been left ajar, and Kili caught the dim red light of a fireplace full of embers. Dwalin. He walked slowly, shuffling in his socks, constantly looking over his shoulder and keeping his knife held out before him until he stood in the doorway.

This was once a bedroom of sorts, and Dwalin lay on the scorched remains of a wooden bedstead, elevated from the chilly stone floor, wrapped in furs and blankets, his head pillowed on a bundled cloak. His eyes were still bound and his hands invisible inside his coverings, his breathing stilted with the short gasps of someone in pain. What was visible of his face was sunken and grey. Kili bit down hard on his tongue, feeling the horror well up in his chest slowly and tear him apart.

“Dís?” He rasped, the air rattling in his chest. “Dís, is that you? I-I can hear you in the door.”

Kili opened his mouth to speak, but the words were stuck in his throat, blocked with emotion at the sight of Dwalin, his hero since childhood, indomitable, fearless, reduced to something so broken and fragile. “Dís? Why won’t you answer me? I—” Dwalin broke off with a groan of pain, a spasm crossing his face as he wrestled with some internal pain.

“Who are you?” Kili’s mouth trembled as he listened. “Balin? Fili? Why won’t you speak?” Of their own accord, it seemed, Kili’s feet shuffled into the room, whispering across the stone. Nardur followed, padding silently. “Th-Thorin?” Dwalin sounded very weak now. “Is it you? Is that why you’re not speaking to me?” Kili shook his head, not daring to break the silence of the room. The more agitated Dwalin got, the more fractured his breathing, the more he stopped to wrestle with his broken mind. “It is. Thorin. I know— you don’t want to talk to me.” Dwalin swallowed very hard. “But please— I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. We’re shield-brothers. You know I would follow you to whatever end you chose. I was always there for you. I— I abandoned Kili for you. I betrayed Fili.” His voice wobbled. “I couldn’t die without one last chance. I love her so much. I’ve always loved her. D-Don’t you remember? In here— In Erebor, when we were just dwarrows, how I used to pine after her? And you— you laughed at me. You said it was a fantasy. But I had her, Thorin. I l-lost her to that _beast_ of a dwarf, b-but then I had her, and…” Another falter, another sharp intake of breath. “I-I couldn’t lose her again. And I will do anything— whatever it takes, for you to forgive me. To keep you both.” Dwalin panted. “Please— Please. Forgive me.”

Kili couldn’t bear to speak. To utter a word now, to break the illusion, would shatter Dwalin’s weakened heart. He breathed slowly, through his mouth, staring at the grey lump beneath the covers. “But it’s not you.” Dwalin whispered, and Kili took another step closer to the bed, straining to listen. “I’ve asked, countless times, but Dís won’t bring you to me. Sh-She won’t even say what happened to you. I-I can hear her crying. And I…” Dwalin’s breath hitched, a soft self-realisation. “I know, now, where you are.” A sob broke in his throat, and he gritted his teeth. “Is it your ghost?” One hand scrabbled about from under the covers and fought with the tight bandages. “Are you here— haunting me?” Another sob. “No.” Dwalin collapsed and his hand fell over his face, trembling. “ _No._ Please. Take me— Take me. Keep him. Don’t— Please, don’t…” His voice dissolved with a low moan and broke into harsh, keening gasps of air.

Never before had Dwalin cried in front of him. It cut deep into Kili’s soul, into that tiny part of him that Azog somehow hadn’t been able to touch, that love that nothing could sour. Each heaving breath was another slash of the knife, a stab in the chest that robbed Kili’s own lungs of air and he staggered across the room and fell to his knees at the bedside, groping blindly for Dwalin’s hand and pressing it to his face. “It’s me.” Kili choked out. “It’s me, Dwalin. It’s me.”

His body, so bulky for a dwarf but so shrivelled and frail in this moment, went completely rigid, and Dwalin broke off mid-sob. He clung to Kili’s face, his trembling hand seeking out the ridge of hair along his jaw, his nose, the scar on his cheek. “Kili—” Dwalin gasped in disbelief, grabbing a fistful of hair to make sure that, yes, it was him, it was real and not some projection of his broken mind.

“It’s me.” Kili said again, reaching up and throwing one arm across Dwalin’s neck. His hand trapped in the tangles of Kili’s hair, Dwalin pressed his forehead to the side of his face, the air choking and stuttering in his throat as he struggled to get a hold of himself. Kili slowly rocked back and forth on his knees as one would soothe a frightened child, staring past Dwalin and into the mouth of the open door. There weren’t any words; there didn’t need to be. Just the sweetness of this reunion, of coming together again, knowing that they were both alive, that they remembered and loved and needed each other.

In the fog and fuddle of his broken mind, Dwalin had been nursing that suspicion for hours, doing his best to ignore the truth while the evidence mounted until it crushed him in an overwhelming moment of realisation, of acceptance. Thorin had died. And in his death, somehow, Kili was _back_. It wasn’t enough to absolve the agony of his grief, but it made it bearable. Dwalin clung to Kili, a life-raft in a pool of deep water, terrified of letting go.

Dís found them in the same position, holding on to one another, when she returned. She froze and her brow creased, but how could she dare to admonish Kili for what he’d done? He stared at the open doorway, one eye visible, half-lidded, red-rimmed and bloodshot. Dwalin’s breathing was ragged and slight. He lay on one side, as close to the edge of the bed as he dared, with his arms stretched out. Kili looked at her for a moment, saying nothing, and then buried his face in Dwalin’s neck and doubled his grip, latching on for fear that she would pull them apart.

The warg was curled up by Kili’s feet, his head on his folded paws, staring up at Dís with a soft curiosity on those fiery yellow eyes. She set aside the water-skin and lump of biscuit on the wobbly table by the fire, and without a word, sank to her knees at Kili’s side, one hand on his shoulder, and stretched out to take Dwalin by the hand. He relaxed at her touch, two spots of red on his pale cheeks, the blindfold damp and forehead shining with sweat. She dabbed at it with the back of her hand, smiling weakly, before withdrawing to tend to the fire and give them a few more moments of silence.

“You need some sleep, sweetheart.” Dís finally said after they had righted themselves and she had given Dwalin a long drink. Dwalin weakly clung to Kili’s hand, and Kili remained crouching at the head of the scorched bed, leaning against Dwalin’s shoulder beneath the furs. It wasn’t quite clear who she was talking to. Perhaps both of them. “You look exhausted.”

Kili shook his head, eyes drooping. “I want to stay here.” There was another flash of the old Kili, stubborn to a fault, expecting he would get his own way without question. Instead of hardening against him, Dís melted. With a nod and a soft smile, she squeezed his arm and knelt at the fire, busying herself in the fading embers.

“He knows about Thorin.” Kili eventually murmured. Dís’ hands fell still, and she looked over at them both. Dwalin groaned at the sound of his name, curling even further into Kili, digging in.

“I told you not to—”

“I didn’t say anything.” The sharpness in his voice made Dís draw back. “He figured it out. You wouldn’t tell him what happened, _Amad_. And we all know that if Thorin was alive, he’d be desperate to see Dwalin.” Kili leaned in, mumbling something in Dwalin’s ear that Dís couldn’t catch. “He’s hurt, but he’s not stupid.”

“I know.” She finally managed to get the words out after a strained moment of silence. “I’m sorry, Dwalin. I just… I want to spare you from this, just for a little while.”

“‘s all right.” Dwalin mumbled, drained of energy and fading fast. It was still impossible to comprehend, too heartbreaking to consider Thorin’s death after the tragedy of their last meeting. “Can't change anything now.”

“He forgave you.” Kili said weakly. “For what it's worth. He forgave everybody.” A low rumble of assent sounded in Dwalin’s throat, and his grip momentarily tightened on Kili’s hand.

“We'll get there.” After a long time, Dís splayed her fingers out before the glowing embers, whispering. Neither of them could answer her. She looked over and found they were both asleep, Kili leaning against the bed, legs half-folded before him, Dwalin curled right at the edge. “Oh,” she sighed, pulling at the cloak draped over her own shoulders. Dís gently tucked it around Kili's folded body, covering as much of his limbs as she could. He stirred but didn't fully wake, his cheek against Dwalin’s shoulder at the edge of the low wooden bedstead.

“I love you.” She whispered. Dís felt like she hadn't said it enough. As soft as she dared, she pressed her lips against Kili's hair in a brief kiss. Mahal, he looked like a little dwarrow again, his tangled mop falling all over his eyes, the furred edge of her cloak covering his beard. A fierce protectiveness surged deep in her chest. Even knowing the awful things that Kili had done, all she could see in that moment was her sweet baby boy.  Her eyes stinging at the memory, Dís settled in for a long, lonely watch over Dwalin, heart leaping in terror with every hitch of breath, jumping up far too often to check the pulse in his throat.

Around the last child of Thrain, the mountain slept.

 


	117. Forgive and Forget

Kili found a very familiar face as he returned to the crammed hall in the morning. Sitting beside his father and picking at a meagre breakfast was Bain, paler and thinner than he remembered, his dark curls half an inch longer and falling into his grey-ringed eyes. With a gasp of recognition, the boy stood up and pushed his way through the crowd and in front of everyone, even Thranduil, tackled Kili in a fierce embrace. 

“Oh _wow!_ Kili, I can’t believe it! I heard all these rumours – are they true? Did you _really_ live with orcs? Were you scared? I bet you weren’t, ‘cause nothing scares you. Did you hear about Lake-Town? Hasn’t it been awful? So many people– You know about Smaug, don’t you? And how he burned everything to the ground? It’s been horrible, all the time. I had to hide in a safe, you know, in Thror’s just in case orcs got in.  It was freezing cold and my lantern went out, but I didn’t even cry, honest. And Papa, he won’t let me go anywhere in here, even though the battle’s over. I have to stay in this room. I tried going into the kitchen last night, to get some supper, and there was a _leg_ on the table. A severed leg! It was all mangled and there was blood everywhere. It was _so_ disgusting. I thought I was going to be sick.”

“Bain,” Kili smiled, faint but genuine. “It’s so good to see you again.” And Bain didn’t let up, prattling on and on, begging for as many stories about orcs as Kili could remember and interrupting every single one with flighty, tangential questions. Bard sharply tried to keep his son in line, but Kili insisted it was all right, even though he looked far too tired for Bain’s childish, nosey questions. Thranduil, who had been talking with Fili, watched carefully, his heavy brows growing closer and closer together until he was openly scowling, tapping his fingers against his folded arm. He left after Kili told some stupid joke that made Bain laugh loudly, fearlessly, and declare that Kili was the coolest dwarf _ever_ , a growl in his throat that he couldn’t quite pass off as a derisive scoff. 

“Fili, look.” Bard pulled Fili aside, keeping his voice low. “I don’t want Bain coming in between whatever bad blood your brother might have with anyone else.”

Fili sucked in a sharp breath, digging his hands in his pockets as he watched Kili, his relaxed shoulders and tired grin, the flash of his teeth as he laughed, deflated in his pity. “I don’t know if it’s front for Bain or what, but Mahal, I haven’t seen him smile that like that in… I-I don’t even know. I can’t remember the last time I saw him happy.” 

Bard heaved a deep, chesty sigh that creaked in his throat. “And what of the men of Lake-Town? They foster a lot of emnity. They’re not going to readily forget what Kili did to them. Gunnar won’t let that happen. If there’s a chance to turn them against me, I know he’ll take it.”

“I’ll talk to Kili.” Fili finally murmured. “Just… leave it to me, all right? Please.” 

But he didn’t need to say anything. Afterwards, when Kili had wolfed down his food and Bard had taken his son away, Fili crouched down beside him, chewing on the inside of his cheek and trying to sort his thoughts all out, keep them even, preparing the little speech over and over in his head. Kili beat him to it, staring into the fire with his wrists draped over his knees, hands balled into fists. “You don’t want me to talk to him.” He said tonelessly before Fili could get a word in.

He started. “How did you–”

“I saw Bard talking to you, and Thranduil glowering at the both of us. They don’t like it.” Fili sat down and stretched his legs out, the ache doubling in his chest at the sight of Kili’s face, his eyes half-lidded and mouth drooping downwards. 

Fili raked his hands through his hair, wincing as it caught on a tangle. Neither of them spoke, watching the flames as they sat side-by-side. Kili stewed in his misery and Fili in his guilt, unable to prevent himself from going over Lake-Town again in his mind, picking over every thread, every missed chance, every lost glance and word that should have been said. But despite that familial bond they were supposed to share, despite Fili declaring that he knew his brother better than anyone, it was the innocent judgeless curiosity of a child that Kili had responded to most. Bain was older, hardened from the dragon and the weeks of chaos that followed, but he hadn’t lost that innocence yet, somehow. And when Kili talked to him, it seemed, just for a moment, that he hadn’t either. Not completely. Fili had to hold onto that.

“No.” He frowned, and there was a firmness in his voice that made his brother take notice, sitting up and bringing down his legs. “You know what?” Emboldened, Fili leaned in. “Talk to Bain. Be friends with him. Mahal, he’s the king’s son, and you’re my brother. It’s just good diplomatic sense. We need to have strong ties with Dale if we want to prosper, and Bain trusting and liking you is more important than Thranduil’s ego.”

Kili licked his dry lips. “Really?” Fili nodded. “Thranduil’s sure to throw a tantrum.”

“Let him.” Fili gripped his shoulder and held on. “Kili, I said I was going to protect you, and I mean it. Nothing is going to break us apart again. No orc or elf or dwarf or man, no matter who they are.”

But there was doubt in Kili’s eyes. He studied Fili carefully, weighing up and considering what he said with a tense twist in his mouth. Finally, that knot broke into a smile, and he reached up to grip Fili’s wrist, pressing his fingertips against the veins and tendons strung beneath the unmarked skin. “Thank you.” He murmured. It was all he needed to hear.

* * *

 

Dori awoke from his drugged, foggy sleep to find both brothers at his side. It was all a muddle at first as the memories twisted and clawed in his brain, like coming back from a night of heavy drinking. Flashes of light and sound seared in his head, and he remembered slowly, in pieces, the fight of the day before – fighting wave after waves of orcs, the battle-cry that hearkened Thorin’s bloody death, the final charge in the hall, being knocked to the ground and the crushing hammer-blow that shattered his hip and sent him into unspeakable, delirious agony, softened only something bitter and sour that turned light and shadow inside out and deafened him to the world. 

He noticed Nori at first, polishing one of his daggers with a bit of an old rag, even though the metal was already gleaming. He hummed to himself, tunelessly, his hair dishevelled, looking like he barely slept. Through cracked eyes, he saw Ori beside him, scribbling something in a slim manuscript with stub of pencil. They were still here. He sagged in relief, closing his eyes, but it was brief; his hip flared up with a sharp, sudden stab of pain, a breathless groan seizing in his throat. 

His brothers started at the sound, the knife and book abandoned, and both were on their knees, looming over him and holding his hands, asking if he was all right, where it hurt, if he was thirsty or hungry. Dori groaned again, his throat hoarse and dry as dust, and Nori slipped away, muttering about finding Oin and some water. Ori stayed, kneeling at Dori’s head and holding on. “I’m so glad you’re awake.” He whispered. “You scared me for a while there.” 

“Where– What?” Dori finally managed to croak. “You’re here.” It stunned him. Why was _Ori_ at his side after everything that had happened? It was completely, utterly undeserved. The last time they had laid eyes on one another, Dori abandoned him, rejected him, left him to suffer the worst fate imaginable for their kind without any attempt to save him. Ori smiled down at him sadly, his hazel eyes shadowed with the memory. 

“Of course.” He said. “Where else would I be?” Dori watched him, foggy through the dull haze of pain. Ori toyed with the edge of his sleeve. It was frayed, rust-coloured from old, dried blood. “You're my brother.”

Dori closed his eyes and tried to fight the spinning in his head. They still loved him. Still wanted him. The sting welled up in his eyes and a gasp tore from his throat before he could form the words that clamoured on his tongue. “I'm sorry.” He finally choked out, scrabbling for Ori's hand. “Ori, I– I'm so sorry.”

“I know.” Ori leaned in to whisper. His brother's old, lined face stared back, grey from exhaustion and in that moment, all Ori could do was pity him. He was so removed from what he used to be, so small and pathetic, lying here like this. Ori revered and feared him for so long, worshipped every word he spoke, trusted him with his life and his deepest secrets, thought more of him than anyone in the world. A lifetime of trust had been so effortlessly destroyed in Dori’s complicit silence, feeding an anger that Ori thought would never fade. But Ori looked down at him now, in his weakness and injury, and saw a foolish old dwarf mired in guilt and failure. There wasn't any rage as Ori bent down to press their foreheads together. Just that pity.

“We'll be all right.” he said softly, soothingly, the way one would comfort a small child. Reduced, brought low, Dori closed his eyes at the words and clung to Ori, listening to the gentle timbre of his heartbeat thud against his ears, the low hum of Ori's speech, the distant chatter of a thousand other souls crowded around him. “We'll be all right, Dori.”

* * *

 

Fili was in the Great Hall when the ravens arrived. Three of them in a tight arrowhead swooped in through the open mouth of the gate and circled the high ceiling. Men lifted their heads and pointed, murmuring. Fili stopped and stared. Partway across the room, he could see his cousin Thorin frowning uneasily. The ravens weren’t here for Dain and his kin, nor were they for Fili. All three had crimson ribbons strung at their clawed feet. They cawed, hoarse and throaty and somehow ominous, and Úni ran out of the room, the golden ropes of his hair streaming out behind him.

Fíak arrived quickly, and from his distance, Fili watched the ravens dip down and settle on his shoulders, and forearm. He couldn’t hear what they said from here, but from the way Fíak’s face crumbled for a moment, caving in and grief as he dipped his head and then hardened with a deeper worry, Fili knew in a heartbeat what message they had carried.

There was no grief in knowing that his grandfather had died. He had some foggy memories of Vili, thin-faced and grey even when Fili was a dwarrow. If he loved his son or grandson, he never showed it. There was a coolness and a distance to him, and he regarded Fili the way would a prize bull, scrutinising him, searching for any flaw or error, judging his worth. Vili had severed his heart from the world, and saw everything for what it was, power or price. The rest was worthless. 

Two thrones stood empty. Fili’s knees felt weak, all of a sudden, and he had to sit down on the edge of a fallen pillar, his hands making claws in his lap. It all circled, coming back around with no beginning or end. His blood was split in half and yet irrevocably entwined. It wasn’t a matter of making any choice. There was no choice. It was Erebor, always. Fili’s heart was fixed, unmoving. This was his home, and he would fight bitterly for it with everything he had. But Thorin’s promises in ink were hard to break in any circumstance and harder still with only a single oath uttered in his final moments. Death didn’t bring an end to this vicious battle over Fili’s soul; it was only the beginning.

* * *

 

There was no daylight, only the dull, sunken gleam of a dozen candles. Dís felt dead herself, in a way, as she stood in the doorway with a half-full pail of water at her side, the box of oils and salts Dain had given her tucked under her free arm. Thorin had gone a waxy yellow, the colour of old straw, skin sagging. Dís had seen death before in her long years of exile, as disease and hunger ripped through their desperate camps, but she had always been spared from seeing those she had loved. Thror and Thrain and Frerin were too far away, and she wasn’t allowed to see her mother after she’d died.  Slowly, she walked into the dry little room, the water sloshing at her side, swallowing back that old burning ember and fighting the sting in her eyes. She couldn’t pretend he was just sleeping anymore. 

“Balin said he’ll wait outside.” Kili said softly as the door closed behind him. Dís nodded without speaking. “To make sure we’re not disturbed.”

“Thank you.” She set down the pail of water and looked over her shoulder at her son. His arms were laden with furs and silks and a locked silvered box filled with kingly gems and gold. His breath hitched at the sight of Thorin’s face, the decay creeping in at the edges, and quickly looked past him at the dancing shadows on the wall, shoulders heaving up and down. “Are you all right?”

Without speaking, Kili nodded. He set everything on the ground at Thorin’s feet. “You can wait outside, too. Or you can go and find Fili.” He closed his eyes at the words. He wanted to. Staring at Thorin’s corpse in the beginnings of this decomposition, knowing that he had killed him, it throbbed deep in his heart, an ache that Kili hadn’t felt for a very long time. 

“I’ll stay.” He finally croaked. Dís squeezed his shoulder and tried to be encouraging, comforting, but Kili had retreated inwards again, staring down the length of Thorin’s body. He locked himself away from her. Kili wanted his brother, desperately, but Fili insisted that he was too busy for this. It was a painful, obvious lie; he didn’t want to look on Thorin yet. Dain had paid his respects and left a gold ring of his father’s for Thorin to be buried with. The rest of the company had all spent a little time, coming in twos and threes. Gandalf had stood for a long time, filling the room with tobacco smoke, shaking his head as he left. Even Dwalin had come in the dawn, riding Nardur and leaning on Kili’s arm, unable to walk beyond a stagger, insisting on seeing his best friend as he had fallen, bloodied and battle-weary, rather than the embalmed, sterile husk that would be draped in gold and carried into the catacombs to be laid to rest. 

But not Fili. All morning, he had excuses, somewhere else to be, a task that was more important at the time. He suffered from his grief in silence, detached from his family. He seemed, in a way, to pretend that Thorin wasn’t gone yet, going on in a sort of limbo, as though he would be back at any moment. It was the only way he could cope with everything that had been so suddenly foisted upon him. Kili counted the days until the funeral with dread, putting off the embalming as long as he could for his brother's sake, wondering if Fili would even come at all before they had to seal him inside the brilliant gold coffin that right now was being moulded and engraved and set with gems. 

Dís undressed him slowly, peeling away the gloves, the mail shirt, the simple linens. A hoarse sob broke free as she lifted up Thorin’s undershirt to expose the wound that killed him, a deep hole in his chest with a flash of broken bone jutting up through the black. She stepped back, knees weak, and gripped the edge of the table, head bent. “I'll do it.” Kili came to her rescue, and she looked up through the wavering blur of her vision as Kili's abstracted form bent over Thorin’s still one. She closed her eyes and nodded, feeling the tears, molten hot, trickle down and gather in the corners of her mouth. Tasting salt, Dís struggled to her feet and positioned herself at the head of the table, pulling the comb from her pocket. That, at least, she could do. 

Neither of them spoke unless they could help it. The air was heavy and sombre and dry as ash. The sour, metallic odour of the salts and oils burned Kili's nose, and Dís couldn't stop her eyes from running. His hands wrinkled like prunes as he washed away every trace of blood and packed the open wounds with a biting oil made from cedar trees and dried lavender to fight the smell, using a fine, powdery dust over the rest of the body, turning the yellow to a chalky white. Dain showed forethought in bringing this. Dís kept her instructions as brief as she could, afraid to trust her voice. She couldn't bring herself to touch that dead, yellow flesh with those rancid poisons. Instead, Dís combed his hair and braided it for the last time, slowly, reflecting in the silence with a sad smile pricking the corner of her lips. She began, at first, to wind and coil his hair in elaborate, kingly braids, but soon stopped. Why? Thorin never wore his hair like that in life, so why should she consign that to him in death? In the end, she braided his hair as normal, washing out the blood and combing through the tangles. Damp, his hair sprang back into his normal curls, and she wound them around her fingers to try and keep their shape. By the time she was finished, Kili was wrestling his stiff limbs into a new linen shirt. Together, they dressed him. Thorin had died in battle, so they wrapped him in the best mail they could find and belted a sword at his side, ceremonial, heavy and ugly, with sapphires the size of a fingernail set into the hilt. Dís took Thror’s pyramid ring to give to Fili later, threading his stiff fingers through bands of gold and gleaming blue and green and white. Kili wound necklaces across his throat, and Dís draped a furred mantle over his shoulders, and they both carefully arranged his hair so it streamed down his chest. On an impulse, Dís seized a handful at the base of his neck, where it wouldn't be noticed, and cut it off, winding it around and around her hand before slipping it into her pocket. 

And then it was done. They both looked at him, holding hands, each realising slowly, painfully, how truly final this was. “I’m sorry.” Kili’s voice cracked and he swallowed, embarrassed. He saw the pain his mother was in, pain he had caused, pain for a death that he didn’t quite understand yet. To say he felt nothing was a lie. Every time Thorin’s face flashed through his mind, a knot tightened in Kili’s stomach and he had the uncomfortable feeling that something was crawling around inside of him, burrowing deeper and deeper. But hotter than that, more immediate, was the anger and outrage, the hatred that seemed as though it would smoulder forever. And so a war was waged inside of Kili, between the guilt and grief of Thorin’s death and that passionate hatred that he had fed on for so long. 

“Don’t be.” Dís wrapped both hands around Kili’s stout little paw, squeezing his fingers. “If we could go back and tell Thorin that saving your life would kill him, Kili, he would do it again without a second thought. He loved you. Despite all that pride and pain and madness that ruined him, he still loved you more than anything.” But she looked into his eyes and read the veiled anger that lurked there, and she knew it wasn’t enough. “He hurt you. I understand. I really do.” Kili’s gaze lifted up to meet her. “Thorin… hurt me too. He honoured Thror’s contract and sold me to your father. He knew what would happen to me, but he did it because he thought it was the honourable thing to do by our people.”

“It’s such bullshit.” Kili spat his retort out, teeth gritted as the hatred flared inside him. He never swore in front of his mother, never, but the exhaustion and pain of the last hours, days, weeks, _months_ , was catching up on him. 

“Let me finish.” Her voice sharpened, and Kili remained still and compliant. “Thorin acted like a king when he should have been my brother. That’s what he did to Fili, and that’s what he did to you. I tried to make him understand. I spent years, decades, trying.” Her hands shifted, fingertips grazing Azog’s brand, and her heart throbbed at the touch. “But even though I failed in that, I’ve forgiven him. I’ve made peace with it. I had to. And you need to as well if you ever want to move on from this. Holding onto that hurt, letting it rot inside of you, it just sickens you. I’ve felt that sickness. You can’t go on for the rest of your life while that hurt takes control of you.” 

Kili didn’t speak. He pulled his hand free from his mother, rubbed his sweaty palms against the hem of his shirt and then pressed them together, fingers interlaced, resting his chin on the crown of his knuckles. She stung in a rush of pity for him then, at his smallness and uncertainty. There was such a long way for the two of them to go – Kili with his bitter hatred of Thorin, Fili's refusal to even recognise that he was gone. All she had to give was her inexorable love, and what if that wasn't enough? It wasn't enough for Thorin. “Listen,” she spoke quietly, firmly, resolute in her belief. “You love your brother. You would do anything for him, wouldn't you?”

Kili inhaled sharply. “This was for Fili. Nobody else. Everything – killing Azog, following Bolg here, fighting in this awful battle – it was all for Fili.”

“Just remember that.” She had one hand on his shoulder, holding tight. “Everything you did, you did out of love. It doesn't absolve everything, but it makes it easier. You're not a monster, Kili.” But it wasn't as simple as that. He had lied to her. There were things Kili had done out of anger and desperation, cruel, brutal things, and he couldn't even remotely link it to Fili. But he kept that all locked inside, resolving to tell nobody. Instead, he clung helplessly to what his mother had said, knowing it was never that simple for her too. Neither of them would ever call themselves noble after what they had done. 

“You'll get there.” Dís promised in a whisper. “You'll make sense of this. And you'll forgive him, in the end. I know you will.” But Kili still felt the fire-lick in his chest, the hatred searing his insides. He didn't believe her.

* * *

 

“I’m sorry.” It was the first thing Fili said to him when they met at the tall archway. “It’s hard. I know.”

“Thank you.” But Fíak seemed oddly reserved, unwilling to meet his gaze. He was distracted and angry as Fili led the way down the twisting hall that lead into the catacombs. He and Fíak both carried torches, trying not to look at the eerie shadows the light threw. “Do you remember him?”

Fili opened his mouth to respond, to say that he remembered a cold, distant old dwarf who hated his mother and scorned his father, but the words stuck in his throat. Fíak was looking at him through the gloom, expecting to hear Fili’s memories of being disjointed and at odds. 

“No.” He finally murmured, shaking his head, denying him the opportunity to probe deeper. “No, I don’t remember him.” Coldly, Fili shut Fíak out and refused to give him the chance to mention it again. It was a chilly, uneasy walk for a long time, burying deeper and deeper into the stone bowels of the mountain, the air growing close around them, dry and dead, muffling the light.

“Some of the records survived.” Fili finally spoke again and kept his voice low in this dusty, solemn place. “Oin and Gloin have been going through them the past couple of nights, trying to find any extra space. Families that died out since. There’s a lot of those. The more we can bury straight away, the easier it will be. Thranduil’s sending his off today. He wants them buried in their homes, with their families.”

“Of course.” Fíak murmured. There was still tightness in him, in the way he spoke, the movement of his eyes. A pang of pity stirred in Fili’s gut. The Ironfists could never have that. 

“So, last night, Gloin found this.” Fili turned left, into another passage. They were deep underground now, into the newer reaches of the catacombs. The air was heavy in their lungs, voices muffled in the darkness, seeming to disappear as soon as they spoke. Fíak followed with a little frown on his face. Fili stopped at an archway leading into wide chamber. He gestured for Fíak to follow and walked in slowly, holding his flaming torch out.

“Apparently Figgr Stone-Axe, whoever he was, had bought this a year or so before Smaug attacked.” Fíak stared around the room. Twenty-four neat rectangles had already been carved out of the stone, waiting to be filled. “He had big plans for his family, wanted to start a legacy. Didn’t work out, though. Gloin told me that Smaug wiped out everyone except Figgr’s youngest son, and he died in Azanulbizar. No one’s going to use this.” He turned to Fíak now. “So take it.”

“Hm?” Fíak stopped and looked over his shoulder at him. “Me?”

“Well, not _you._ You’re still alive. But the others.” Fili shuffled his feet. “The ones who didn’t make it. Bury them here. I counted, and there’s enough space. They’re clearing a different chamber out for Dain’s soldiers, and we didn’t lose anybody, so no one else is going to need it for a while. You can do whatever you want in here. Write and paint and carve anything you like. This is Ironfist ground now.”

Fíak didn’t say anything at first. He stared around and around at this room hidden deep in a foreign mountain. Fili watched him, unsure and guarded himself. Finally, he stopped, grey hair gleaming copper-red in the firelight. The heavy frown had softened. “Thank you.” He said openly, honestly, meaning it. 

* * *

 

Balin waited until the rest of the hall had fallen asleep before slipping out. He threw a heavy crimson robe over his shoulders and walked in the dark, trailing his fingertips over the smooth walls of stone. He didn’t need any light; this was well-trod ground, and he remembered it well. 

Dain waited in a low chamber that was once a guard room. Rusted shields and breastplates still hung on the walls, but the spears had been taken in a last-ditch effort to defeat the dragon a century before. A fire glowed in the iron stove, and Dain crouched before it on a low stool, hands clasped in his lap. 

“I’m alone.” Balin announced his presence carefully. Dain’s beard twitched as he looked up and nodded, gesturing to the empty seat at his right. “Nobody knows that I’m here.” The ancient wood creaked as he sat down, and Balin stretched his hands to the warmth, the joints stiff in the cold and stinging from arthritis. 

“Wasn’t sure you were going to come.” The old dwarf rumbled. “Have you thought more about what I said?” How could Balin think of anything else? It was the singular thought that rattled in his mind ever since Dain had approached him the day before, speaking in low tones and slipping a note in his hand. _You need to decide_. That was all that was written, but Balin cut through the vagueness in an instant. 

And when the decision was forced on him, Balin at first found it impossible. The enormity of it was dizzying, and he had to sit down in a quiet room, a headache pounding at his temples. Fili or Dain. It was torment. Dain was sure and steady, well-tested after a century of rule in the Iron Hills. He understood dwarvish code and tradition and strictly obeyed the letter of the law. He had strong alliances with the Firebeads and Broadbeams. His son was a prig, but perhaps in time he could mature into a proper king himself. In this time of chaos and unease, Dain was stability. And Fili was unfailingly loyal to his family, idealistic to a fault, determined to make a new way for his people. Yes, he bore the scars of what he’d done with his treachery, but he was forgiven for that. Fili was prepared to take those laws that Dain followed and tear them to pieces, to rewrite them, to be just and fair and bring Erebor into a new era with this rebuild. He was Thorin’s chosen heir. 

But it wasn’t just Fili. Balin watched over Dís and Kili as they readied Thorin for burial, standing at the closed door as these scrambled thoughts raced through his head. He had to think about Kili too, and all that hatred that he brought with him. Kili threw everything into doubt. He threatened the alliances that Fili had worked so hard to forge with the outside world and threatened a rift from within. Balin knew that Fili would sacrifice Erebor for his brother if it came to that without a shred of doubt. He refused to repeat the mistakes of his forefathers, of his own past. All day, Balin wavered from one to the other, from the wise king to the naive prince, from the assured to the unknown. Thorin had made his choice when he lay dying in Fili’s arms – a choice of the heart, desperate and impassioned, while Balin floundered. He had the burden of time and logic while he made his choice. 

What cemented it in the end, however, was his own brother. Near the evening, he came to visit him for an hour before dinner, giving Dís a brief reprieve from her careful watch. Unbridled and unashamed, she bent to kiss him before he left, Dwalin’s hand lingering on her shoulder, reluctant to let her pull away. The simple motion knocked the breath from Balin’s lungs, and he found himself staring at the prone form of his brother, listening to the murmured, rambling stream of talk, his own hands clasped in his lap. Although he knew about Dwalin’s true intentions for years, decades, he never saw them reveal that tenderness and love to one another. Even to him, it had been kept secret. It was destined to remain a secret, Balin mused, if Dain took the throne. Dain would never allow such a union. And it wasn’t just Dís and Dwalin – what about people on the fringes like Nori and Ori? What about Kili? What about the dwarves back home? The shroud of oppression and silence and injustice hung over all of them in their own way. Even Balin suffered from that stiff dwarvish rule.

“What are you thinking about?” Dwalin had mumbled, reaching out to take Balin’s wrist, noticing his brother’s pensive silence. “Am I boring you?”

“No, no.” Balin had jerked up, started out of a dream. “Just… thinking about your wedding.” And that forced smile had become real, swallowing up that forced stiffness, crinkling in the corners of his eyes. 

Because he couldn’t ignore the call of family. Balin was loyal to his own blood to the very end, and he’d come so close to losing his brother not once but twice in as many days, and the possibility of losing him a third time, of driving him away by making his love for Dís and for Kili forbidden, cleaved deep in his heart, left his soul crying out in terror. All the arguments on either side had melted away as he sat there in the firelight at Dwalin’s side, listening to his laboured breathing, his raspy laugh, deep voice quavering with hope as he dared to indulge in what had been a fantasy for so long now finally laid out at his feet. 

“Balin.” He now came back to reality with a heavy throb of the heart. “Balin, friend, have you thought more about what I’ve said?” 

Balin looked up from the firelight and watched Dain, his cousin, his kin, their friendship distant and dusty from time and the horrible clash of philosophy. “I have.” His voice cracked, and Balin cleared his throat. “Tomorrow I’m publicly announcing my support for Fili. He can have my share of the money to help pay Thranduil’s debt. I don’t want it. Dwalin will too, and with Kili and Thorin’s share, it should be enough.” Dain’s face was impervious and tense, the only movement a twitching muscle on his left temple. 

“There will be a revolt, whether from your own people or from the other tribes. And the Ironfists won’t just walk away and leave him here. Do you really want to share your king with them?” 

“Fili has made mistakes. He’s young. So was Thorin, when he first led our people. But Fili has the capacity to learn, not just from all of us but from his own past. I remember the Iron Hills, Dain. You loved him. You said he was perfect.”

“I didn’t know. None of us did.” But Dain was losing; they both could sense it. “He took the wrong path. He became a traitor, and we will never forget that.”

“You don’t have to forget.” Balin stood up slowly, flexing his aching hands. “You just have to remember what Thorin did to Fili and forgive him for it. Like I have.” Dain stared at the fire now, defeated, as Balin made to leave. “We all will, in time.”

* * *

 

Deep in the night, Kili dreamed he was drowning. A massive pair of broad white hands, the hands of an orc, were around his throat, pushing him down and down and down into the darkness. His limbs moved sluggishly through the black, syrupy water, touching nothing, and the face of his strangler loomed through the gloom, chalky and grey, the eyesockets sunken black pits that had given way to rot, skin loose and peeling, the mouth a shapeless hole in a close-cropped black beard.

He woke with a gasp, scrabbling at his meagre bed as the effort to breathe again left him heaving and shaking. Kili pressed his face against the fur as the dream faded and reality took hold, forcing himself to take long, slow gulps of air. It wasn’t real. Arrested by terror, Kili dug his nails into his palms and forced back a whimper. But Thorin’s face flashed in his mind again, decayed and bloated by the water and he fought back the very real urge to be sick. A moan broke out, muffled in his furs, and Kili dug in, his stout body twisted up in a knot, every muscle straining with the effort to keep still and quiet as terror and disgust swelled within him, filling him up, and then faded, slowly, as reality took hold. It wasn’t real. Thorin was dead, and Bolg and Azog too. They were all dead, lingering only in dream and memory. It was impossible for any of them to hurt Kili again.

Trusting himself to breathe, Kili lay on his back and stared up at the gloomy shadows of the ceiling, listening to the low, rumbling sounds of dozens of dwarves sleeping around him. They slept deeply, their bodies heavy, still as rocks but for the snores and whistles and grumbles in their massive noses. Not like orcs, who always seemed light and cautious, jerking awake at the tiniest sound, always ready to be on the move.

No, he reminded himself, shivering in his undershirt now damp from sweat. Not all orcs. Kili turned on his side and pulled the blanket over his shoulders, squeezing his eyes shut against the crushing loneliness that inflamed his chest, the guilt that pierced his heart a hundred times. _Sorry_ , he mouthed out to the empty world, as though it could do any good for him now. Kili curled in on himself, small as an infant, aching in his isolation. He wished he had Ilzkhaal. He mourned silently for the life he’d abandoned, listening to the deep rumble of sleep. At his feet, Nardur snored. The sounds got in his ears, burrowed under his skin, mocking him, until Kili felt raw and open. 

He couldn’t do this. With a start, Kili sat up and threw off the blanket. He slung it over one shoulder and picked his way carefully across the room, peering through the dim glow of moonlight overhead. He saw Fili clearly, his blonde mane streaming across the musty old cloak that cushioned him from the ground. Dry-mouthed, he made his way towards the soft gleam of his hair, the floor freezing underneath his bare feet, mindful of any loose braids or hands. Fili slept soundly, like the rest, spread out on his belly with his arms and legs akimbo. Kili sighed as he got down on his knees and pushed at him, rolling him onto his side.

“Shove over, you lump.” He whispered in Fili’s ear, pushing his blonde curls aside to make room for his own head. Fili groaned and let Kili move him. Kili stretched out on his back, feeling the heavy weight of his brother’s body against his arm, listening to that familiar occasional purr in his throat, the whistling of his breath. But Fili wasn’t asleep, not completely. Half-awake, he stretched one hand out and found Kili, tracing the outline of his shoulder and arm, the sleepy whistling hitching in his chest.

“Hey.” He whispered, close in Kili’s ear, fuggy with sleep and only half-understanding what was going on. 

“Hey.” Kili breathed back. “Got cold. Go back to sleep.”

“Mm, right.” Lacking a proper pillow, he made do with Kili’s shoulder, the steady rising and falling as soothing as a mother’s rocking chair, an arm slung across his chest. He was asleep in moments, but Kili stayed awake for a while, staring up at the ceiling again, watching the criss-cross of moonlight and shadow. Kili sighed, pinned down by his brother and not minding in the slightest. Perhaps it was the blankets they had to nestle in, perhaps it was the weight that Kili had put on since, but something felt different this time. There wasn’t that awkward uneasiness like there was on the edge of the Long Lake, and Kili didn’t feel jarred and self-conscious as he did before. They seemed to fit together again, Fili-and-Kili, two halves of a whole. Fili sniffed quietly in his sleep and then sighed, his limbs loose and heavy. The sharp cut of loneliness seemed smaller, like a thorn or a pinprick. 

This was why he did it, all of it. The words he had with his mother came back to him. It didn’t absolve the guilt, but it pushed it down, dominated it in that moment. And as long as Kili remembered that and focused on it, he'd be all right, for a while. 


	118. This Bold Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hah, just a little heads-up, guys -- this is LOOONG. Like, 13,000 words long. And pretty wordy in places. You might want to grab a cup of tea first.

**** Fili rose first – he’d slept longer, nestled in his burrow of cloth – to find Kili pinning one arm to the floor, the dark mop of brown pillowed on his shoulder, breathing soft and steady with sleep. The rest of the room was quiet. The thrill of waking like this, of having Kili close again, of _trusting_ him enough to sleep in his arms once more, unfurled within him, the wings of a bird in full flight, soaring through the air. His soul flew, but Fili remained earthbound, listening to the scrape of skin on stone, the soft, sleepy murmurs of dwarves as they rose to meet the day.

Eventually, Kili stirred. He lifted his head and looked at Fili, dark eyes fixed on him for a moment, half-awake, confused in his muggy sleep. They widened in recognition, and something in Kili seemed to sag. He dulled, swallowed hard, and then his head sank back down with a long sigh. “Morning,” he mumbled after a time, breathing against Fili’s arm. “Hope I didn’t wake you.”

“Hm? Don’t be silly. You’re fine.” Fili frowned up at the ceiling, trying to pick Kili apart. It was so rare to see something flash behind that fixed blankness that he seemed to master so effortlessly. Kili had become quiet and controlled, masking his true colours like fragile moth-wings spread across the withered trunk.  A bark sounded somewhere in the hall, the warg, and Kili leaped up with a start, shouting a harsh command in Black Speech that instantly tore the veil of sleep from their minds.

Disappointment. Fili sat up, staring across the room. Kili was crouched beside his beast, murmuring something in his ear and scratching his snout. That’s what it was. The sudden clarity of his realisation was a white-hot coal, turning everything else in his head to cinders. Kili had woken up in his arms thinking, for a moment, he was with somebody else.

* * *

 

“Fili,” Dís caught him in the middle of a scant breakfast. Fili listened, waited, warm and inviting and open. “Before you go out, Thorin—”

“I really can’t, _Amad._ ” He went stiff at the mention of his uncle’s name and turned away from her. “I’ve got to go. Whatever it is, I’m sure you or Kili can take care of things.” But Dís had a tight hold on his elbow, keeping him close. There was a flash, a throb of anger against his heartlessness, but as Fili stilted at his touch, drawing in air as a shudder passed over his face, it melted into a soft ache of pity. Of course she pitied him. How could she feel anything else?

“I’m not asking you to go and see him.” Dís said gently. “I just... I got these for you while Kili and I were sorting everything out yesterday.” She opened her free hand. In her palm lay Thror’s pyramid ring, dull and tarnished with age, and the painfully familiar tiny gleam of mithril – Fili’s necklace. “I know he would have wanted you to have them.”

“Where was this?” He finally asked, staring down at the precious tokens. Fili cupped his hands and Dís handed the treasure over, forcing a weak smile. “The necklace, I mean. Did Balin search his room?”

“He had it on him, darling.” The tight grip on his elbow softened. The smile fading to a mournful stillness, Dís let go. “It was in his pocket.”

“Oh.” His voice choked in his throat, and Fili found he couldn’t say anything else. Slowly, he slipped the ring on his middle finger. It was tight but not painfully so. He pressed the pad of his thumb against the point and felt the stab of pain race through him, through his vein and into his heart with the precision of an arrowshot. Thorin had kept the necklace in his pocket, held it close to him while he fought in battle, while he died. Did he ever feel the weight of it? It was such a little thing, so insignificant. Perhaps he didn’t even forgot that it was...

“I— wait.” Masking his shakiness with a cough, Fili pulled away. “Wait.” Making a fist around the necklace, Fili looked for his brother, bent in conversation with Ori, looking pinched and uneasy. The both of them were absorbed and didn’t notice Fili coming until he was very close. Ori broke off rapidly, looked up at him with a strained sort of grimace and then stared at the floor. Kili’s strained face, however, broke into a tired smile.

“Going already?” Fili shook his head and got down on his knees. “What is it, then?”

“I’ve got something for you.” He blurted out, clumsy in his excitement, holding his flattened palm in front of Kili’s face. “Here. Take it.”

Kili frowned down at his brother’s hand. He lifted the little token carefully, turning it over. “Your necklace?” He asked slowly, staring at the rune of Fili’s name on the back. “Why?”

“Because, well, you lost yours.” A muscle tensed in Kili’s jaw, and Fili winced. “Oh, taken from you. Sorry. I know how much it meant to you, being a symbol of the family and everything. Thorin had taken mine, but _Amad_ just gave it back. And— you have it.”

Thorin had taken it. Kili turned it again. It was cool in his hand, small and round as a pebble. Something pushed in his chest against it, a surge of hate, and in that moment all Kili wanted to do was fling it as far away from himself as he could, to cast it down some deep chasm the light would never touch. It seemed to him a symbol of lies and cruelty and servitude. The necklace was hateful to him, and he didn’t want it. But he looked up at his brother, saw his tentative, hopeful smile, the sadness in his eyes. Fili already missed it.

“Thank you.” He finally choked out. Ori was watching him carefully, his elbows on his knees and chin in his hands, hazel eyes narrowed in his concentration. Kili looked away from him, focused on Fili, pushed his face into something he hoped was a smile in return. “Thank you so much, Fili. Can you help me put it on?”

Kili lifted his hair out of the way, the back of his neck shivering at Fili’s touch. The mithril stone rested just below the hollow of his throat, beside the tooth. He shook his head to get his hair back into place, and the tokens clinked against each other. Kili closed his hand around the both of them, feeling the sharp point of the fang, the rounded curve of metal. Two claims on him, two surrogate fathers now dead. There was no battle for Kili’s soul, no fight between them. In a way, they both had lost. Kili was at once both and neither; something reformed, something completely different.

* * *

 

The unpleasant reality of death had made itself clear. It wasn’t just their own they had to bury; thousands of orcs lay on the ground, both whole and in pieces. Every morning, carrion birds in their hundreds had to be chased out through the broken gate, and distinctive odour of death quickly went from a half-imagined suspicion to a sour uncertainty. They tried digging a mass grave at first, but hours of toil yielded only inches of hard stony ground. The possibility of filling up an old mine-shaft was floated until Dís pointed out the very real risk of contaminating their deep wells and springs through cracks in the rock. Finally, it was Kili who suggested the inevitable – gathering up all the pitch and tar and coal they could find and burning them.

Throughout the morning, the brothers worked together, clearing the Great Hall one by one alongside dozens of others, readying the first great pyre. There was no leadership, just endless, back-breaking toil. They both sweated and stripped down to their undershirts, sleeves pushed up past the elbow, remaining mostly silent to spare their strength. There was only one incident – three Lake-Town men walked past not long after they began, dark-eyed and surly. “Murderer!” One hissed at Kili, baring brittle, yellowed teeth, and the second spat on the floor at his feet. Kili’s hand flew to his waist, reaching instinctively for a sword that wasn’t there, his own lip curled in kind. But the third man, grizzled and grey-haired, gripped the two younger with his gnarled hands, leaned in to whisper, and led them away. Again, Kili had a flash of the night before last, the shadow in the night that came to kill him. Fili didn’t speak a word during the exchange. Troubled, he threw himself into his work and seemed unwilling to talk.

After a time, when the silence had become unbearable, Kili finally spoke up. “These aren’t soldiers.” He was quiet again, restrained, staring down at the corpse slung over Fili’s shoulder as he walked in front of him. An ugly slash had almost completely severed the head from the body and it bobbed along in step, the white of his teeth smiling up and down. “These... kids, they were conscripts. A shield-body for Bolg’s hardened warriors, so he didn’t lose too many in the first attack.”

Fili grunted, not quite bringing himself to speak. He wasn’t quite sure what even to say. “Yeah.” He bit down on his tongue, fighting back a wince. It was pathetic and useless, and not enough. He could tell by the hitch in Kili’s heavy pant.

“I’m not asking you to pity them, Fili.” He said gently, quietly. There was almost a touch of pity in his own voice, edged with condescension. “I’m just asking you to try and understand.” They stepped out of the mouth of the broken gate and into the pale winter sun. Kili’s face went golden-brown in the light, striped with the loose locks of his hair blowing around in the wind. He spat them out of his mouth and walked with his head bent, face hidden from view.

“You know I understand.” Fili finally responded after they’d laid the body down beside the others, innumerable, scattered like fresh-cut kindling, heaped high in a reeking pile. Kili stayed staring at the orcs, his hands balled into fists at his side, eyes still roving across the ugly scene. “I’m not as dense as that. And I know that if anyone could see the good inside an orc and bring it out,” he touched his brother on the shoulder, trying to gently pull him away from all that death and decay, “it would be you.”

Kili looked down at his hand, followed the slope of his arm and up to his face. “You really believe that don’t you?” With a sharp intake of breath, he jerked back, turning away from him, facing the open maw of the broken gate. “You... have a different picture to what actually happened.” Fili stared at his slumped, jagged shape against the weathered stone, the sunlight setting him on fire. He seemed distant, untouchable, a thousand miles away. “Fili, I was worse than any of them. They were afraid of me.” He started to walk back to the Front Gate, choosing to leave it at that.

A barrier seemed to go up, and Fili circled his brother anxiously, wondering how he could get in. Being surrounded by all these orcs seemed to press down on Kili’s soul, a terrible burden that he staggered under, and no one else could bear that weight. He kept stopping to look, checking the face of the orcs they passed by, rolling the bodies over with his boot so he could see their face. He was looking for somebody. Not the armed, mailed warriors, the kind that terrorised Fili in the dark passages before he was rescued, but the conscripts, the boys that Kili had defended earlier, who suffered the deepest blows on their bare, unguarded flesh.  

Úni joined them after a time. He walked alone, his head bent, in low, uneven strides. “Need help?” He offered, kind words in a troubled face, gesturing vaguely at all the work they still had to do.”

Fili stopped short in his walk. “Oh, have you finished clearing out the left wing already? That was quick. I can see if Dain’s lot need help outside the throne room, or—”

“Fíak’s still busy.” Kili shifted the heavy burden while they spoke, an orc with one arm and missing half a leg. Entrails spilled like a burst pillow, and they breathed through their mouths, eyes watering at the smell. “I needed to get away from him. We were inches from a fight.”

“Really? What about?” Kili jerked his head to the gate, and they both continued. Wanting to make himself useful, Úni bent down and took the corpse at his feet, slinging it over his shoulder with a pained grunt, careful of his fresh-stitched neck.

“About back home. He… shares a different view about what we should do. I wanted to send the ravens back and ask about my family. Fíak said we shouldn’t meddle.” He hardened in a scowl. “He's just going to wait and see what news we get next. Said we can’t do anything while we’re over here.”

“With Vili gone?” Úni nodded. “Nobody will do anything stupid. Not until he’s been buried, at least.” But there hardness to him that refused to crack, and he didn’t look at all comforted by Fili’s words.

“Fíak said he told you. Succession wasn't settled properly. It was supposed to be you, but you were never going to go back. I think even Fíak knows that. They’re not going to wait for you or for the funeral. They're going to tear themselves apart, fighting over that throne, and my brother's right in the middle of it. They’re probably at war as we speak.”

“Oh,” Fili winced. “I'm sorry. I forgot he was your brother.” What could he say? Sorry? That he hoped he would be all right? He remembered the story his mother told, the hatred that twisted her face as she spoke. There was nothing there but cruelty. “Surely he’s smart enough to keep himself out of harm’s way.” He finally said, half-hearted and disingenuous, and all three of them knew it.

Úni let out a dry, hollow chuckle. “I hope he's not.” The wry half-smile dissolved as soon as it appeared, and he snarled at the ground. “I hope that vile piece of shit finds himself on the sharp end of a spear.” Behind him, Kili raised an eyebrow. “He's a slimy, scheming bastard. My father too. It's my sisters I'm worried about. Some upstart grandson of Válka could get big ideas and kill them, or worse.” He bit on the inside of his cheek, hollowing his face out. “It's so fucked up. They're all fucked up.”

Fili softened. “I didn’t realise you hated them so much.”

“Why do you think I’m here on some wild goose chase for a missing prince? Why do you think any of us are here? We wanted out. Just talk to any of the Ironfists, they're not shy to tell you how they really feel. Half of them hate my brother's guts, and all the other bastards fighting over the crown too, and the other half couldn't care less who's in charge, so long as they bring us back from the brink.” Something crumbled in Úni, and in that moment, he just looked frightened, vulnerable. “I hope you have a plan, Fili.”

They all stepped out into the biting wind. Fili hissed and gritted his teeth against it, feeling the chill whip through his clothes. The sun had disappeared behind thick, stormy clouds. Everything in the valley was grey and black. “You said you’d help us.” Úni went on. “And Vili’s dead, and we’ve got no way of controlling what happens next.”

“Did Fíak send you?” Kili spoke up, his voice sudden and sharp after his long silence.

“No. No. Honestly. I just...” He looked for help in the heavy grey sky and found nothing. “Fíak’s still got that contract, you know. The one Thorin signed all those years ago. And he’s got that letter from Dain saying Thorin cut you out. I don’t think he’s above using it if he has to.”

“That’s ridiculous.” Fili scoffed. “Thorin recanted everything before he died. There were witnesses – Balin and Oin were there, and they’re the most respectable elders of all us Longbeards. Besides, even if he tried, there’s only seventy or so of you left, against a thousand men and elves. He’s bluffing.” Fili considered the conversation done, but Kili gave the other dwarf a sharp look, a little shake of the head.

“Later,” he leaned in to whisper in Úni’s ear, “you need to tell me _everything_.”

* * *

 

Later, after the sun reached its peak and started to wane in the west, Kili found him. It was the leather shirt he recognised, a faded, beaten dark brown but with a black warg-skull painted on the back. Akash. Kili left the orc he was supposed to carry and walked slowly, heart thrumming in his throat, towards the corpse. It looked like there was nothing wrong with him – no missing limbs, no spilled entrails, no gaping slashes of flesh. Eventually, he saw the arrow, listing, the white feathers spattered with just the tiniest flecks of blood.

This death struck Kili surprisingly hard. It was the symbolism of it, putting a face and a name to the horror that had been replicated in this room over and over, beyond count. Kili knew Akash. He knew his favourite drink, his lucky number, the name of his mother, how many siblings he had. The poor kid never held a sword in his life before that day, and he died without landing a single blow. How pointless. How utterly fucking pointless. Wincing, he extracted the arrow as carefully as he could, wiped the head on the hem of Akash’s shirt, and sat beside the corpse holding it, stroking the snow-white feathers until they were tattered and grimy from the old blood smeared all over his hands.

He was still sitting like that when Fili found him. He froze, uncertain, not quite knowing what to do, if he should break that strange, fragile barrier that Kili had cast around him, offer comfort or just leave him alone. Kili looked down from to the arrow in his hand to the body that lay slumped beside him, lips moving silently. Invisible to Kili in his solitude, Fili stood torn, shifting his weight from one foot to the other for some time before holding his breath and diving in, bracing himself for whatever shock came next.

“Hey.” He sat down carefully opposite his brother, knees creaking. Kili stirred, his right hand closed around the slender elvish arrow. He blinked and his eyes slowly came into focus, a thoughtful frown stitching his heavy brows together. “Did you know him?”

Kili cleared his throat and lay the arrow aside. He clasped his hands together, fingers interlaced as he nodded slowly. “I did.” He didn’t meet Fili’s gaze. “Akash. I knew all there was to know about him. He loved to talk. His father was a potter, a good one, and his mother herded goats as a girl. He had three sisters and a brother, all younger than him. And he was so young, too. He turned seventeen just a few days before we all marched off to war. I drank with him and— and some others at his favourite pub. We played _bûth_ , this game where you bet against the throw of a dice, but the idiot couldn’t count straight through the drink. I ended up letting him win after he claimed I was cheating, but I think he knew. He— shit, why am I telling you this?” Kili broke off with a self-deprecating scoff. “It doesn’t matter. He’s fucking dead.”

“He was still your friend. And he didn’t deserve to die. Anyone who sends a child to war is a coward, no matter their race.” His heart heavy in his pity, Fili reached out and rested a hand on Kili’s knee. “Look… Whatever you did, whatever happened while you were gone, I’m not going to judge you for it. You can trust me. I’ll always stick by your side, no matter what.” Kili’s deadened eyes were still fixed downwards, staring at the orc’s lifeless hand at his side, the fingers crooked and lax, half-open. He wasn’t sure if Kili had listened to him or not. “Was he the one you were looking for?”

“Hm?” Kili finally lifted his head. “What do you mean?”

“I’m not stupid. You’re searching for somebody. The way you stop and look at the orcs you pass... That’s what you’re doing, isn’t it?” Kili sighed heavily, shaking his head. He considered the question silently, the words searing in his brain.

“Yes, I’m looking. Not just for him.” Kili’s dark eyes flicked down to Akash. Fili’s assurance of his everlasting trust could only go so far. The idea of giving away Ilzkhaal’s name, of even hinting that there was something else there, was completely unthinkable. “There were a few I got to know.”

The first burning took place near sunset, when the wind had finally died down. Using repaired old wagons and brute strength, they were able to gather up a thousand bodies, half the front hall, several hundred yards from the gate, in the valley. Kili watched from twenty paces away, crouched atop a lot boulder. Even though Fili had suggested other things he could do, Kili insisted on being there, watching the bodies pile up like bundles of kindling. Fili found he couldn't look at his brother then, sitting alone with his hand balled into a fist at his neck, eyes flicking from face to face, biting down hard on his lip.

How barbaric. The smoke rose in the air and sent people running and coughing, but Kili lingered just a little while longer, the tooth cutting into the soft pad of his middle finger, just above the webbing, the curve of mithril cool against sensitive skin between his fingers, slowly warming. He whispered an apology, the soft echo of his voice lost in the crackle of the rising flames.

* * *

 

Kili waited until after he had eaten before slipping away, claiming he wanted to visit Dwalin and his mother. In Fili’s eyes, nothing was amiss, and he mumbled a fleeting assent. He was too wrapped up in his own problems; he learned just as he settled down with his own meagre dinner that Dain had invited a contingent of nobles and ambassadors to Thorin’s funeral — a ‘proper send-off’, he called it — and Fili was desperately trying to keep a step ahead of whatever mental game Dain was playing, plotting with Balin about what to do next.

Still stripped down from carrying bodies all day, Kili had no proper weapons, just a knife hidden in his waist. Even Nardur was gone; the warg had realised, last night, that Dwalin was deeply loved by Kili, and that he was sick, and in his simple-minded loyalty attached himself to the dwarf as though he could nurse Dwalin back to health, curling up at Dwalin’s feet on the bed or stretching his long body out beside him in an offer of warmth and comfort. Dwalin didn’t mind, or if he did, he refused to let Kili know about it. At first, Kili was put out by the rejection, but it quickly gave way to relief — at least this way, he was out of sight. Alone and unarmed but not in the least afraid, Kili left the cluster of people without trying to draw attention to himself, keeping his head bent and eyes lowered.

But he was noticed. Bain looked up from his half-eaten bowl of thin soup, his father droning on and on with Tauriel about how the other Lake-Town survivors were making their way north, and how things had to be ready for them, and should they sleep in Dale right away or take refuge in Erebor first, or was that a question too delicate to ask now, given the uncertain leadership of the place? The words sank to the back of Bain’s mind, and he watched, frowning, as Kili left the wide chamber, and not long after, not even a minute, four men of the Lake-Town guard headed off in the same direction, talking quietly amongst themselves, with a dark, uneasy air.

“Papa, I have to go...” He cleared his throat, remembering who sat with them, and his face turned red. “Um, you know.”

“Finish your dinner first. It’ll be stone-cold before you get back, you know what a walk it is. Couldn’t near to build a privy within stinking distance of their finest halls for some reason—”

“Done.” The empty bowl clattered, and Bain wiped at his mouth, broth slopped all down his front. “Thank you!” Bain ducked and dodged his way across the hall and dipped into the side-passage, keeping close to the wall and doing his best to keep his tread light.

Kili heard the scrape of boots on stone, the sharp gasp of air half a second before he saw them. He whirled around, finding the hilt of his small knife with a snarl, but the scarce moment he had to prepare himself wasn’t enough. The first blow came to his stomach, knocking the air out of him and bringing him to his knees with a white-hot flash of dizzying agony. Kili lashed out with the blade, but a heavy boot kicked him in the small of the back, right in the knot of muscles over his spine, and as Kili slumped forward, someone’s heel crushed down on his wrist, forcing him to drop the knife. It took just a few seconds, a well-coordinated attack by a group of thugs out for revenge. Stunned, Kili lay gasping, his brain catching up with his battered body, making sense of this. Another boot kicked him in his stomach, into his side, and it seemed to knock him into reality. He opened his eyes and saw a pair of legs, a lifted boot going for his head, and Kili rolled out of the way.

“You _monster!”_ The curse spat through the haze in his head, and Kili pushed himself onto his knees and lunged at the man who went for him. Someone got him by the hair, another two by his arms. He pulled the right hand free and brought his fist straight into the face of the man who held the left. A sickening crunch pierced their ears, and with a scream, the man went down. But there were still three more; six hands holding him, three mouths growling, calling him a murderer and a monster and a twisted piece of shit. Kili kicked out with one foot at the fool who left his side open and caught him in the ribs. He collapsed with a breathless howl, but landing the blow only made the others fight harder, trying to pin Kili down while he writhed and twisted and lashed out.

“Hey— _Hey!”_ A familiar voice, high-pitched in worry, rang out. Kili heard the soft thump of light footsteps, and then a thin pair of white arms wrapped themselves around the neck of the man who had him by the arms, trying to force him down. Bain. “Let him _go_ you sick creeps! What are you doing?” He’d jumped on the back of the man, clinging on tight. The man growled, not recognising the boy, and tried to shake him off. But Bain held fast, straining, and in the moment of confusion, Kili twisted free of the grip on his arms and found the knife, thrusting it into the leg of the final man with a gush of scarlet. Screaming, the man fell to his knees and clutched at his bleeding leg.

“Get off!” The man clawed at the pale hands around his throat. As Bain’s grip faltered, he threw his elbow backwards, smashing it into Bain’s nose. He slipped with a choked gasp and fell onto his knees, blood trickling through his fingers as he clutched his face. Kili froze in his crouch, the knife pointed outwards. Bain whimpered, eyes screwed up in pain, and the man who had wounded him whirled around, his growl seizing in his throat as he realised just who he’d hurt.

“Shit, Galfrey!” The one Kili had kicked in the ribs hissed, bent over on his knees with his head lifted. Pale, wide-eyed and gaping in his shock, Galfrey stretched out one hand towards the boy.

“Your Highness—”

“You fucking _prick!”_ Kili snarled, heaving forward to knock him down. Bain squeaked, falling backwards as Kili pinned the man on the floor, the knife at his throat. “What’s wrong with you? He’s just a damn boy!”

“I didn’t know!” Galfrey gasped, straining to look at the blade against his skin. “Please— I didn't look. We just wanted to send a message. I didn’t—”

“Who sent you?” Kili cut him off, digging the point of the knife deeper into his throat. He lifted his head and looked around at them, one man clutching his bleeding leg with gritted teeth, one nursing what looked like a broken jaw, and one struggling to breathe through cracked ribs. Bain watched, stricken, red dripping down his bony wrists and seeping through the ragged hem of his sleeves. “Who put you up to this?”

There was an audience. Above the scene, in a gallery just one floor above with a sweeping view, Fíak watched, hidden in shadows with a hood drawn over his silver hair.

“No one.” Kili swallowed hard at the voice in the doorway. That _bastard_ Gunnar. Panting slightly, he had one hand resting on the sword-hilt at his waist. “Let him go, Kili.”

The man holding his bleeding leg spat on the floor. “You know why he jumped you? You killed his brother.” Kili’s eyes flickered down at Galfrey, who remained still, seething in his hatred. “Stringing him up like a pig in that prison cell. You’re lucky he held off this long.”

“What do you expect?” He hissed, vicious, sharp and spitting with venom. “Put a wolf in a cage, and they'll sure as shit bite back when you put a hand through the bars.”

“You’ve caused us nothing but trouble.” An inch of steel emerged from the hilt, as raspy as his ageing voice. “From the moment you set foot in our town, you’ve terrorised our people.”

“No – he didn’t!” Bain burst out, lowering his hands. Blood dripped down into his mouth, and he tried unsuccessfully to wipe it away, his voice trembling. “Wh-Why are you lying?”

Gunnar’s eyes narrowed. “Boy, have no idea—”

“You _lied!”_ His bloodstained hands balled into fists, shouting through his pain although his eyes still watered. Bain had been quiet for too long, obeying his father's word and keeping his head down, the truth burning away inside, a hot coal on his tongue. “Kili didn’t touch Ella that morning. He was with me all day! You locked him up on a lie!” A tense, shocked silence met this revelation, and three pairs of eyes swivelled towards Gunnar, who stood caught for a moment, out of sorts, before reassuming his usual grimy smile.

“You’re mistaken. It was a while back now, Bain. I understand.”

“I heard screaming.” Above them, Úni had climbed a staircase into the upper gallery. He had been running up and down, trying to find a way to the passage itself, but to no avail. He saw the hunched hooded figure at the stone railing, and stilled, unsure if was friend or foe. “What...”

Fíak turned, blue eyes gleaming in his shadowed face. Úni softened but didn’t relax completely, their conflict from earlier in the day still unresolved. The old dwarf held a finger to his lips and beckoned for Úni to come closer. “You’ll want to see this.” He whispered as softly as he could, jerking his head towards the action below. They both watched silently, Fíak amused, interested, Úni white-knuckled and anxious.

“No, no, I’m not.” Bain’s face was white. “Do _none_ of you know about this?” His head whirled around, looking at everybody in turn. Kili was watching Gunnar carefully, biting on the inside of his cheek, one hand on the collar of Galfrey’s shirt, the knife still pointed at his throat. “Why did you lie?” Bain demanded again, rattled.

“Lie about what?” Gunnar said coolly. “You’re confusing yourself. If you’ve known this whole time that I was lying, you’ve certainly kept quiet. If Kili was your friend, surely you would have spoken up sooner.”

“Shut up, you sick bastard.” Kili growled. “Manipulating a child – are you that shameless? You’re all shit, Gunnar. You cooked this whole thing up, and we all know exactly who put you up to it.”

“No.” One of the other men, the one with the bleeding leg, was shaking his head. “Sir?” He looked at his comrades, from one to the other.  “Was it a scheme?”

“Why would you do that?” Bain demanded, momentarily courageous in his outrage, his broken nose forgotten. “Why would you say something so awful and get him in so much trouble? He didn’t do anything!”

“That is a lie.” Kili rolled his eyes at the crisp, cool voice, his hand relaxing a little on Galfrey’s throat. Thranduil. Of course. This went far beyond coincidence now. What was their plan? Did they expect Kili would fight them off so easily or were they hoping to catch him when he was down and force some sort of apology or confession out of of him?

“Anyone else going to come along?” He sneered as Thranduil stepped into view. “Just all happening to meet up, are you?”

“Most would, when they heard a child scream.” Above them in the gallery, Fíak leaned over, trying to catch Thranduil’s words with his old ears. “What did you do to him, Kili?”

“They jumped _me_ in the alley like a bunch of filthy muggers.” The snarl was fixed on Kili’s face now, and his heckles were up. “I didn’t lay a hand on Bain. _Fuck_ you for saying that.” He released his hold on Galfrey, who sank weakly into the floor, gasping for air. “This was _all_ you; your patsy even admitted it.” Kili stood up, heart thudding in his ears as the flush of anger raged through his body, and Galfrey scrabbled away from him, whimpering. No one had any right to judge him, good or ill, certainly not some twisted deviant like Thranduil, hiding his ruthless cruelty behind the mirage of his elvish grace. 

But before he could take a step, Thranduil drew his sword in a single, fluid motion from its ornate sheath, the blade slicing through the air in a breathless whoosh. With perfect control, Thranduil brought the point to the base of Kili’s throat, less than an inch from his skin. “You’re a real savage, Kili, without your brother holding your leash. Take another step,” he whispered, chilling, “and I will slice your throat like the beast you are.” Kili stood frozen, every muscle in his body coiled, waiting to strike. “Don’t give me a reason. You know how long I’ve been waiting.” He kept his eyes fixed on Thranduil, but shapes and colours moved in his periphery. Only Gunnar had a sword, half-drawn, his hand thin and bony, mottled grey. The men didn’t want to hurt Kili; they meant only to leave a few bruises, a black eye and a split lip. A warning for Kili that they would never forget what he had done to them. 

Above them, Úni reeled back from the railing, shaking his head. With a shake of his head, Fíak reached out and seized him by the wrist, holding him close. He kept his eyes locked on the action below, drumming his fingers against the smooth stone, the gleam of Thranduil’s sword searing against the soft, dull gaze of candlelit skin and cloth. “Those bastards.” Úni  hissed “We have to do something.” Once more, Fíak shook his head, pressing a finger over his lips, demanding he keep silent. Kili was hopelessly outnumbered here, and the old dwarf had a nasty suspicion that Thranduil would walk away from this with a different version of events to report. Fili, at least, would be owed the truth if something bad happened to his brother. It was good that the kid hung around, the son of the uncrowned king of Dale. He would be much harder to discredit if Fíak and Úni could match his story. 

Staring around with his doe-wide eyes, Bain gasped as it all fell into place. “It was you!” He shouted, his high voice rising into the darkness above. “ _You_ cooked up this whole scheme! I should have known, the way you walk around the place like it’s all bought and paid for. I— I can’t believe people actually think you’re nice.”

Thranduil arched an impossibly dark eyebrow. “Your father spared no effort in teaching you diplomacy. Such gratitude for saving your life. I’ll be sure to let him know.”

“Yeah, tell him everything.” Bain’s hands curled into fists. “About how you made up an awful lie just to get him jail. About how Kili’s innocent and you—”

“Innocent?” Thranduil’s voice rose, and for just a moment, that flawless veneer cracked. “Innocent? He tortured and mutilated my son!” Bain gulped hard, his lower lip trembling in his fright, but he refused to back down. “He still won't sleep! Legolas will bear the marks of what this monster did for _ever,_ a thousand centuries after even the memory of Kili has withered to ashes. And he's not even the slightest bit sorry for what he's done.”

That was a lie. Kili was sorry for Legolas. He would have avoided it all if he could have, but he would rather eat glass than prostrate himself at Thranduil’s feet and beg for forgiveness. He stubbornly kept his chin lifted, challenging Thranduil. “I don’t have any reason to apologise.” Kili spoke slowly and evenly, refusing to let his emotions get the better of him. That was what Thranduil wanted, to drive him into attacking. Kili wouldn’t let that happen. “Not to you.” 

“If you had a shred of lingering honour—”

“Oh, don’t talk to me about honour.” Kili spat, laced with venom. “Not after the backdoor shit you’ve pulled to try and get your way.” Thranduil narrowed his brilliant eyes, hand white-knuckled on the sword, almost shaking. He really seemed like he was going to do it, but Kili knew better than that. Thranduil had been too careful, setting Erebor up like the pieces of some game of strategy, to throw it all away in a flash of anger, no matter how Kili dug into him. But still, Kili did it. There was a thrill of satisfaction in seeing Thranduil rattled and out of sorts like this, so ill at ease. If Thranduil was going to toy with Fili, then Kili was going to toy with Thranduil. 

“No!” But there was another, innocent, party that Kili couldn’t bear to hurt. Bain stumbled forward, stretching one hand out. He closed his fingers around the blade, keeping his grip loose so the tempered edge didn’t quite cut into his palm. “Don’t hurt him. Don’t you understand— it was either that or die. No one could—”

“A story. Kili made himself out to be the victim from the moment he was captured, as though sympathy would spare him. He was not an unwilling prisoner, were you, Kili?” Thranduil spoke coolly, heartlessly. “I heard all about your exploits from that filth. You passed for an orc in all but blood.” Kili rested his hand on Bain in a silent plea for him to let go, but Bain held fast. “Look at him now, snarling like a savage at us. It's an act, Bain, and he fooled you.”

“No.” Bain refused to believe it. They didn't see what he saw that night, before Kili slipped away. He'd clung helplessly to Bain, terrified, overwhelmed, in tears over the enormity of what he had to face. “It wasn’t. You just want to see the worst in him, and you won’t _listen._ ” He puffed himself up, defiant, convinced of his invincibility. He was the son of a king; they wouldn't dare harm him. 

“Enough of this.” Gunnar snarled, drawing the sword another half-inch from its sheath. “Galfrey, Edgar, get him out of here.” White-faced, Bain shook his head, still clinging to Thanduil’s polished blade.

“Don’t. I’ll slice my hand open and Papa will never forgive any of you!” But Galfrey and the fourth man, who had his jaw cracked by Kili but was still standing, albeit groaning in pain, approached him. Bain screamed again, like he’d been hit, as Galfrey seized his arms. He curled his hand into a tight fist, a strangled cry cutting off that scream, and Kili bit hard on his lip, watching the red well up between his bony fingers.

“You little whelp — let go!” Egdar tried to prise the boy’s hand free finger by finger, Galfrey lifting him half a foot in the air as he started to struggle. “You’ll cut your hand to the bone. Stop it!”

“No!” Tears were in Bain’s eyes. Kili’s heart sank in his chest as he watched this pitiable, hopeless display of loyalty. He knew he had to tell Bain to stop, to let go, that it wasn’t worth getting injured over. He laid the words out in his mind, but they couldn’t make it to his mouth. Something stopped him, some callous practicality. This was the last respite, the last chance at a distraction he could get. Knowing that Thranduil wouldn’t dare risk tearing his sword free and severing Bain’s fingers, Kili ducked, his eye on Gunnar, who realised too late what was about to happen and reeled back, dragging his battered old sword fully free. That was a mistake. Kili knocked him down effortlessly like the brittle old man that he was, catching the sword-hilt before it clattered on the floor. Edgar had torn Bain away, and it was all such a flurry of confusion. Kili seized his chance, swinging the heavy old sword down on Thranduil’s own with the flat of the blade. The force of the blow did its job, Thranduil falling to his knees, half-stunned, clutching a probably sprained wrist. He looked up at Kili, snarling, reaching out, but Kili was faster. This time, it was him with the sword at Thranduil’s neck, the tip achingly close to drawing blood.

With a shout, Edgar abandoned Bain, who gripped his wounded hand in the good, breathing shallowly, blood trickling down his arm over the half-dried tracks from his nose. “Don’t.” Kili warned as the man took Thranduil’s sword. “I will slit his throat. Unlike him, I’m not all talk.”

“You filth.” Thranduil snarled. On his knees, he was just about as tall as Kili. He smouldered, his lip quivering with the effort to keep quiet. “You are going to pay for this.”

“Bain,” Kili raised his voice. “Is your hand all right?” His breath hitched, eyes gleaming wet, but Bain swallowed and nodded his head. Galfrey still had his arms around Bain, pinning him close, and he wasn’t about to let go. “This won’t take long, I promise.”

“Oh, you’re in it now.” Gunnar spat at him. “Edgar, go and—”

“I wouldn’t.” Kili cut him off, quick as a whip. “Nobody moves until I’m done.”

“Don’t kill him.” Bain squeaked, chalk-white beneath the smears of blood. “Kili, _please._ ”

Kili scoffed. “I’m not going to kill him if everybody listens to me. I’m going to let go of this sword, and he’s going to walk away.”

“You’re deluded.” Thranduil said flatly. 

“No, I’m not. You’re going to listen to me. And do you know why?” Kili leaned in a little. “I have you completely figured out. You play at nobility and grace like it’s some god-given right because of your blood. It’s like being an elf somehow makes your pure and perfect.” Thranduil levelled his smouldering glare, mouth determinedly closed, giving nothing away. But there was a gleam in his eyes, an uneasiness, and Kili knew that he had him. “They envied you, Thranduil.”

“What are you talking about.” Thranduil finally asked, stiffly, unrepentant and unco-operative. 

Kili’s lip twitched in a smirk, cold and cruel. It didn’t suit him. Bain shrank away, squeezing his wounded hand and fighting the throbbing sting in his eyes, too tired to struggle in the man’s arms. “The orcs. They envied your grace. And one of them, their leader, he coveted it. He sought you out on the battlefield. He wanted to take you and corrupt you himself, the way his own people had been.” Thranduil breathed in heavily, his nostrils flaring. There was no derisive snort at that; he was unsettled, hanging on to Kili’s every word. “It’s why he liked me so much. If the great-grandson of Thror can look on Azog the Defiler as some kind of father-figure, then what would he be able to do to _you?_ ”

“You think I care about some half-baked orcish fantasy?” Thranduil hissed, narrowing those brilliant blue eyes. But Kili wasn’t fooled. He had all the time in the world to draw this out in front of his captive audience. “This is not the first war I’ve fought.”

“It’s not a fantasy.” Thranduil inhaled deeply at that. “It’s history. You knew someone, didn’t you? You’re far older than people understand. You saw first-hand what happened to them.”

“You have _no_ idea what you’re saying.”

“Did you ever wonder if it could have been you?” Kili pressed, softening that cruel severity. “Did you ever see them afterwards, friends and kin? Could you recognise them?”

There was a piercing, chilly silence. Thranduil swallowed hard, his fine-cut lips shaking. He drew in a ragged breath, eyes never leaving Kili’s face. “Gunnar, take your men. Send Bain to Tauriel, and she’ll mend him. Do not return.”

“Your Grace—”

“If you or your soldiers tell _anyone_ about what has happened tonight, I will withdraw all support for you. Go.” Upstairs, Fíak leaned over the railing, chewing on his lip. He’d released his hold on Úni, who lingered, spellbound, realising that it would be worse to rush down there and break the dominance Kili had over the room. “Kili is not going to harm me.”

“I—Yes, Your Grace.” Sneering, Gunnar jerked his head in the direction towards they came. Shuffling, groaning, supporting each other, the men rose. Galfrey let Bain go, who stood trembling in the passage, wide-eyed and shaking his head.

“Kili, please.” He just wanted Kili to look at him. Perhaps if he did, he could catch a glimpse of his friend. This was a stranger before him, a terrifying stranger, and all Bain could see was what everyone else saw – the monster, the killer. “Don’t hurt anyone.”

With a short sigh, Kili stepped back. The hardened sneer faded, purely for Bain’s benefit, and the sword slipped through his fingers and banged loudly on the ground, sending a shudder through the dark air. “There.” He pleaded with his eyes to Bain, soft and wide. The boy finally nodded, trusting him. “Now _go._ ”

Thranduil remained on his knees until the two of them were alone in the dim passage, keeping his eyes locked on Kili and his hands at his side. He could have taken the sword and run it through Kili’s heart or cut off his head, and after what had transpired between them, no one could lay blame entirely on one party. But when he did rise to his feet, as swift and fluid as a snake, he left the battered blade on the ground between them, an afterthought.

“Not many know amongst men and elves.” There was a brittleness to Thranduil’s deep voice, as though it could splinter and crack at any moment. But his chin was lifted and his eyes still proud and bright as he loomed over Kili, the woven silver of his robes shifting and shimmering in the sunken light with every tiny movement. “And I have worked far too hard to keep it that way.”

Kili frowned. “You _do_ remember.”

“Do you think I follow that clumsy mannish myth about brutes and savages? I know about the Gundabad libraries and the forges of Mount Doom. I know the treaties of Harad. I know how far the tributes flowed for Azog. They’re a learned people, and plenty still remember where they came from.”

“It’s not hatred that drives your will to kill them. It’s fear. Because you know it’s so easy to fall.” Kili murmured. “To let go of everything we think we are.”

Thranduil scoffed. “You think you’re the first to get too close, Kili? You think tribes of men in the East and the South haven’t done what you have? You think there aren’t those in the world with women for mothers and orcs for fathers?” Thranduil stepped closer, one foot on the blade. “I don’t care that you betrayed your blood for them and spat on Thror’s name. But you brought that filth into my lands. You involved my son. You brought him closer to that darkness than any of us have seen for a thousand years. You disrupted the peace that my father fought and died for, and I cannot let that lie.”

Kili watched him, the sneering curve of his lip, the furrow of his brow, the imperious tilt of his chin. While Thranduil talked, something softened for a moment. He looked more thoughtful, considered, and it was only the mention of Legolas that steeled him and brought back that familiar iciness. It seemed exaggerated in that moment, as though he was playing a character. “No.” It dawned on Kili then, and he realised that he had won. “You’re not going to do a thing, because you’re too clever.”

Thranduil faltered with the realisation that his threat went ignored, a knot bobbing in his throat as he swallowed hard. “You won’t risk losing your alliance with Fili.” Kili continues. “If you forced his hand, you know he’d choose me. He’d go to war if that was what it took. He’s already lost me twice, and he won’t let it happen again. Even I can’t convince him otherwise anymore. You’re not interested in Dain. He’d never be a true ally of yours. And you’ve got Bard under your thumb, but Bain doesn’t trust you. You’re already looking thirty years into the future when he’s king. I’ve seen the maps. Dale controls miles and miles of the River Running, and if you want the wine and gold to keep flowing, you need him on your side. You’ve dreamed of rebuilding the lands east of you, and putting yourself in the centre of it to reap the wealth. But you have to fight for your son. How can you be a strong leader and let the monster who hurt Legolas walk free?”

Kili took a step closer himself, looking up at Thranduil. He was tall, so tall that it hurt his neck. “So if you bully and threaten me enough, maybe I’ll leave of my own accord. But I’m not going _anywhere_ , no matter what it takes.” Thranduil remained still, watching him, studying him without his normal haughty chill. “So what are we going to do?”

Upstairs, both Fíak and Úni looked at each other, too engrossed to speak, not wanting to miss a word. _Wow,_ Úni mouthed at the elder. Fíak nodded, shrewd and calculating. They both looked back down, wishing they could see Thranduil’s expression. Kili faced them, clear and close enough to read the curve of his mouth. They both could only imagine what he would have been thinking. “Who’s going to be the bigger person?”

“Don’t think for a moment you have the upper hand in this.” Thranduil snarled, but it was fractured and pale. He was very clearly rattled. “Do you think you can bargain with me? You have nothing, only your brother’s protection, and even that is meaningless without the crown on his head.”

“I’d believe that if you hadn’t already risked so much for Fili’s sake.” Kili kept his shoulders square, his neck long-used to this treatment. “Here’s what I offer, Thranduil. An apology.” 

Thranduil chuckled, low and chilling and stepped back, folding his arms and rolling his eyes. “An apology? Do you think that could ever come close to absolving what you’ve done? Is that supposed to make people forget what a twisted monster you are?”

“An apology. Wherever you like. It can be here, or I’ll go to your own halls and beg on my knees. I’ll be humble and penitent, and when you accept it, people will see your elvish grace and goodness.” Thranduil’s smirk seized, pursed and thoughtful, and he bit on his lip. “You’re intelligent enough to spin it in your favour. Fili will forgive you, Bain will trust you, the men of Lake-Town will take your lead, and Legolas won’t think of his father as a heartless bastard. Everybody wins.” Kili lowered his painful gaze and his shoulders slumped a little in a silent bid that he had finished. “You can demand the apology in the name of peace, and I’ll keep all of this a secret. Think on it. You’ve got plenty of time. In the meantime, call off your attack dogs. I won’t spare their lives if they try again.” Shooting one last levelled stare, Kili turned and left, walking in the opposite direction to the Lake-Town men, his palms sweating and heart thumping in his ears. 

“Fuck me, he’s good.” Fíak whispered as he drew back. “He’s damn good.”

“Thranduil won’t do it.” Úni watched as the elf-king slowly bent down to pick up his sword, looking grim. “He’s too proud.”

“Nah, Kili’s right. He’s too clever not to. Kid knows his politics.” Fíak chewed on the inside of his cheek. A look crossed his face for a moment, one that took a moment for Úni to place. Greed. Oh no. A painful ache panged in Úni’s stomach at the realisation, and he drew back.

Fíak tapped his fingers against the railing, watching him carefully. “Speaking of apologies, do you have anything to say to me?”

Úni drew himself up. “No.” He steeled himself, nails digging red ridges into his palms. “I’m not sorry. Every day we waste here, more people at home will die. Fili’s not going to help you. Why the hell would he ever lift a finger for us? He’s already done more than he ever ought to.” Fíak snarled at him, but otherwise kept quiet. “Don’t do it, Fíak. Leave them both alone.” 

“Don’t you see how much this changes things, or have you truly forgotten everything we’ve taught you? I didn’t see it before in that orc getup, but…” Fíak spat on the ground. “That lying bitch fooled us good. If I had _any_ idea that there was even a chance, I would have been here twenty years earlier.”

“You’ll never make it fly. My brother’s claim to the throne is stronger than Kili’s. He looks like Vili, but that’s not enough—”

“Looks like? He’s a spitting image.” Fíak cut over him. “You’re too young, but anyone old enough to remember Vili as a dwarrow will see it. It’s like he’s back from the dead. _Him,_ too. Must have driven her mad…”

“If Fili hears even a whisper of this, he will throw you out. You’ve got nothing. Don’t screw up what little help we could get on some wild fantasy.” 

“Where’s your sense of loyalty, boy?” He hissed back, the upturned hood shadowing swatches of his face. “I stuck my neck out for you and took you in, and this is how you—”

“Shut up. You didn’t do shit. It was all Víglund. You didn’t even want me at first. Don’t foul up his memory with those lies. Don’t you dare.” He went too far, and regret instantly unfurled in his stomach, hot and heavy, pushing out through his limbs. 

Fíak growled through gritted teeth. “For once in your life, Úni, think before you open that big mouth of yours. If you ever want to go back home, then _do as I say._ I won’t be so forgiving next time.” He turned abruptly, the hem of his furred coat swishing out. “Go back downstairs before you cause any trouble.”

Shit. Úni bit down hard on his tongue, brooding as he made his way back down the narrow staircase, going not back towards the hall but deeper into the darkness, where he’d already agreed to meet with Kili before. His head swam, pulling everything apart while he walked, with those awful suspicions about Fíak confirmed. Surely he wouldn’t be so stupid and desperate. Fili would throw everything out the window for Kili’s sake. All Fíak had were two scraps of paper in the hand of a dead king, a promise that was broken with his dying breath. 

* * *

 

Kili paced back and forth in the tiny room while he waited, his heart still thudding in his throat. The rush of what he had done was slowly fading, leaving his skin chilly and slightly damp beneath the thick dwarvish linen. Thranduil knew. Of course he knew about the orcs. He seemed to know everything in his ageless immortality. He had pinpointed the heart of Thranduil’s inner conflict, but Kili didn’t feel entirely comfortable with the solution he’d put forward. He didn’t like trusting Thranduil, but he couldn’t see any way out of this. Trying to piece it all together and turn enemies into allies was exhausting. He wanted to stay, desperately, but every day, Kili was reminded just how alien he had become to his own kin, how hated he was by others. He leaned against the wall and slowly slid down, his knees drawn up, and rested his forehead against them, breathing out. Damn. He just wanted to scream, to write it on the walls, over and over until it finally became the truth. _Trust me._ Was it so obvious that he didn’t belong? Was it only Fili that noticed how he studied each orc one by one, looking for a friend? Did anyone else see the fang at his neck?

The latch on the door clicked. Kili’s head whipped up at the sound, and he scrambled to his feet just in time. “You’re late.” He murmured to the shadowed figure in the doorway. “What kept you?”

“Uh, Fíak.” Úni shook the long ropes of golden hair back from his face. “Kili, you’re in trouble. You both are.” 

“They know, don’t they?” Úni nodded silently. He approached Kili and studied his face closely, trying to imagine him with blonde hair, comparing that in his mind’s eye to the stone statues and carvings he’d seen back at home. It was too foggy with memory to decide either way. “I’m dying for air. Let’s go for a walk.” 

They talked quietly, keeping the conversation intentionally casual as they made their way along a twisting passage that Kili knew led into the upper galleries and, eventually, to the outside world. Mentally, they circled one another, checking each other out, sizing them up, deciding if they were friend or foe. It was the first time they had talked completely alone, and there was a long way to go to prove that trust. 

“So how long have you been away?” Kili trailed his fingers along a geometric carving on the wall as they walked, felt the smooth brush of stone against his skin, listening for every gasp for air, every pause. “From home, I mean. At least a year, right?”

“Me? Twenty.” Úni murmured, his hands in his pockets, eyes on the floor. “Officially, at least. That’s how long I’ve been in service.”

Kili raised an eyebrow. “You climbed the ranks damn quick in twenty years.” Úni shrugged, keeping his eyes lowered as he walked. “Ah. You didn’t go by choice.”

“Who the hell would? The rank-and-file are there for the money, and the officers mostly got kicked out of court. I mainly got to where I am because my blood’s the best. No one’s in it for the glory anymore. Not with us.” 

“What did you do?” Kili couldn’t resist asking. “Was it Vili you pissed off, or…”

“My brother.” Úni stopped in his walk. They were in a wider hall, with wide windows cut out, overlooking the lower hall. “He always wanted to get rid of me, even though there was no chance of me ever usurping him. And I gave him the perfect reason.” A few broken arrows still littered the ground here. Moonlight spilled in through the broken gate, cutting mismatched human shapes of black and grey and white on the stone. He leaned his elbows on the lip of stone, stretching out to look over the work they still had to do. “I slept with Hekyr. His wife.” 

Kili masked his scoff of laughter with a cough, standing with his fingertips just touching the perfect right angle of rock. In the corner of his eye, he saw Úni pick self-consciously at the end of one of his dreadlocks. “No one understands. Only Víglund did and he— he’s gone now. Everyone else thinks Húni has every right to hate me the way he does. I mean, there’s no greater insult to a proud dwarf like him.” 

“I was very young and very, very stupid. I was in love — or I thought I was.” He sighed. “Hekyr was forty years older than me. Húni had given up on her years ago. Said she got fat after childbirth and wasn’t pretty enough. She said I made her feel young again.” Kili listened silently, drumming his fingers against the rock. “It went on for months. We got careless. And when Húni found out, he…” Úni looked at Kili now, his back to the stone railing. “You’d think he’d be furious, right? Ranting and raving and saying he’d kill us.”

“I would.” Kili felt a little pang of shame at his inadequacy — how would he know? — but he pushed it down. “I’m guessing he wasn’t happy about it.”

“Nothing. He said nothing.” The peak of his forehead creased in a frown. “He wasn’t angry. He didn’t say a word. He waited until I went into her rooms, same time I always did, hiding with a hammer in her wardrobe. Broke both of my legs so I couldn’t run for help and my arms so I couldn’t fight back. See—” Úni rolled up the sleeve of his left arm and extended it. There was an unnatural angle in the bone, his wrist curving a little too far outwards. “The prick brought a hammer with him. He knew exactly what he was doing. He had that same expression the whole time, this blank concentration, like he was smashing out a fresh blade. He didn’t say a damn word.” His arm retreated. “And when he knew I couldn’t help her, he dragged Hekyr to the fireplace and held her in, head-first. She was screaming and screaming and then— then she wasn’t. She _couldn’t_. I’ll never forget that sound.” There was a long, solemn pause, and with a shudder in his lungs, Úni continued. “Later, he said that a fit of madness overtook him, walking in to find his little brother in bed with his wife. He was so clever. He raged in front of our family and they believed it. Everyone believed it. Father turned me out, said I disgraced the family.  Húni made _me_ out to be the villain, and that we had wronged him. Hekyr’s uncle, Víglund, took me in as his shield-bearer after a year of bed rest, and I’ve never been able to go back since. His plan worked.”

“It was calculated.” Kili realised in an instant why Úni was so afraid of him. “He’s not mad.” Úni shook his head. 

“He’s evil. Pure evil. And he knows how to be charming enough to fool people. That throne’s as good as his and…” Úni slapped the curled fist of his left hand into the open palm of his right. “If he can do something like that to his wife and brother, what will he do with his enemies?”

He and Úni paced the galleries for a long time while Úni related the painful, sorry decline of his people — the iron and gold running dry, the rampant disease in the poorest quarters killing hundreds every year, the sporadic trade with neighbouring tribes punctuated with frequent diplomatic disasters, the runaway theft and rape and murder as the kingdom guard numbers thinned from lack of pay, all going unnoticed by a fragmented, factioned court. They were symptoms of a deeper sickness, one that couldn’t be cured simply by replacing the person at the top. It needed to be purified, cleaned inside and out. No wonder everyone had given up.

Kili tried to find Bain afterwards, to make sure he was all right, but Gunnar headed him off, looking murderous, telling Kili that if he went near Bain again, no kingly brother would save him from the blade of a knife and a steep flight of stairs. He was too tired to fight, so he went to Dwalin instead, hoping for a moment of calm and comfort. 

“Were you much of a diplomat?” Kili sat cross-legged on the bed with Nardur’s head in his lap. Dwalin sat up, hands around a steaming cup of tea that Dís had thrust into his hand before giving them their space. “Or were you too young before Erebor fell?”

Dwalin chuckled. “Oh, far too young. I was too busy mooning over your mother and practicing my swordplay. Balin was always the talker, giving speeches to visiting ambassadors and entertaining messengers. He was Thror’s top advisor for good reason. Of course, afterwards, no one wanted to know us, and he had to adapt. We all did. He tried setting up a little court of trade after we settled in Dunland, but no one wanted our measly old coal, and without the machinery we had here, all our best metalwork skill was lost.”

“Did you leave Dunland because it ran out, or because of what was around you? Or was it both?”

“Mm,” Dwalin sipped his tea, “both, in a way. The coal was vanishing, we all knew it, and we were always outsiders with the Dunlendings. But we were stuck, you know? The money we got from the Ironfists saved us. It ate Thorin up, taking it, but that five hundred pounds of gold… it got us the food, new swords and armour to protect ourselves, extra mercenaries for safe passage north, horses and carts. Dunland wasn’t home to us. We were happy to leave. And Dís… she did her duty. It tore us apart, leaving her, but it was the only thing she could have done to help us.” Dwalin was heavy with the memory of what might have been. Nardur whined and licked at Kili’s wrist. Obediently, Kili scratched him behind the ears, massaging the soft fur with his fingertips. “It’s strange now, but it will be good to be back home. It’s where we belong, really, us Longbeards.”

“What about when the gold runs out?” Kili asked, seemingly out of the blue. “When we’ve got nothing left to barter for food? What will we do then?”

Dwalin grumbled at the question. “Mahal, don’t say that, Kili. Frightful luck. Besides, you’ve seen the gold-hoard. There’s enough here to sustain we dwarves for well over a thousand years.”

“Fili won’t sit on it like Thror did.” Kili pointed out. “He’s not like that. His biggest danger is giving it all away.” Dwalin chuckled, nodding his head. “He’s already promised Thranduil a fifth. Did you count for that? As well as all the shares the company gets? Will there even be enough left to rebulid this place?”

Worry deepened in the lines around Dwalin’s eyes. Of course he’d considered that. “The war hasn’t ended this, Dwalin.” Kili said softly. “It’s brought it all into the light. Fili can’t fight this on his own. He needs our help.”

“I know, lad.” Dwalin reached out and put a hand on Kili’s knee. “But he’s in good stead with Balin at his side. Thranduil’s a nasty piece of work, but even he can see we’re onto a good thing here. And those damn Ironfists… Well, they’ve got no business being here. The sooner Fili sends them on their way, the better.”

“They know.” Kili abandoned Nardur to gently take Dwalin’s wrist. “About me and… my father. A-Apparently I look like him. A lot.” Dwalin wouldn’t look at him. He stared at the blunt shape of his knees beneath the blanket, with only the heavy bobbing of his throat to show that he had heard. “I’m so sorry.”

His hand trembling a little, Dwalin set the empty cup down on the charred table by his bed. He took Kili with both hands, clinging in his infirmity. It was a fantasy he’d pushed away for such a long time, he’d almost forgotten that there were some who thought the truth in it, even though he’d never encouraged that himself. But the loss was still there. It ached, terribly, flooding in his chest and up into his burning throat. Finally, he looked up and met Kili’s gaze. His little Kili. He was older now, so drawn and tired, pale from the winter, the scar a thin white ribbon across his cheek. There seemed, in that moment, that there was almost nothing of that dwarrow left. He’d grown up.

“Oh Dwalin.” Something in his face must have given him away, because Kili leaned forward and wrapped his arms tight around Dwalin’s neck with a sigh. “It doesn’t matter.” He said, voice muffled in Dwalin’s grubby old nightshirt. “You know that.”

“I know, my boy.” He rested a hand on Kili’s back, the size of a dinner plate but still lacking his old strength. “I’d rather have you than a dozen sons of my own.” Kili gave a half-hearted chuckle as he pulled away, smoothing down his shirt.

“Well, if you and _Amad_ are serious about getting married…” It was a joke more than anything, but Dwalin stiffened at the insinuation, panic flashing through his eyes. 

“No. I wouldn’t replace you. I don’t _need_ anything else. And I know Dís doesn’t want to go through all that again, not at her age.” 

Kili snorted. “Don’t be stupid. If you both want to, then do it. I’m not going to get jealous. I’m not a dwarrow anymore.” His voice faded into a soft, sad murmur, mournful, uncertain and afraid of what was to come.

“If there's something eating at you, tell me. You've always been able to tell me. You even told me about this.” Dwalin briefly touched the tooth at Kili's neck. He saw Fili's little mithril token there too, but before he could draw attention to it, Kili hunched his shoulders and did his best to stuff them both down his shirt. 

“I don't know if I'm going to ever belong here.” Kili finally admitted, unable to look at at Dwalin. “I can tell that almost nobody trusts me. I already defected twice. What reason do they have to believe me? I can't depend on you or Fili or _Amad._ I have to do this myself. I have to make people understand that I want to be here, that this is home to me. I'm so tired. I can't keep looking over my shoulder and sleeping with one eye open.”

“Have you told Fili about this?”

Kili shook his head. “I haven't told anybody. And you can't either. He's got enough to deal with without worrying about me being stabbed in the night.”

“Oh, Kili, it's not that bad.” 

“I've already been jumped tonight. A gang of Lake-Town thugs wanting revenge for the guard I killed. _Don't_ tell anyone.” Kili headed him off firmly as Dwalin opened his mouth to speak. “I mean it. I dealt to them. They won't be doing it again. But I… I don’t want to fight my way out of this one. I don’t think I can.” 

Dwalin felt more terribly inadequate here than he had in years. He wanted nothing more than to take Kili in his arms again and swear that he’d protect him, lay down his life for him in a heartbeat to keep him safe. He wanted to go to the brutes that wanted Kili put away and beat in their skulls. Dwalin wanted to look Thranduil in the eye and promise that if he laid a finger on Kili again, he’d break it off. But he couldn’t do any of that. His head swam with the mere effort of moving his legs in bed, a fog over his brain making it hard to keep up with more than one thought at a time. And what if he couldn’t come back from this? Twice a day, the elf-maid rested a hand on his head and murmured strange jargon beneath her breath, assuring him and Dís that he was getting better. But how much better? How much longer did he have to languish helplessly here? Would he ever regain his old strength again? Mahal, he really did feel old. Dwalin sank lax against the makeshift pillows, eyes half-lidded.

“Are you tired?” Kili asked, resting his chin on a balled-up fist. “Do you want me to go?”

“No, no, of course not. Don’t go anywhere. I’m not tired yet; I’ve slept all day. I just wish that I could do more for you. I can’t stand being cooped up in this room much longer.” 

Kili sighed. “I don’t want you to fight my battles for me. I’d never ask anyone to do that. I have to find my own way out of this.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to be alone.” Dwalin insisted. “You always came to me, even with problems I couldn’t fix. Don’t you remember, lad?”

“Of course I remember. I…” Underneath the panic and shame in his chest was the soft glow of realisation. Dwalin had always supported him. Even in the darkest times, Fili had said, even when they all thought Kili as a monster and wanted to leave him to rot in a Lake-Town prison cell, Dwalin remained loyal to him. He always would. He loved Kili with a selfless, fierce proctectiveness and never once judged or insulted him for anything that he’d done. 

“You don’t have to fight for me,” Kili spoke after a long silence. There was still something Dwalin could do. “But can you just listen for a little while?”

“Of course.” Dwalin smiled, his heart filling with sunshine. Yes, Kili was coming back, step by step, and Dwalin would make sure to never, ever let him go. “What do you want to talk about?”

Kili swallowed hard. He was tense and taught in fear, the air quickening in his lungs, making his shoulders shake up and down. “Everything.” 

 


	119. Thicker than Water

It was a long, painful story, disjointed and frantic in the telling. Kili jumped about from place to place, lingered too long on unimportant details and skimmed too quickly over others, leaving vital points unfleshed and skeletal. But Dwalin didn’t mind. He listened carefully, absorbed in the tale that Kili wove around him, hands in his lap, refusing to let himself give away to anger or hatred or sorrow. Kili depended on his stability.

Slowly, brokenly, Kili admitted the truth about Ilzkhaal, too. It was an integral piece in the puzzle of Kili’s mind, and the humiliation and guilt all bound up in his greatest secret made it a weight too heavy to bear alone. So he told Dwalin, partly because he wanted to be told that it was all right, that it didn’t make him a terrible person, that he could still be loved, partly because every time he said it aloud, it seemed to hurt a little less, partly because it was _Dwalin_ and that judgeless faith in him would be worthless without having the complete story. Knowing what he did now about how Dwalin had loved his mother so deeply for so long increased the apprehension. He knew how serious it was to toy with somebody’s heart, how devastating it was to break it.

When he finished, Kili was leaning against the wall with his legs tucked in close, staring over his flexed kneecaps at the ground. He was distant, just a little too far from Dwalin’s grasp if he reached out to touch him. Dwalin sensed it was intentional. Nardur slept, curled in a ball at Dwalin’s feet, his ragged snore the only sound at that moment in the dim room.

Mahal. He knew Kili would have had to do questionable things, at the very least, to keep his cover and to keep Bolg believing in his story, but this… it went beyond that. Part of Kili believed his own lies about how irredeemable he was. His heart ached. In those dim moments of anger and terror and crippling loneliness, it was so clear why Kili did that. And yes, if he had to be honest, completely honest with himself, the knowledge of Kili being so… intimate with an orc, a male orc, it left an unpleasant crawling in his stomach that he would never, ever admit to another soul. But survival wasn’t just about avoiding a deadly blow or having enough to eat. It was about having the strength and hope and courage to hold on. And Kili had never done well on his own. He needed support, love, kindness to thrive, and without his family, he sought it from the only place he could. It wasn’t disgust, Dwalin realised, that sank heavy in his gut. It was pity.

It rattled him, heavily. He still had that old ideal of Kili, that memory. He’d built his own picture in his mind of how it had happened, or how he’d hoped it had happened, despite his attempts to suppress his thoughts, and in the space of an hour Kili had dashed everything into pieces, relaying his cruelty with defeated exhaustion, the shadows deepening under his eyes as he played with a hole in his trousers. But despite everything he said (or maybe _because_ of it), he seemed closer now to that memory of a wild-haired dwarrow bursting at the seams with secrets and uncertainty and shame at his own inadequacy, seeking Dwalin’s comfort and assurance over his own family. Dwalin didn’t need to bear the weight of Kili’s failure the way they did.

“Kili,” Dwalin said softly, mindful of Kili’s fragility. He flinched. “I’m sorry that happened to you.” Kili lifted his head and looked at him, waiting for more, for a _despite_ or a _but_ or _although_ , but it didn’t come. He sighed heavily, eyes closing as a smile stretched across his face as relief melted through that tight uncertainty and he realised he would always have an ally in Dwalin, no matter what he’d done.

-

“There.” Tauriel turned Bain’s hand over, mopping at the dried blood with a wet rag. There was only a faded pink mark across his hand, one she promised would be gone within a few days. She squinted, looking at his nose. Perfectly straight.

“What happened?” Unrelenting, Bard asked the question for the fourth time in half an hour, gripping Bain by the elbow, growling low in his ear as concern wore to exasperation and then to anger.

Bain shrugged him off. “I _told_ you, Papa. I saw one of those gates and tried to climb it and slipped. They’re _really_ sharp, those bits of metal. And I banged my face. Hard.”

“You’re not…” Tauriel took the bowl of water away, head bent, as Bard gripped the bridge of his nose between forefinger and thumb. “You have _never_ admitted to anything this quickly before. I know you’re up to something. Did somebody do this to you?” Anger boiled at the thought of someone laying their hands on his boy. He’d hunt them down and string them up in a heartbeat. There was a quietness about Bain as he sat on the wobbly stool, still dabbing at his nose even though it was all fixed, looking at the walls, the floor, the stain on the rug — anything but his father. This wasn’t the slinking about of a boy who knew he was about to be in trouble. This was real fear.

“No,” Bain shook his head, voice soft and unsteady. “Please, leave it alone. I told you what happened.”

“Did they tell you to keep quiet?” Bard leaned in gripping his arms. Tauriel watched, winding the damp cloth around and around her fingers with a frown. “Did they threaten you? If they did, I promise, they won’t hurt you. I won’t let them. You don’t have to be scared of anybody.” Bain kept his eyes on his knees and firmly shook his head again. “I can’t help you, Bain. Not if you don’t tell me.”

“I…” Bain looked up for a moment, not at Bard but at Tauriel, his breath stilting at the sight of her. “I _can’t._ Please. He was so scary.”

Bard pounced. “Who was scary? Who did you run into?” He took a wild stab in the dark. “Gunnar? Was it Kili?” Bain bit down on his lip. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

“No, no. Kili didn’t do anything _._ Please, Papa, _please_ , just leave it alone.” Bain finally looked at him, wild-eyed in his fear, shaking his head. “I don’t want any trouble. Please.”

* * *

 

“Ada.” Legolas looked up from a book he was reading only half-heartedly, a fine green shawl slung over his shoulders. His low stretcher of a bed was a grand mismatch of fur and wool and silk and pillows, stark against the scorched stone walls. A candelabra gleamed at his elbow, staining the shades of leaf and bark red, and his hair had been pulled back, showing the blunted tips of his ears. Thranduil’s throat closed. He wasn’t used to it. He’d never be used to it. “You’re up late.”

“Mm. So are you.” He glided across the room, a heavy frown drawing deep lines in his forehead, under his eyes. He looked old. Legolas closed the book slowly, drawing his legs up and giving his father room to sit. There was that stern seriousness, that wall going up around him that Legolas never had a hope of scaling. “Are you unable to sleep?”

“No, it’s not that.” But Legolas drew his eyes down at his hands, healed now, elvish in their cleanness. “It’s not _always_ about that.” Thranduil made a low, tired sound in his throat. He made no other sound for a while, and Legolas grew bored as he waited, turning the slim volume of poetry over and over in his hands.

“I’m going to offer Kili the chance to apologise.” Legolas dropped the book at the heavy voice. “If, of course, you consent. You don’t have to forgive him. Nobody would expect you to. But this animosity between us cannot continue if Erebor and our people want to go forward together. It would be political suicide.” Thranduil turned to look at him. The lines remained around his eyes, even though he’d stopped frowning. He looked utterly defeated.

“Ada,” Legolas sat up a little more, shrugging off the woven blanket, “I forgave Kili weeks and weeks ago. I forgave him the moment it happened. I don’t have anger towards him. It was Azog who did it, all of it. If you’d seen him, the look in his eyes…” He shook his head. “Kili was a prisoner. If he didn’t do what Azog commanded, then they would have tortured him too. They would have killed him. And don’t say I’m wrong.” Thranduil had opened his mouth to rebutt, an old pain flashing in his eyes. “You weren’t there. I was. I’ve been telling you, all this time, that you’ve got it wrong and you don’t _listen_ to me. You’re believing the off-hand comment of some orc rather than me, and I never understood why. Is it because Kili got to Azog first, and you didn’t get the chance to make him suffer? Because he was the only survivor? You want somebody to punish. To get revenge on. Is that it?” Thranduil sat in silence, momentarily lost for words as he slowly digested his son’s response. “I’ve never seen you so violent about anything and I— I don’t understand.” Thranduil flexed his hands, felt the tendons stretch and the fingers curl. His son’s deep blue eyes were fixed on him, imploring, exhausted. It struck right in his heart, at something he’d long since covered over. “Is this because of Ama—”

“No.” The word cut with the ruthless severity of steel. Legolas flinched away from him, tracing a fingertip over the hand-tooled leather cover of his book, a pattern of interlocking leaves weaving in and out. It so clearly was. He bit hard on his lip, at a loss of what to say, how to make his father understand.

“You didn’t lose me.” He finally spoke up, wondering if he should touch him. “I’m still here, and he— he didn’t win, Ada. But if you let this anger take hold and keep on fighting… then he did, didn’t he? He got what he wanted.” Thranduil watched him, breathing deeply through half-parted lips. “I’ve been thinking about this, a _lot_.” Legolas went on, pushing the covers aside and shuffling forward. “Can’t do much else when you’re locking me away all the time.” It was a pointed comment, and Thranduil’s tense mouth flickered at it. “And if you do respond in kind, wanting to hurt him, being so— so violent, so set on revenge, then are we really better? Can we really pretend that we’re so good if we want to torture and kill just like they do?”

No. The answer bubbled on Thranduil’s tongue, and he swallowed it back, still remembering Kili’s words from earlier that night, that it was fear that sparked the fire in his chest. He still stung from that accusation, sharp as an arrowshot, fatal in its accuracy. But it wasn’t. Not completely. Despite what Legolas had suffered through, he had nothing but forgiveness in his heart, compassion, a desire to understand. He wasn’t like his father at all. He’d never fall.

“Can you forgive him?” Legolas knew he’d never get an answer. He stretched one hand out, resting his fingers on Thranduil’s wrist. He jumped at the touch. It was so rare, contact between them. Thranduil was always so cloistered, so set apart, even with his only child. “Not some false public forgiveness. Really forgive him. In your heart. For me, please.”

Part of him envied that purity. He fought hard for his peace in a violent, cruel world, and Thranduil vowed in his heart to protect it with everything he had, to battle to the death, to make a flood from the blood of his enemies. But Legolas didn’t want that. He wanted to rise above that, to respond only with kindness. It wasn’t just the idealism of the innocent. He’d seen darkness, suffered through it, but still…

Wondering if it was a promise he could ever keep, Thranduil’s head inclined in a soft, nod. There was nothing else he could have done.

* * *

 

Just after they took breakfast, before Kili could head with his brother out to the gate and beyond, an elvish servant came looking for them, saying that Tauriel requested Fili’s audience. They met her in a side-room lacking in ceremony, a good half-dozen sacks groaning on a warped table.

“Oh.” She stared in surprise at Kili, her lip twitching, before she smoothed it all out with a short breath of air. He wondered if she knew anything about Thranduil’s secret pact. “As you’re probably aware, Fili, our first load of supplies came from Thranduil’s halls yesterday evening. We’ve been going through them and found these.” She indicated to the table. “They’re all your confiscated belongings. It’s only right you have them back.”

“I’ll be honest, I’d almost forgotten.” Fili rifled through the closest. “Oh, my coat. That’ll come in handy. And Nori’s knives. He’s missed these. Phew, they smell a little musty.”

“I’ll trust you can pass these all along?” She asked. “I don’t know whose is whose.”

“Yeah, I can—” Fili’s voice died as he lifted up a thick coat of gleaming mail, tiny diamond-shaped scales woven close together. It was Thorin’s. He cleared his throat. “I’ll pass them along. Thank you.”

“Wait.” Kili stopped her as she turned to leave. “Do you still have the knife?”

“What knife?”

“The knife you took from me when you found me. It was this long,” Kili held his index fingers several inches apart, “with a bone and leather handle. Had a notch in the blade. It was sharp. I always kept it sharp.” Tauriel frowned, trying to pick him apart. Fili watched on in silence, still clinging to Thorin’s mail. “You had it when you were in the palace, at least.”

“It was an orc’s knife.” She finally said, crisp and haughty. “I had it buried with the rest of them.” Kili’s hands fell to his side. “If it was yours, I’m sorry, but I had no idea. Thranduil wanted every remnant of that filth banished from his walls.” Tauriel turned away from him. “He wanted to speak to you too, Fili, just to clarify how much of this shipment is yours and how much is Bard’s. Whenever you’re free.”

“Yeah, I’ll go now, then.” Fili forced a smile in his brother’s direction. “Can you let the others know this is all here? I’m sure they’ll want it. A-And can you find somewhere for Thorin’s things? You’ve already dressed him for burial, haven’t you?”

“Hm? Of course.” Kili swallowed his disappointment. “He’s ready. Almost all of us are.” It was too pointed and biting, harsh in Kili’s frustration with him, and he immediately regretted it. “Sorry,” he whispered, trying to take it back, but the damage was already done.

Fili inhaled sharply, hurt, with a huff turned his back to his brother. “Lead the way then, Tauriel. I’ll follow you.”

* * *

 

Bard had chewed on what Bain had said over a long, restless night, mouthing words in the darkness and picking apart every detail before an uneasy nap before dawn. Tired, on edge, and severely lacking in patience, Bard found Kili the next morning deep in conversation with the gentle Ori. He watched the pair go down a hallway together, away from the milling groups in the central chamber, walking with his nails biting hard into his palms.

“He’s shocked, of course. It didn’t go as bad as it could have.” His voice filtered through the darkness, distant, thin as a whisper. “But _ish—_ damn, I was terrified. I mean, he’s been my hero since I was a kid. I thought he’d call me disgusting and kick me out.”

“Dwalin? Never. I bet it was a shock, but it wouldn’t make him love you any less.” There was a brief silence, and Ori sighed. “You need to give us all a little more credit. I mean, it’s not like _I_ went wild. He wouldn’t either. And Fili—”

“ _No.”_ Kili cut over him sharply. “Don’t even joke about it. Some things he just… doesn’t need to know about. Not yet.”

“You can’t keep it a secret while it’s chewing you up inside. He’s going to find out soo—”

Finally, Bard was close enough to speak up. “Kili.” His voice was stern and sharp and visibly set the pair on edge. They both turned, Kili blank and expressionless, Ori curious in his surprise. “I need to ask you about last night.”

“Hm?” Kili gave nothing away. Bard marched until he was close, very close, towering head-and-shoulders above them.

“Where were you,” he growled, and roughly, thoughtlessly, grabbed Kili by the arms. Ori gasped and reached out but Kili was pliant, only a short grunt of pain leaking through his slack lips as Bard pushed him hard against the wall. “And what the _hell_ did you do to my son?”

“Bard, no!” Ori grabbed his elbow but let go as Kili shook his head, eyes flicking from Bard to him for a moment, emotionless and silent. “He was with Dwalin for hours and hours last night. Weren’t you?” Kili raised a dark eyebrow, the only change in his expression, and Ori faltered. “Weren’t you?”

“All I know is he came back from Eru knows where with a broken nose and a sliced-up hand, and he’s not telling the truth. Someone threatened him to keep quiet and he’s too afraid to name names.” Kili frowned at that, defensive, and his hands balled into fists at his side.

“You think that was _me?_ Come on, Bard. Why would I threaten one of the few friends I still have? Look, I haven’t approached Bain. I haven’t started any conversation with him. I’m doing just as you said. It’s not my fault if he won’t listen.” Bard’s grip loosened, but he didn’t let go. “He’s a good kid. I’d never do anything to hurt him, not intentionally.”

He bristled. “Not intentionally? So it _was_ you.”

“No, I—” Kili sighed. “Damn it. I didn’t hurt him. I promise. Look,” He wrenched himself free with a worrying ease, and Bard realised that there was no possibility of ever physically dominating him. Kili lifted his shirt to show his stomach, purpled with fresh, heavy bruises that looked like they came from boots and fists. Ori clapped his hands over his mouth. “I got jumped, all right? Bain was trying to break it up.” He dropped his shirt, and Bard took a step back. “And he got in the middle of it. I didn’t start anything. They were out for revenge after that whole mess in Lake-Town. But it’s sorted. They’re not going to come near me again, and they’re never going to touch Bain.” But Bard kept on staring at him, breathing heavily through his nose, snorting and bullish. “He’s got more guts than _anyone_ in this mountain, you know. He doesn’t care that he’s just a kid. He sees injustice, and he wants to fight it. Can you blame him for that?”

Bard held his breath, pondering the question for a moment, before letting it out. “Look, Kili, I’m just trying to do right by Bain, and by our people. I don’t want him dragged in on this. I don’t want to play games. I just want to go home.”

“That’s what we all want.” Ori finally spoke up, arms folded across his chest. He looked cold. “But this is it. It’s all we have. This stupid mountain — Mahal, I already hate it.” Miserable, he heaved a sigh. “Please, Bard, leave Kili alone. I just wish everyone would leave him alone.”

Kili bit on the inside of his cheek, studying Bard. “You want to do right by your people, do you? The Lake-Town guard is crumbling. They had no idea that Gunnar was acting under Thranduil’s orders when he ordered my arrest and the whole story with Ella was faked, and he lost five men because of it. Last night, Gunnar admitted it in front of his own soldiers. Bain has known this whole time that I’m innocent and he finally got that old bastard to own up to it. They’re not going to take that quietly. This is the best chance you’ll ever get to throw him out.”

Bard paused. “Do you think?” Kili nodded, his face pale against the growing thickness of his beard, black as ink in this gloom. “I just said I don’t want to play any games.”

“You said you wanted to do right by Lake-Town. Do you think keeping an evil, corrupt man at the head of your guard is right? Someone who threatens your son to try and keep their secrets?” Kili stepped back, locking eyes with Ori and jerking his head back in the direction they came. “You’re their king, Bard.” He said, looking over his shoulder before they left. “Act like it.”

Bard paced for a long time, chewing on what Kili had told him. Of course, he knew Gunnar was a warped beast of a man, thinking only of himself and his own purse and power. There was never much — any — of an alliance between them. Their uneasy peace was only held together by necessity; Gunnar had strict control of his guard, levied by a tight trio of right-hand men, and they had strict control of the town. There was no denying he was a poison, and Bard, the up-start, the man of the people who kept his head down and mouth closed but eyes wide open, was finally, finally, in a position to rid his people of it.

“That was cruel.” Oro admonished him quietly, frowning in his reproach. “Manipulating him like that. I know you don’t give a fig for Lake-Town. You never did.”

Kili sighed, a short, sharp sound of annoyance. “I want Gunnar gone. Not just for what he did to me. He’s scum. He works for whoever has the most coin. If Bard needs a push, so be it.” He shrugged. So Bard didn’t know about Thranduil’s involvement. If Gunnar bore the brunt of that blame, then all the better. “I’ve got Thranduil about to make peace, Gunnar on the way out…” Finally, his dark eyes settled on Ori. “They won’t chase me out of this mountain, Ori. I won’t let them.”

* * *

 

The sun had reached its peak, the gleam misty and vague behind thin white clouds, when Fili rejoined his brother. He found him hauling bodies with Ori and Nori, taking him aside by the elbow and waiting until they were out of earshot before laying into him.

“I just had an interesting talk with Thranduil.” He hissed, looking over Kili’s shoulder to make sure they were alone. “He said that he’s going to make a formal offer for you to apologise after the funeral.”

“Oh, good. I knew he was going to go through with it, but it would have been just like him to string us along for days.” Kili raised an eyebrow at Fili’s exasperation. “What? I thought you’d be happy. It’s sorted. No more emnity. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“Where was _I?”_ Fili demanded. “You told me you were with Dwalin until late, and instead you’re sneaking around cutting deals without me? I have to know about these things. Of course I’m glad you’re not at war with each other, but…” He sighed. “I have to know what’s going on. I can’t keep track of everything with people keeping secrets. And not you. Especially not you. We tell each other everything, all right?”

Kili hesitated, a brief pause that Fili didn’t even notice. He nodded, forced a look of contrition on his face, and stretched his unwilling mouth into a grim smile. “Everything,” Kili echoed, knowing in his gut that if he wanted to save his brother, if he wanted to hold onto Fili’s love, he’d have to do nothing of the sort.

The hours passed, sour and sweaty, with little chance to talk. An hour or so before sundown, two of Dain’s soldiers found Fili and Kili, wheeling a creaking old cart with an old blanket thrown over something putrid. Kili was standing near the mass grave, the last to be burned, eyes fixed on every single body as it was pushed and thrown and dropped into the shallow pit of stony earth. Fili stood at his elbow, not wanting to leave his brother alone as his anxiety grew throughout the day, making some weak mumbled excuse about keeping watch over the valley. They both turned at the sound, and Kili broke away in a jog to meet them, Fili close behind. The corner fluttered in the breeze, and they both caught a glimpse of greenish-white burst open, splattered black. Fili coughed back a dry heave and Kili swallowed very hard, eyes fixed on the exposed piece of Bolg’s body.

“We— We found him, Your Highness .” The dwarves looked ill. “Drew the short straws. Uh, we were told there would be compensation for this in particular.”

“Oh, of course.” Fili reached for the leather pouch tied to his belt. “Split it between you.” It was heavy, twice the size of a balled-up fist, and the dwarf’s eyes gleamed as he opened it. “And thank you. It was a long, long way down.”

The dwarves exchanged a glance. “We also found something else.” The elder spoke up, a hand in his pocket. “Down by the— the body.” Fili approached him, frowning, as he pulled out a bundled handkerchief. “It must have been dropped, or thrown. I don’t know.” The dwarf unwrapped it slowly, looking apologetic.

The Arkenstone. It took Fili a moment to realise what was wrong. It had been broken into pieces, shattered against the stone after falling from the throne room into that impenetrable darkness. “I swear, Your Highness, it was like this when we found it. It was such a fall that...”

“No, of course.” Fili stretched his hands out to take it. “I completely forgot about the Arkenstone. In the middle of everything else…” He sighed, looking down at the gem. It seemed to have lost all its beauty and brilliance in the grey daylight, as though in breaking, the magic had been drained from it.

A snigger made him look up. Kili chuckled openly, not bothering to hide it, staring at the broken gem-shards in his brother’s hand. The other three stiffened. “What?” Fili asked sharply. “What’s so damn funny about this?”

“Thorin went mad over that thing. He threw you out of Erebor and cut you off because you took it. And look. It’s broken. It’s just a stupid, broken old gemstone that looks like some costume jewellery a bankrupt courtesan would wear.” He picked up one of the shards, holding it up to the light. “It’s worthless. Coloured glass.” Kili dropped it in Fili’s cupped hands. “May as well throw it out.” He turned away, taking both handles of the groaning old cart himself. “Throw it on the fire along with Bolg’s rotting corpse. It’s all it’s good for.”

“Don’t be stupid.” Fili hastily wrapped the broken stone up in the rag and put it deep in his pocket. “Thank you,” he turned to the elderly dwarf now. “Thank you for giving it to me. Spend the day resting. This is…” He sighed. “Enough. For now.”

They thanked him and left, having the grace to turn around before diving into the leather bag, squabbling over the rings and gems that Fili had given them. Kili rested against the handles, staring down at his boots. “I mean it.” He said. “It’s a fucking insult to the both of us if you keep it.”

“And it’s an insult to Thorin’s memory, to this mountain, to throw it away.” Fili responded in kind, teeth gritted. “I don’t need to tell you again what this symbolises for our people. It’s bad enough that it’s broken. I can’t bury the pieces or leave them to burn.” It was an iron weight in his pocket, pulling him underwater. He wished those dwarves had left it in there.

“Thorin threw it.” Kili shuffled aside, giving his brother room to help pull. “If it was Bolg, he would have waited for Thorin to be there, watching. It was already gone when we got into the throne room. If he’d dropped it, then he would have sent someone down to get it. He threw the Arkenstone away.”

They walked slowly, Fili groaning with the effort, Kili doing his best to take the lion’s share of the burden from his stubborn brother. This was the last day, the last burning. Bolg had arrived just in time. A sense of stability, of calm, had settled over the mountain now that ugly reminder of death had been so nearly cleared away. Just in time, too, Balin had remarked that morning. Dain’s retinue of nobles was due to arrive the next evening, and it wouldn’t do to have his wife side-stepping scattered limbs and pools of blood. Fili had thought it was far ruder for a hundred or so uninvited guests to turn up on his doorstep, but he’d cleared his throat and said nothing.

“What are you thinking about?” Fili asked after a time, curious about his brother’s plodding silence. Kili started, jerking himself out of a dream with a little shrug. “Bolg?”

“And others.” He wasn’t really considering Bolg. Bolg was dead and gone. Kili was thinking about the night before, about Thranduil and Gunnar and Bain and the morning’s conversation with Bard. No mention from anyone if Bard had taken his advice yet, but Kili kept his eyes and ears open around Lake-Town men. At least no one else snarled and swore in his direction. “It’s tempting to sigh and say how good that it’s over, but…” He sighed. “It’s not. Not yet.”

“We’ll get there.” Fili promised him as the cart groaned to a stop. It was a shallow grave, perhaps four or five feet deep, and thirty feet across. He couldn’t look inside, but Kili leaned over, well-practiced now, raking his eyes across the haphazard jumble of decaying limbs, of coal and fragments of wood ready for burning. “I wish you could be more subtle about that.” A grumble rang in Kili’s throat, but he otherwise said nothing. “I know people are talking.”

“Let them fucking talk, then. I don’t care.” But his heart was pounding in his throat, hot and sour. He stared down at his own hands, feeling his shoulders move up and down.

“Did you see someone you know?” Fili softened, resting a hand on Kili’s shoulder. “The ones you’re looking for?”

“Just one now. And no. I didn’t.” Kili closed his eyes and steadied himself with a long, long breath out.

Fili smiled, even though Kili couldn’t see it. “Well, that’s good. So they got away. They’re alive.”

Kili pulled away. “No, he’s not. It means they got him.” Wounded, Kili turned from his brother, from the open grave, staring out into the grey valley. A biting wind had whipped up, peeling Kili’s hair back from his face and chilling through his clothes to the bone. He wanted to scream, to tear down the stone with his bare hands. His stomach was cramped and sick from his inadequacy. He’d failed Ilzkhaal, despite every effort to protect him, despite killing for him and trying so desperately hard to keep him in the dark. He only made him suspicious and hurt, only made the others more certain that Ilzkhaal was a target. There was no optimism, no wondering if Ilzkhaal had somehow escaped, assumed a false name, lived on in secret. It didn’t work like that, not for foolhardy kids like him, sheltered for so long against the evil of the world. Not against the efficient machine of orcish cruelty and bloodlust and revenge. He would have killed for a sign, a symbol, _some_ sort of indication of what had happened to him. But Kili knew he would never get it. All he knew was that Ilzkhaal had survived the battle. He had the rest of his life to wonder what happened after.

“Kili—”

“Let’s just do this.” He turned back, wiping roughly at his eyes with his sleeve. “I think they’re waiting for us.” Kili gripped the blanket at the head, or where he thought it would be, holding his breath. Congealed blood dripped on the ground, thick as treacle, Fili choking down the urge to gag. Half a dozen shaky, uneven steps, a muffled thump as the body joined the others, and Bolg was gone. Kili stood at the very edge, so close his toes hung over the side, looking down. The blanket had been disrupted in the fall, revealing Bolg’s head. The back had been blown out, an unspeakable mass of grey and black oozing through the coarse weave, and Kili shuddered. Around the orc’s broken neck, clean and unstained somehow, was the long curve of Azog’s fang. He stared at it, one hand closing around its brother, the lesser, hanging at its own throat. It pushed in his chest, and after a moment, Kili finally placed the strange sensation swelling inside of him. Loss.

He _missed_ Azog.

Kili fought the urge to laugh. He bit down hard on the soft flesh of his cheek until his mouth was stinging, exasperated, disgusted with himself that after so fucking long he still _felt_ something about that brutal savage of a king. It was so childish, so desperate. Kili didn’t need him anymore. He took the lessons he had learned and then taught himself how to be clever, how to be strong, how to fight back when it seemed there was no way out. So perhaps in some sick way he owed that to Azog, for finally forcing Kili to grow up and break out of his orb that separated him from the outside world. In some sick way, he wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for Azog trying so hard to break him. The stench of sharp, bitter coal-oil rose as men readied the grave for burning. They buried Azog, Kili remembered. They buried all the orcs in a pit like this beneath the eaves of Mirkwood, but deeper, too afraid of the trees catching fire to burn them. A handful of bones in the ground, bitter memories and two talismans to show he ever existed.

“Come on.” Fili grabbed his elbow. Behind them, men carrying flaming torches were covering their mouths. The cart had been taken away. “They’re lighting up.” Kili obeyed, his hand still clenched in a fist at his neck. Azog had ended. His reign was over, his people scattered and crushed, his son killed. But he wasn’t completely gone. Not yet.

“Hey!” Fili shouted as his brother broke free. The pit of coal and oil and flesh had been lit, smoke rising, heavy and black as the fuel caught first, smouldering. The men darted back, coughing, and only Kili ran towards it. He broke the leather cord at his neck, breath ragged in his throat. He had to do this now. It had to burn with the rest of them. “Kili!” The shout was distant, murky in his ears. His eyes stung in the acrid smoke. The flames rose, a dull, stubborn orange, close enough for Kili to feel the heat of it on his face. With a sharp gasp, or a sob, Kili couldn’t tell, he threw the necklace as hard as he could into the heart of the fire. He pitched forward and fell on his knees with the effort, clawing at the dust.

“What are you doing?” Fili grabbed him the elbow, hauling him up. “In this wind? Hurry up!” In a daze, Kili stumbled along behind his brother, the roar of the flames rushing in his ears as the bitter wind rose, whipping around them, pushing the fire dangerously close to where Kili had been kneeling just a few moments before. “You fool!” He shouted as soon as they were safe, tendons protruding from his neck as he quivered in rage and terror. “What the hell were you thinking, Kili!”

A fog seemed to hang over Kili’s mind, veiling his senses. His face was very red, from the fire or his own racing heart, it was hard to tell, and his eyes were bright, gleaming wet in the ember-red light. Fili stilled, biting back another shout, as Kili’s hand drifted once again to his neck, closing around only a small circle of mithril that wasn’t his, and nothing else. Nothing else.

Kili sighed, feeling the relief of a shifting burden through the heavy throb of his loss, a thrum of victory as he emerged unbeaten and alone after the battle that had nearly killed him, that he was outnumbered and unmatched in, that he was never supposed to win. “He’s gone.”

* * *

 

“Thank you for coming.” Dís closed the door softly behind her, dressed in a very thin chemise of cream silk. Her hair was already elaborately braided, clasps of gem-studded silver gleaming against the deep black threaded occasionally with grey, a string of heavy sapphires at her neck. Dwalin sat up on the edge of the bed, one hand resting on Nardur’s head, dressed in grand robes of crimson with a fur-lined cloak. “Dwalin tried, but he doesn’t know how to work the laces.”

“It's all right. I remember how to do it.” Tauriel eyed the offender spread out on the bed — a beautiful blue dress embroidered with golden thread with full skirts, layers and layers of it, a heavy busk on the front and a tiny drawn-in boned waist. “It’s _very_ small. Is this all Svána had to lend you?”

Dís rolled her eyes “Oh, she’s not this thin. She’s just being unpleasant. It’ll fit. I haven’t had a decent meal in months, even in the Iron Hills.” She walked over to the dress, lifting it up. “I didn’t have much of an appetite.”

Tauriel helped her into the dress, stiff as metal in the bust with skirts almost too big to walk in. “I honestly haven’t worn anything so nice in a century. Even in the Orocanis, dams didn’t dress like this. I held onto my old things as long as I could, but they eventually fell to pieces.”

“Mm?” Tauriel got down on her knees, taking the long, long skein of thick golden ribbon. “What did they wear? Bear-skins and breastplates?”

Dís laughed, but Dwalin was quiet, watching her with a heavy sadness in his dark eyes. She cleared her throat. “Leather, mostly. Easier to get. And fur. It showed a lot of skin. Most didn't cover their stomachs until they had children. It was quite common for drunk girls to fall over and have it all pop open. No one had any use for tight-lacing and bodices. They’re useless to fight and run around in.”

A smile flickered across Tauriel’s lips. “They are. I had to wear a full corset for a feast once, years and years and years ago, and a drunken squabble broke out. I tried to stop it, but it was like being strapped to a pole. I could barely move. Never again. All right, hold your breath. And think thin.”

“I knew a dam,” Dís wheezed, her face all scrunched up, “who thought that bodices were a conspiracy to keep wayward wives celibate. No dwarf could ever figure out how to get the laces off.” Tauriel laughed at that, and even Dwalin had a little chuckle.

“Glori?” Dís nodded. “Sounds like something she’d say. She was a cynical old thing.”

“If you had her luck with dwarves, you’d be cynical too. We can’t always win over sweethearts like you.”

“All right, Dís, you need to grab the back of that chair there. And don’t move.” Tauriel stood up properly, wrapping the ribbon around and around her hands. She had to brace herself with one knee on the small of the dam’s back, pulling and pulling until the two edges just met. Dís endured the process in silence, biting her lip as the crushing pressure grew until she could only just gasp for air, standing as stiff and straight as a poker.

“Oh, this feels familiar.” She murmured faintly, pressing a hand over the unmoving busk that kept her in check, the milk-white swell of her breasts that pushed over the top. It was a prison of bone and fabric, pushing her in and in, paralytic after the weeks of mail and loose dwarvish linens. Dís turned to meet Dwalin, hands on her tiny waist. “So, Dwalin, am I still the jewel of Erebor after all these years?”

Dwalin’s hands were loose in his lap, watching her, wistful, in mourning, utterly enraptured. “I always thought you were beautiful.” He murmured. “No matter what you wore.”

“Oh, don’t be a softie.” Dís blushed red, lifting the massive flounce of her skirts to step into the soft blue slippers that were just a little too small for her feet. There was an inch of height to them, and she felt like she was teetering on the tips of her toes. Half-jokingly, she wondered if she could get away with wearing her boots. “I just hope no one asks me to sing. I can barely breathe in this stupid thing.”

“Do you have to wear it?” Tauriel asked, one hand on the back of the chair. “Are they expecting you to?”

“Svána will say something if I’m not. She’s a terrible gossip. Used to send me great long letters after she first married Dain, trying to get all the juicy stories out of me. She’ll know about Dwalin, and she and her harpies and hangers-on will be looking for anything to pick apart. I’ll play their game for now and be proper for Fili’s sake, but the moment he’s on that throne for good, I’m burning this.” She smiled at Dwalin now. “Promise you won’t miss me while gone?”

“I’ll manage.” Dwalin scratched the soft fur between Nardur’s ears. Truth be told, he was glad to miss out. He hated the whole concept. It wasn’t a feast or a party, not proper. It was a meeting of two sides, an introduction. There was no cheer or expectation of celebration. Not while Thorin was still waiting to be buried. Not while Erebor was still in ruins. “What will you say if they ask about us?” He knew they would.

“Oh, I’ll just let them have their fun. It’s a surprise to nobody now.” Dís leaned down, giving Dwalin a kiss on his good temple. “Just— Oh!” She tottered across the room, wheezing as she bent over the bundle of clothes on the floor, searching in the pockets of her trousers. “Can’t forget this.” With a smile, she pulled out the silver moon-brooch, pinning it carefully to the front of her dress. It clashed with the gold brocade, but Dís couldn’t give a toss. “And thank you, again.” She rested a hand on her constricted waist, slowly relearning how to breathe from the abdomen rather than the lungs, keep her shoulders lifted and back straight. “No one else around here knows how to do this.”

That wasn’t strictly true — some of Tauriel’s soldiers, particularly the archers, were maids, but she still appreciated the sentiment. It was a strange transformation, to see Dís washed and braided and strung with gems. She looked regal and queenly and so far removed from the fierce, bloodstained warrior on the battlefield. But there was a discomfort in the way she moved and talked, and it was clear to Tauriel that this wasn’t the kind of life that she wanted to live anymore. Erebor would be a hard transition for her, and as the mother of a disputed king, the granddaughter of a great one, the last living relic of their former glory, she had a whole new part to play. Not for the first time, Tauriel was glad she was unmarried.

But Dís would do it. Tauriel had no doubt about that. "You’re welcome.”

* * *

 

“You look good.” Fili caught his brother staring at his reflection in the tall mirror, self-consciously touching his hair. Fili had braided it himself, just two simple strands beneath his ear fastened with silver, and Kili fished his old hair-clasp out of his pocket, much to Fili’s delight, and fixed the top of his hair. He tried to weave Fili’s golden curls into their usual braids, but his hands were still too unsure and clumsy, the motion foreign to him. Kili had balled those useless hands into fists and watched his brother’s well-trained movements, the flashing of gold in the candlelight, and resolved to practice and practice until he could do it all over again.

“I feel ridiculous.” Kili muttered frankly, looking down at his hands. Three other rings joined Thrain’s, all set with gems larger than his fingernails. “Do we have to wear this shit every day now?”

“Just while Dain’s lot are here.” Fili rested an elbow on Kili’s shoulder, posing. “I don’t know. We don’t half scrub up. Don’t you think?” The dirty, battle-stained linens had been swapped for beautiful shirts and vests threaded with gold, Fili in a deep maroon, Kili in night-blue. “You don’t have to do much. Just stand and smile and be polite to anyone who tries to talk to you. It’s not a proper feast, just a welcoming. We’re not even eating, really.”

Kili shrugged under his weight. “At least the wine arrived.” That was a blessing. Hopefully he could drink enough to make the evening tolerable.

“Kili,” Fili frowned at his reflection, “are you all right? After yesterday, I mean. That… thing at the burning. Whatever it was. I thought you were going to jump right in. You terrified me.” Slowly, Kili freed himself from beneath Fili’s arm and crossed the room. “Hey, we tell each other everything now, remember?” But it wasn’t true. It wasn’t close to true.

It was a clean little chamber that they called their own for now, scrubbed free from soot and dust, a big wooden bed in the corner only slightly warped from age. Kili sat on it now, the thin heather mattress stitched with elvish silk rustling under his weight. “Yes. I’m all right. It just… It hit me, I suppose, that he’s really gone.”

“Bolg?” Fili asked, hands in his pockets. Kili shook his head. “Thorin?” Another shake. “You mean… Azog?” Kili finally nodded, resting his chin on a curled fist. Ah. That old wound. “Do you miss him?” He ventured, retracing the steps Kili had just taken. “Are you sorry that he’s dead?”

“No, I…” Kili sighed as his brother sat down, staring out across the room. “I miss the way he made me feel, sometimes. Wanted. Needed. Special.” He scoffed, shaking his head. “It sounds so pathetic, doesn’t it? But he treated me like no one had before. And part of me… I… what we had, what he was to me…” He slowly lowered his hand, curling his fingers around his scarred wrist.

“Did you see him as a father?” Fili asked bluntly, a dullness to his voice as he braced himself for the blow. “Is that what you’re trying to say?”

He mulled the question over, swinging one leg in and out. “Well,” Kili looked up at the ceiling, as though he could find an answer there. “Yes. He said I was like a son to him. He looked after me. And I resisted it for as long as I could, but…” He cleared his throat. “Yeah. I did.” Kili didn’t apologise, and Fili didn’t expect or want him to. “That’s what I was doing. You remember the necklace I had with the tooth on it? You must have seen it.” Fili leaned back on one hand and nodded. “It was Azog’s. Not just belonging to him — it was actually one of his teeth. It’s an old orcish custom for fathers to give sons one of their own teeth. Azog ripped it out and gave it to me to wear as a… a talisman. A sign of protection. Of guardianship. It’s like what Thorin did for us, with those mithril pendants, in a way.” Kili hunched his shoulders. “But I threw it on the fire, beside Bolg’s body. It’s all burned. That’s why I ran back; to get rid of it. There’s nothing left of Azog anymore. Just scars and memories, and I have to let them go.”

Fili kept staring at him. There was a tense, hot silence, punctuated only by the thin crackle of the fire. Kili listened and waited — for what, he wasn’t even sure. Every time he came close to talking to Fili about what had happened, Fili just misunderstood completely. Kili was working hard at his recovery, putting it together piece by piece, and Fili’s love was the keystone in the arch, the foundation brick, but at the moment it was as fragile as glass. Now there was something different in the way Fili looked at him this time. There wasn’t that quiet smile, that attempt to placate him. He was thoughtful and brooding and serious.

With a long, long sigh, Fili leaned forward, elbows on his knees. He still struggled against it, still wanted to tear this awful reality down and try and drag his brother back from that hazy dream-world of memory, replace this bad copy that he had. “It’s been months, Kili, and I still hate him more than I’ve ever hated anything in my life. I feel like I’m… stuck. As though I’m still wanting, hoping for... And all I can do is hate Azog for taking that away from me. From us.” He bent his head, loose strands of hair falling over his face, hiding him from view. “I keep wanting…” Fili clasped his hands. “Mahal, I’m awful.”

“You want the old me back.” Kili said quietly. Fili was silent. “Is that why you keep insisting on seeing the best in me?” He asked after a pause, watching his hunched figure for a response. “To try and make that more real?”

“I know it’s not.” His voice cracked as he finally lifted his head. “I know that we can’t go back. But I keep hoping that maybe… I— I don’t know. I feel like if you’re gone, then he’s won. They all won. And this was all for nothing.”

“Look,” Kili leaned in, keeping firm. “They _didn’t win_ , Fili. They’re dead. I killed them. And I’m alive. Nothing is more important than that, isn’t it? And yes, I’ve changed, but so have you. You used to be so angry at the world, a-and so uneasy, and so desperate to fit into that mould Thorin made for you and conform to his definition of good, and you took all of that and threw it away. We’ve both changed from this. We had to, Fili. We couldn’t survive if we didn’t.” Fili watched him in silence, studying the shadows under his eyes, the white scar along his cheek. “I’m not stupid, funny, bratty little Kili anymore. But I’m still your damn brother, and nothing is ever going to change that.”

He was right. He always seemed to be right now. Fili held his breath, everything that had been said swirling round and round in his head. Suddenly, everything he thought before seemed offensive and cruel. Kili had no interest in going back. He didn’t even want to indulge in the memory. There was only one direction — forward, into the future. He was done with the past. Kili’s idealism of him had been broken long ago, and that hero-worship of his brother, that false idol, had been cast aside. But the love and kinship hadn’t diminished. Kili saw him for what he was and accepted him for it, loved him as fiercely as he ever had before, and Fili just remained in mourning, clinging to the past. How could he expect Kili to entrust him with the truth, to reveal everything, when Fili had been so unwilling to accept him, to really, truly accept him for who he was?

“You have to love this version of me.” Kili continued, breaking through Fili’s veil of silence. “And stop holding onto memories. I’m still Kili.”

“You are.” Fili groaned, shaking his head as embarrassment flooded his stomach. “I’ve been a prat, haven’t I?” A smile broke across Kili’s face as he realised Fili was finally, _finally_ beginning to understand. “I’m sorry. Forgive me?”

Kili chuckled. Of course he did. It didn’t even need to be said. “Come on, idiot. Let’s get this over with.” Fili nodded and followed suit as Kili stood up and straightened out his ornate clothes.

“But you will tell me everything, won’t you?” Fili stopped Kili at the doorway. “It doesn’t have to be tonight. But whenever you’re ready, I’ll listen. I promise.”

Kili believed him. And he really _really_ wanted to be completely honest to Fili and just lay it all on the line, the way he should have done from the start. For all his protestations that Fili was the closest to him, that he valued his brother above all else, it was shocking how little he knew, how afraid Kili had been to tell him. And he would tell him more. Perhaps not all of it, not Ilzkhaal, not quite yet, but revealing the truth about Azog, about how it all began, was a weight so old that Kili didn’t even realise how heavy it was until it had been lifted. They had both been so abrasive these last few days, so uneasy, with Kili refusing to speak and Fili refusing to listen. Now, it seemed, they could both finally start to move on from that.

“Yeah.” He murmured. “I’d like that.”

* * *

 

Dain’s plan of attack quickly became clear. Within minutes of arriving, he split the brothers up, insisting Fili meet some contingent of his closest advisors and hurrying him away before Kili or Balin could protest. His son, on the other hand, took Kili with a sneer, saying it was high time he finally met his extended family.

“Kili.” Cousin Thorin stared, cold as a dead fish, barely hiding his rude disdain. “This is my mother.” He presented a haughty, middle-aged dam with the same snub potato-shaped nose and blank, staring eyes as him. “She’s heard _so_ much about you, haven’t you, Mother?”

“Such an honour to _finally_ meet you.” She smiled with her mouth but not her eyes, the implication obvious. Kili was never good enough to warrant a visit to the Iron Hills. Not like Fili. “I’m sorry for your loss. And for the last few months. It sounds _shocking._ ” Kili bit down on his tongue. “Did they make you shave?”

Kili was taken aback. “Excuse me?”

“Your beard. Did, the,” she lowered her voice to a dramatic whisper, “the _orcs_ make you shave it?”

“No.”It was so ridiculous that Kili wanted to laugh, dissolving any immediacy in his ill will towards her. Cousin Thorin would have divulged Kili’s story in every lurid detail, and the thing she picked up on was his lack of a beard. “I’ve always kept it short. Most archers do, lest they want their beards plucked in the bowstring.”

“Oh, an archer. How… unique.” Svána’s smile widened, showing her teeth. “And untraditional. Your uncle was very kind. But,” She extended a hand, “please, come. You must meet my sister and her husband. She’s so eager to hear all about your— er, experiences. You must have a very singular perspective.”

“Oh, not so singular.” Kili forced a stiff smile of his own, responding with the same half-interested scorn that she gave him. The silver clasps hung heavy and unfamiliar in his hair. “I’m really not as wild as people think.”

“Of course not, dear. I hardly think you’re some _savage_. Oh, have you seen your mother at all? I can’t seem to find her anywhere. I sent the loveliest dress down for her, and I do hope it wasn’t too small. It was dreadful, seeing her with all those Eastern brutes when she came. Clothes worn down to rags, so she had to borrow theirs. Mahal knows what they must have done to her. I tried to give her some of my best dresses, but she refused. Insisted on mail and trousers.” A shiver of perverse delight rolled down her spine, and Kili knew this distant catastrophe was the most exciting thing to happen to Svána in decades. It was surprisingly hard to hate her. “It doesn’t do, a dam of her standing, being in the midst of all this awful fighting, parading about like some kind of dwarvish warrior. It’s a miracle she made it out alive.”

“My mother killed Bolg’s most powerful general.” It came out sharper than Kili liked. All right, it wasn’t so hard. Svána had touched a nerve, and he saw her lip flicker with satisfaction. Damn. “She doesn’t need anyone else to protect her, and she wouldn’t like anyone to think she was weak and powerless. We have a great admiration for what she’s done.”

“Of course we do.” She looked around, disinterested in fighting over her cousin’s reputation. “Thorin, darling, I think I see Sálma. Do keep your cousin company for a moment, hm?”

“Happy to.” He gave an unpleasant smile as his mother walked away, curling into a sneer the moment her back was turned. “It really is good to finally meet. Such a _shame_ you never got to see what a proper dwarf kingdom looks like. Guess your uncle didn’t think you were worth the time.”

It was a deliberate jab to get Kili riled up, but it stung all the same. He’d never forgiven Thorin for that in a way, never let go of that disappointment, that abandonment. But for now, Kili just fixed a calm, cold stare on his cousin. “Perhaps Dain didn’t want to embarrass you again after Fili showed you up.” He suggested. “Or perhaps the Iron Hills was just a waste of time.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, or your brother.” Kili had obviously struck a sensitive spot, and Thorin lacked the same self-control. “You half-breeds have fouled our name, with Fili’s treachery, and you…” He spat on the ground. “An orc-friend like you has no place in these halls.”

“More than you.” Kili said quietly, resolving that Thorin wasn’t going to get at him. There was no way that someone as clumsy and stupid as him could have a hope of getting in Kili’s head. “A spoiled brat who throws a tantrum if he doesn’t get his way. This is our home, Thorin. Not yours.”

“Do you really think my father will allow this farce to go on?” Thorin sneered at him. “Fili is Thranduil’s puppet. He sold Erebor to save his own cowardly skin, and us dwarves would be slaves in all but name to him. No one with any shred of integrity would allow that to happen. Your brother had his chance, and he blew it.” The sneer deepened. “He’s not fit to rule an outhouse.”

“You don’t get to decide this, and neither does Dain.” Kili didn’t have the patience to fight this kind of delusion, and he wished his cousin would shut up or go away. “Uncle Thorin made it clear that—”

“Thorin?” He laughed. “Thorin was on his deathbed. He would have said anything. He was raving mad the morning of the battle. Do you think that holds up to signed letters? A contract? And who are your witnesses? A half-deaf, doddering old dwarf, you, Fili and his closest advisor? Who would have any right to believe you?”

Kili stood very still. “So that’s your plan to challenge the succession.” At least he had confirmation of his suspicions. “Well, thank you for warning me in advance.”

“There is nothing you can do. Especially you.” Thorin took a step closer. He wasn’t as tall as Kili, but he still had the well-trained, innate ability to look down his nose at his cousin. “The law of succession is in our favour. We have more of the other tribes on our side, more people in this mountain. We have the right. Perhaps if my father is exceptionally charitable, he’ll offer your mother amnesty, but you and Fili?” He smirked. “I hope you’re ready to pick up Eastron, because there’s only one place you’ll be going. Father’s all but sewn that up. And that bastard freak that hangs around you? He’ll be the first for the gallows.”

Something snapped inside him at the mention of Ori. It struck too close to Kili’s heart, a promise that felt a little too real. He seized the front of Thorin’s shirt, right at the throat, with a choking force. “Lay a hand on Ori,” he promised, “and I’ll break it off.”

Thorin gasped, a spark of fear lighting in his cold eyes, but he broke it off with a wry chuckle, resting a hand on Kili’s wrist. “Careful.” He warned. “They already think you’re a wild monster. Do you really want to prove them right?”

“Fuck you.” But Kili let him go, taking a step back. “Don’t play around with me, Thorin. I’ll ruin you.”

Thorin scoffed. “You’ll ruin me? You’re already gone. The moment your uncle is in the ground, it’s all over.” His smile widened, clearly enjoying every moment of this. Kili’s heart throbbed painfully in his chest, the terror rising slowly as the nose came down around his neck. “Enjoy your time in Erebor, cousin. There’s not a lot left.”

* * *

 

Dís sighed, standing close to Balin as she watched the room. With a half-hearted smile, she bade goodbye to some vanishing baroness, and the moment the dam’s back was turned, snorted into her half-empty wine. “She’s just as dull as I remember. Over a hundred years, and she’s still telling the same stories, poor thing.”

“He’s advertising. The Iron Hills have been more peaceful and less prosperous than they’d like. How else could Dain rally his people so fiercely around him? I’m sure they’d all enjoy a piece of Erebor, with our own numbers so thin.” Bain sighed heavily. “Where are the boys? Has Dain managed to split them up.”

Dís pointed. “I found Fili.” He had been cornered by Dain and a ring of his advisors, standing very stiff with his hands at his side. There was no wine; he was probably too afraid that someone would try poisoning it. “I wonder what they’re trying to bully out of him. They both swore not to bring up succession until after the funeral.”

“To each other, but not to themselves.” Balin remarked. “I won’t lie; I’m worried. Dain’s just got just as much a right as Fili does. Thorin may have recanted on his deathbed, but his rejection of Fili was on paper. I’m on Fili’s side, of course, but…”

“It’s going to be messy.” Dís watched her eldest boy, the way he looked from one to the other, keeping his head erect, sharply admonishing someone who looked as though they spoke out of turn. “He’ll be fighting this battle for the rest of his life.”

“He’s not alone.” Balin did his best to be encouraging. “He’s got us, his brother, Dwalin. The company are behind him, even Oin and Gloin. Fili has a lot on his side.” But it wasn’t enough, and they both knew it.

“Oh no.” Dís finally found Kili, standing close to young Thorin and Svána and Sálma, her elder sister. She couldn’t see her son’s face at this angle, but Thorin’s smarmy grin was visible from here, and she could see his mother nattering on. “Poor thing.” Balin followed her gaze, wincing. “All right. I know just how to handle that. I’ll take Kili, you take Fili.”

“Good luck.” He said grimly, straightening his fine new clothes. “Looks like you might need it.”

“Mm.” Dís winced, her left big toe already stinging from the beginnings of a blister. “You too.”

* * *

 

Svána clicked her tongue. “Sálma, sweet, this is our dear cousin. Kili, my sister, Sálma.” Kili forced a thin smile for the dam, holding his hand out of her. Inside, his brain was writhing, trying to decide how much of what Thorin had said was true, and how much was just bullshit and bravado. “It’s so good for us to finally meet. Sálma was just saying how magnificent all the stonework is beneath all this soot. I’m surprised you remember; it was _so_ long ago.”

“Mm, the last time I came was for the funeral for Óska, Thrain’s wife. Oh, it was so sad.” Sálma sighed. “I remember Mother, she was distraught. Óska was her aunt, did you know, Kili? Mahal, it was the last great event these halls must have had.”

“Of course. And yes, the funeral was stunning. A week of feasts. Mourning-feasts, but still. I couldn’t fit my gowns at the end, and Mother had to get a seamstress to let out my mourning dress, and it was still too tight. I ended up collapsing halfway through the prayers. She didn’t let me eat for two days after that, and I had to get the scullery maid to smuggle bread and cheese in the coal-bucket.” Kili felt himself grow foggy and glazed under the dull conversation. “It’s a pity that you haven’t managed to get the place up to scratch yet.” The dam squinted around the hall, sensing his boredom and bringing Kili back on edge.

“We had the bodies of two thousand orcs to burn.” Kili spoke stiffly, lips barely moving.  
“Wall-hangings and fine food weren’t a priority.”

“Yes, it has been a disaster on all fronts. I can understand completely why your poor brother is unable to cope.” Svána seemed impervious to his exasperation. Thorin smiled against his wine-cup, blue eyes gleaming. “He is very new to all of this, isn’t he? But, of course, he can’t spend _too_ long trying to find his feet with a kingdom to rebuild—”

“Svána! Sálma!” Kili’s knees sagged at his mother’s voice. “There you are. I’ve been looking everywhere for you two.”

“Oh, _Dís_ . Look at you! Don’t you look lovely. I’m _so_ pleased that you fit that dress.” Her tight smile suggested otherwise. “Beautiful, dear. You were starting to look far too dwarvish in all that mail. I was just talking with Kili about the rebuild. It’s coming along a little slower than we expected. I do hope Fili isn’t struggling too much. He should really talk to Dain. I’m sure he would be happy to offer advice—”

“I’m so glad I found you.” Dís extended a hand. “I have some wonderful news about Dwalin and I.” The tight smile dropped to a wide-eyed eagerness, Svána’s rings gleaming as she gripped her wine. Sálma squeaked. “We’re going to get married.”

“I— You— You’re _what?”_ Svána lost her composure. “Married? You? _Again?”_

“Well, we thought it best to get it done properly. You know how awful some people can be about an affair. Nearly losing him in the battle settled it. We’re getting too old for this dancing about.” Svána gripped Thorin’s elbow, her face very flushed. “I think the grand hall will scrub up nicely in a few weeks. It’ll be nice to have a celebration after all this misery, don’t you think? Oh, will you come?”

Sálma cleared her throat, visibly put out. “Thorin, darling, go and find your cousin Lína. She _must_ hear about this.”

“But Father said—”

“Listen to your aunt. That’s a dear. Chop-chop.” Svána overrode him and lifted her shaking goblet to her mouth. Kili watched it all quietly, eyes on his mother, wondering just what her plan was. Marriage? It had been talked about in the dead of night, a whispered fantasy, but to come out like this was so utterly unlike _Amad_. Something had to be going on. “Quickly.”

“Kili, dear, can you get me some more wine?” Dís held out her empty cup and jerked her head in direction of the door. _Go,_ she mouthed with a little nod before resuming that stuff, exaggerated smile.

“Yes.” He realised in an instant. “Yes, of course, _Amad._ Excuse me.” _Thank you,_ Kili mouthed to her as Svána looked away. She inclined her head in a soft nod, and before Thorin could return with his awful cousin, Kili escaped, keeping his head down, hoping nobody would talk to him.

Fuck, fuck, _fuck._ Alone in the hall, Kili stopped for air. It was stuffy and smelled of mildew. He knew in his gut that it wouldn’t be as easy as Fili stepping forward and taking the throne unchallenged, but this… Had Dain really made a deal with Fíak already? Impossible. He’d spoken to Úni just two days ago, and he’d been so open and willing to talk, so desperate for Kili to understand him. Had things already changed, or had Fíak made some sort of agreement that was entirely secret to the rest of the Ironfists? Resolve plucked in Kili’s stomach, and he knew there was only one place he could go now. He half-jogged down two hallways and around a corner before a hunched figure leaning against the wall made them pause. Kili glimpsed a bent head of part-braided, orangeish hair in the bad light, a ratty old scarf thrown over his shoulder.

“Ori?” He asked softly, uneasily. With a gasp, Ori lifted his head, startled at the intrusion. He clung to a cup of wine, his knees drawn in close. “Are you all right?”

“Oh, look!” Ori laughed at him, high-pitched and bitter. “Kili! So you’re having as much fun as I did tonight, hm?” He chuckled sarcastically again and tried to take another drink, huffing when he found out it was empty and letting it slip through his fingers. “Damn.”

“What happened?” Kili slowly got down on his knees. But he had a good idea. Ori heaved a long, long sigh and finally looked Kili square in the face, his mouth trembling.

“What the hell do you think.” Ori muttered. “What reason could those idiots possibly have for hating me? The fact that my mother’s a whore and I don’t know who my father is? That I plotted against Thorin and he swore to exile me twice? Or that I confessed I was in love with the king-in-waiting’s brother?” He ran his free hand through his hair, hissing he caught a snag. “I knew this was going to happen. I just knew it.”Ori’s gaze remained fixed on the ground. Slowly, Kili settled in beside Ori, bringing his legs up in kind, resting his cheek on one knee as he turned to look at him.

“I’m never going to belong.” Ori whispered. “I just— It was stupid to think people would forget. That they wouldn’t care.”

Kili sighed. “What did they say?” He kept his voice soft and gentle, knowing how easy it would be for Ori to turn to anger.

“Just— You know. I didn’t deserve to be there. I was disgusting. I don’t want to repeat it.” Ori murmured beneath his bent head. “Look, don’t tell Fili. He’ll start a ruckus, and I know he can’t afford to make any more enemies.”

“Forget him. _I’ll_ sort it out.” Kili snarled. Ori’s head jerked up in alarm, and he leaned in, gripping his sleeve just beneath the elbow, holding him down.

“No! No. I mean it. I’m not worth fighting over. It’s not going to change how anyone thinks, is it? I just have to… accept that I’m not going to fit in here. I don’t belong.” His voice wobbled in the dimness, punctuated with a sharp hitch of his breath. “I’m never going to belong.”

Kili leaned against the wall, thinking. He knew exactly how Ori felt. He had that same self-consciousness, that same unease, thinking he was broken. And even if Kili didn’t feel the same way Ori did, in his heart, he still liked it, wanted it, needed it… A needle stuck in his throat, and he swallowed it back, forcing down the sting of emotion, realising in a burst of clarity what Ori needed. May as well kill two birds with one stone. And Kili would feel more secure if he didn’t go in there alone.

“Come on.” He scrabbled to his feet, holding his hand out as a plan formed in his head. “I’ll take you somewhere you might feel a little more at home.”

* * *

 

Fili was having an equally stressful time. He felt stretched as Dain and these other dwarves asked him long-winded, difficult, relentless questions. Had he negotiated any tariffs with Thranduil and Bard? Was he paying for mercenaries to accompany the rest of his people from Ered Luin or sending his own dwarves back? Wouldn’t it be dangerous? What about compensation from the families of those killed who still had claims to Erebor’s wealth? And most importantly, how on earth was Fili going to pay for all of this after promising Thranduil and the rest of company shares of gold all at the same time? He stumbled over his answers, caught out, and although he had a response for everything  — tariffs were a long way off, mercenaries would take the dwarves from Eren Luin and meet some of Thranduil’s elves at the foothills of the Misty Mountains to safely take them through Mirkwood, and the issue of dividing up the wealth was in ongoing negotiations — Fili could see them shooting glances and knowing smiles. It wasn’t enough.

“I’m sure you have the best intentions.” Dain said gently, and Fili knew that he meant every word. That was part of what made this so maddening. “But Fili, you must see why we have cause for concern. It’s a delicate situation, and for someone as inexperienced as you... we just want to make sure that you’re not going to struggle.”

“I haven’t been sitting on my hands for eighty years.” Fili already felt drained. “I know how to run a kingdom, Dain. I had decades of instruction from the best. Or do you not trust your own scholars?” Dain paused at that, a little abashed, remembering.

“Ah, Fili. There you are.” Balin. Fili sighed heavily with relief, hiding a smile. “Oh, Dain. And Hagni, Ottarr. It’s been a while. I hope you have comfortable lodgings here. It’s all rather a muddle, I know, but our Fili’s making the best of what we have. It’s been nothing short of a diplomatic nightmare, housing this many clans under one roof. Dís’ wedding was a breeze by comparison. Hagni, you were there, I remember. You got caught up in that unfortunate scuffle with the Ironfist retinue. But that excellent helm you gave Thorin served us for many seasons. I believe it’s still at Ered Luin.” Balin’s way with words was a gift. Within minutes he had the frowning old dwarves at ease, taking pains to mention Fili’s successes in the past, glossing cheerfully over his failures, repeating what Fili had said already, eloquent and confident, until even Dain seemed, for the moment, satisfied.

Finally, Balin talked them into letting Fili leave. “Rotten old codgers, the lot of them.” He muttered in Fili’s ear. “Wait here, and I’ll fetch some wine. Don’t blame you for steering clear from what they’d serve you.” He’d only been waiting for a few moments when a soft voice behind Fili coughed. It was strikingly, achingly familiar, making every muscle seize in his body, robbing the air from his lungs.

“Fili.” Slowly, battling through his paralysis, he turned. The blood rushed molten through his veins, and he was rooted to the ground, staring at her, transfixed. She looked a little older, a little more sturdy and less slim. The untouched white of her skin had gone shockingly brown after forty years, the colour of the golden, earthy clay he and Kili used to squelch about in by the riverside. It was from the sun, he realised. She’d spent a very long time on the road. It made the green of her eyes shine brighter, as sharp as a poisonous snake, gleaming in her muted, nervous joy.

“Áfríðr.” he creaked her name aloud for the first time in two decades, a foreign language on his tongue. She extended her right hand, bare to the elbow, brown and unmarked and unclaimed, wearing only a single diamond ring on her middle finger for him to take hold politely. The shock and amazement welled up and spilled over in Fili’s chest, and he burst out laughing, one hand clapped loosely over his mouth. She was laughing too, and when it became clear that Fili couldn’t, or wouldn’t, move, Áfríðr stepped towards him, and without any regard for who could be watching, wound her arms around his neck.

“It’s so good to see you.” She sighed against his shoulder, holding him tight. Fili held his breath and let the weight of her sink against him, felt her hair against his throat, the flex of her fingers along the back of his neck. “Oh, look at you. You’ve barely changed. Don’t even have a full beard yet, silly goose.” Áfríðr drew back. “Well, are you going to say something or stand there catching flies?”

“I— I can’t believe you’re here.” He finally stammered, clumsy, unwieldy, looking again at the diamond on her finger. She still had it. “Are you with your father, or…”

“Er, no, _Adad_ passed away thirty years ago.” She smiled softly, sadly.

“Oh! I’m so sorry. We didn’t hear anything. You should have written to me.”

“Why?” Áfríðr shrugged. “We’d stopped sending letters by then. I thought you’d all but forgotten me.” Contrition panged in Fili’s stomach. “Oh, it’s all right. Honestly. I know the last thing you had to worry about was some little fling with a half-breed from the fringes of court.”

“You weren’t a little fling. You were the first dam I ever…” Fili cleared his throat. “You know.” And still the only, really, although Fili would never admit that to her for some stupid, proud reason. “I thought about you all the time.” For as long as he dared to, at least.

“I did too.” She admitted, shy, a little abashed. “Oh, I’m going all red.” The dam pressed a hand against her cheek. “Not that you’d tell. I’m as brown as an Easterling.”

“I like it.” Fili stumbled out, his own face flaming. “It brings out your eyes.” Áfríðr’s shy smile grew, and she started laughing again. “So you— you’ve been on the road. Out East?”

“East and south. Oh, further than you could imagine. Well, maybe not _you,_ but every other Longbeard probably could.” She rested a hand on his wrist. “My older cousin took my father’s diplomat post, but really, I’m the one who does all the talking. It’s mine in all but name. Dain’s _so_ old-fashioned, and he refused to let me go unescorted. Says it’s too much responsibility for an unmarried _maiden_. Ha! If only he knew. But trust me, no one can talk stubborn old men around like us dams.” She scoffed. “And was he grateful when I shaved a quarter off his duties on all those Khand spices? No!”

“So you’re not married?” Fili’s heart shot up into his throat. “Still?”

“Oh, Mahal, I’d rather marry a Wainrider than any of that lot in the Iron Hills.” Áfríðr rolled her eyes. “So _boring,_ and thick as two short planks. I haven’t seen my mother’s side in years, but it’s got to be just as bad. Besides, the moment I’m married, I can kiss all the work I do goodbye and live in some mouldy old villa popping out children. And it’s _far_ too much fun for that. So, is your brother around at all? I’d love to meet him in the flesh after those months and months of talking. He sounded like a terror.”

“Mm, he’s over— I don’t know where he is.” Fili looked about with a frown. “But he’s— Well, just forget everything I told you about him, all right? That was a _really_ long time ago. He’s changed, um, a lot.”

“Yes.” The joy softened in her eyes and her voice. “I heard. I’m so sorry, Fili. That must have been awful for him. Of course he wouldn’t be the same.”

“Yeah, it— it took me far too long to realise that.” The hand was still on his wrist. “Far too long.” Fili paused, unsure, thrown-together, still overwhelmed that she was even _there._ He tried to collect himself, to get back into joint, feeling so exposed and fragile and naked under that soft green gaze that he’d forced himself to forget about so long ago.

“Oh.” Balin’s earthy, rumbling voice made Fili start. With a soft _ahem,_ Áfríðr pulled back from him, hands folded primly in front of her, one over the other. “Áfríðr.” The old dwarf blinked. “What a lovely surprise. I wasn’t aware you were this far west again. Fili, here.” He offered the wine to him, and Fili downed half in a single thirsty gulp, hoping it would calm his nerves. “I was so sorry to hear about your father. He was an honourable fellow and a highly effective negotiator. I’m sure he’s sorely missed.”

Áfríðr dipped her head in a humble nod. “Thank you.”

“Wait,” Fili frowned. “How did you know?” But of course Balin knew. Balin seemed to know everything.

“Oh, I get letters.” Balin didn’t seem to think anything of it. “I heard you’re quite the talker yourself, Áfríðr. Dain’s lucky to have you.” His words were gentle and full of flattery, but there was still a tense uneasiness about him. Balin had a long memory.

“Thank you, Balin. That’s a real honour, coming from you.” She was prim and sweet and as delicate as glass. Balin’s arrival gave her a smooth veneer of propriety. “My father always said he envied your diplomacy.”

Fili felt incredibly foolish and ignorant, standing at odds with the two seasoned negotiators. “I had _no_ idea you were such a diplomat. Are you really that good?”

“Of course I’m good. I bet I could talk Thranduil down to a tenth of the gold.” Áfríðr winked. “Just give me half an hour and a bottle of something strong.” It was a light-hearted joke, but Fili’s stomach tightened at the memory of his failure, and he couldn’t look at her.

“Yeah, I screwed that up.” He whispered. “Please, don’t remind me.” It wasn’t her intention to belittle him, and she was instantly apologetic, but it was a speck, a grain of sand in something sweet and creamy that stuck in his teeth. It was an ugly reminder of how diminished he’d become in the eyes of the Iron Hills, how much of a hill he had to climb.

“I’m sorry.” A seriousness crept into Áfríðr’s voice. “But it’s all half this lot can talk about. They’re dead worried.” Those brilliant green eyes slid from Fili to Balin as she worried her lower lip between her teeth. “I hope you’ve got a plan. And I hope you put it into place. Soon.”

“Why?” Balin demanded, stepping towards her and lowering his voice. “What do you know? What have they told you?”

“I— Look.” Áfríðr reached out and took Fili’s wrist again. “Look at me. Trust me.” They locked eyes, Fili’s breath seizing. “I am on your side. I didn’t have anything to do with this.”

Fili lowered the cup from his mouth, a knot of unease tightening in his stomach. “Anything to do with what?” He breathed, knuckles paling. Her sun-browned breast heaved as she breathed deeply, slowly, in and out.

“Oh, Fili.” Her mouth was slack. “I’m so sorry.”

* * *

“Úni,” he blinked at the hand clapped on the middle of his back. “Come ‘ere. You’ll _never_ guess who just walked in.” Úni followed Bjórr from the back chamber of the old villa they’d repurposed for their own and into the large front hall, where eighty of their own sat or stood or lounged, enjoying their share of Thranduil’s wine. A few were singing, and someone had procured a little fiddle. Standing in the doorway was Kili, talking to Vakri, an ageing but still fearsome dwarf, was gesturing for someone to fetch another drink. Pressed in close to Kili’s side was the little ginger-haired fellow — Ori, he remembered — looking around with a wide-eyed mixture of fear and curiosity.

“What brought you here?” Úni asked as he approached the pair, trying to smooth the frown on his face. “Do you have a message or something?”

“No, we just— oh, thank you.” Kili accepted the wine with a smile. “We just want to have a drink.” His gaze slid sideways to Ori for a moment, fleeting and meaningful, and in a moment, Úni understood.

“Is it that bad?” After a some time, they made a little ring of six; Ori, Úni and Kili on a bench against the wall, Styrr, the dwarf Ori had seen the day of the battle with his older lover, leaning against a charred, wobbly chair opposite. There were two others, and Ori couldn’t remember their names. He drank quietly, just listening, giving short, one-word answers when needed. It was clear what Kili wanted to do — he wanted Ori to be put at ease amongst like-minded dwarves, to be shown that he wasn’t sick or wrong or disgusting for how he felt. Part of Ori rebelled against it. He didn’t want to be pandered or condescended to, but the longer he sat and watched, the more that hard casing around his heart softened, and he felt himself relax around these strangers for the first time in… oh, longer than he could ever remember. They knew, they all knew about Kili (because who couldn’t resist spreading such juicy gossip?) who was sitting _right there_ , and they didn’t give a fig. Ori knew all the rumours and stories about who the Ironfists were and what they’d done, but in that moment, he saw beyond it the brutality and fierceness that they showed towards outsiders, tempered from centuries of desperation and warfare. Both Ori and Kili were brought in, looking beyond the curtain.

“Hm? Oh, you mean me?” Ori looked up, realising that Styrr was talking to him. “It’s not just that. I think they’re looking for a reason to hate me after what I’ve done.” He shrugged. “And I gave them a good one.”

“There is no way it _never_ happens.” The dwarf lounging in the chair announced. “I bet there’s a few Longbeards out there with some real dirty secrets. Probably being blackmailed by whatever poor dwarrow they dragged into a dark closet.” Ori coughed into his drink. “That’s how it starts, right? With the young, girly-looking ones. Probably using their own pageboys and standard-bearers.”

“An expert, huh, Bjórr?” Styrr arched his neck to look up at his cousin. “Something I should be telling your old lady when we get back?”

“Hey, what happens on the road stays on the road. She rules the roost at home, and Mahal, she knows it.” Bjórr had the distinct impression that she was making her own fun at home, although he’d never have the chance to prove it, and at any rate, he still quite liked her too much to make any accusations of adultery.

After Ori had relaxed enough to smile, and he was no longer looking over at Kili in terror every few moments, Kili decided it was time to make his own move. It was the bare bones of a plan, something he’d been sketching out from raw foundations since he’d met with Úni, and seeing Thorin earlier that evening had only steeled his resolve. He had to do something if he wanted to save his brother.

“Oi,” Kili leaned in to murmur in Úni’s ear. “Do you know where Fíak is? I can’t see him.”

Úni’s hands tensed around his drink. “Back room. Do you want me to come with you or—”

“No, I’ll find him.” Kili drained his cup and stood up, resting a hand on Ori’s shoulder. “Gotta take a leak. Won’t me a moment.”

“Wait!” Ori hissed. “Kili, I don’t even know—”

“Oh, you’ll be fine. I’ll be right back.” Ori sank against the wall, nails biting into his wine-cup as the deep rumble of laughter washed over him.

“Relax! It’s _fine._ ” Styrr scooched forward on the ground, holding a heavy brass jug. “Come ‘ere, let me top you up.” Wordlessly, Ori held out his hand. “Skittish little thing, aren’t you? Promise we’re not eat you.”

“Unless that’s what you’re into.” Bjórr winked, one leg flung over the warped arm of the chair. Ori flushed a very deep red and retreated into his wine, trying to dull the rapid thud of his heart. It was too much, too heavy, too close, after years and years of pretending. “Hey, you think I’m joking? It’s a real thing. Oh, remember old Ulfa? He used to have this thing where he’d feed his lovers until they were sick and then tie them up. Girls or boys, he didn’t mind.”

“ _Ugh,_ don’t remind me. He invited me to dinner once, years and years ago, said he wanted to talk about getting me an apprenticing spot in the king’s guard.” Styrr shuddered, “I couldn’t have been older than thirty. Walked out the door when I realised what was going on. Couldn't tell anyone, of course. Never got that guard job either. Amazing what comes out after someone carks it, eh?”

If only that was always the case. Some secrets died with their keepers. Ori drank slowly, trying to sober up a bit, listening to the patter of conversation drift and turn in lazy circles. They started talking about home, their faces tense and knuckles whitening, not sure what they would find when they’d get back, who would take the crown. Úni seemed convinced that his brother had already seized power and was slaughtering Válka’s grandsons and great-grandsons while they sat there. Styrr joked that Válka herself would simply sit her enormous behind on that throne, proclaim herself queen, and no one would be able to shift her. But Bjórr said there had been gossip about his niece, Katrín’s great-granddaughter, and one of Válka’s grandsons, and he wouldn’t rule out an alliance between them. How they kept track of it all, Ori didn’t know. His head swam just listening to the rush of names and family connections.

“Mm,” Bjórr upended the jug over his cup, watching the drops of red trickle out. “Damn, need more. Ori, can you give me a hand?”

“Oh, um, sure.” A little puzzled, Ori followed him, weaving through the loose crowds of people sitting, standing, sprawling in tight rings. Bjórr took a single candle led him through a doorway and down a narrow passage, turning into a dusty little room that had once been a larder. “Where’s the wine?” Ori asked, looking around as Bjórr set the candle down. Aside from the old wobbly shelves, some still holding earthenware jars covered in an inch of ash and dust, a bench with mould-ridden remains of cheesecloth, the tiny chamber was empty.

“In a minute.” Bjórr turned, very close, too close. Ori wanted to ask what he was doing, what was going on, but the words died in his throat. He thought knew anyway, in the sinking stone in his stomach, in the rush of chest, what was going to happen. The dwarf leaned in, and for the first time in Ori’s life, there was a mouth against his, one hand against his neck, cool on his flushed skin, an arm winding around his back. The alien contact was a shock, an invasion, a brutal tearing down of Ori’s fragile defences, and he balled his hands into fists, striking them against Bjórr’s chest.  

With a short gasp, Bjórr pulled away. He studied Ori’s face in the soft light, his own fair brow furrowed in concentration, head a little bent so their eyes could meet. Ori was frozen, his only movement the heaving up and down of his ribs, and it still wasn’t taking in enough air. The shock unfurled through his body, sending a quiver along his skin, along his arms, down his spine, at the back of his neck. Bjórr kept his tight hold on Ori, a cage of flesh and cloth around him, like ropes holding him fast, hot as sun-baked rock. Ori felt himself melting into it, growing weak and compliant, his head swimming. He wanted to tear himself away and at the same time stay in this strange embrace forever. Was this how Kili felt? Did he have that same rush of nervousness and unease, that same horror in what he was doing? How did he let himself do this? How could he divorce himself from that terrible guilt and shame that would have filled him? This was a stranger, a married dwarf a thousand miles from home who was no friend to his people, and despite all that, the protestation in his head seemed half-hearted and distant, barely audible over the heaving thrum of his heart.

“Hey, I know I’m not Kili.” Bjórr whispered, and the hand on Ori’s scarf came up into his hair, winding through the sensitive locks at the base of his skull, a fingertip sliding beneath the tattered wool over the back of his neck. Ori tensed at the words, struggling through the fog on his brain. Was it that obvious? Had he said Kili’s name aloud? It was a black mark, the unrequited love stamped as plainly as a brand on his face. But why did it matter? Kili had nothing to do with this. Kili was a fantasy, a childish hero-worship. “But—”

“To hell with Kili.” Ori rasped. It lit a fire inside of him, flaring through his heart and lungs and into his skull, pulsing, rushing. His balled fists smoothed out and then clenched handfuls of fur and leather, and Ori let his mouth fall open in invitation, pulling Bjórr in so their chests touched, as though he could fuse the two of them together like twin pieces of red-hot metal. Something seemed to give way within him, as though he’d been hollowed out, and he was collapsing. The heated shock was ebbing, making way for a flow of passion sinking in his abdomen, lowering, pulling from from the very tips of his toes. It was a desire he’d only considered in his most forbidden of fantasties, occasionally dreamed about and awoken from red-faced and shaking, something he had resigned himself to abstain from forever. His senses left him, and with his soul stripped bare, Ori’s knees gave out. He came undone, feeling only the broad hands on his skin, the pull of his scarf until it fell away and left his throat exposed, the scrape of a beard against his mouth, soft as lamb’s wool, the shuddering push of a body so matched in proportion pressed tightly against his own. And for the first time that little voice in his head, that unease and caution and self-doubt, was totally silent.

* * *

 

“Well, this is a surprise.” Fíak lifted his head as Kili swiftly closed the iron-bolted door. He was sitting alone in the back room with Leikr, the two sharing a jug of wine at a wobbly little table lit by a single candle. Leikr watched in silence, his piercing blue eyes fixed on Kili, scrutinising, unforgiving. “So this is what stole Úni away, hm?”

“We need to talk.” Kili had no energy for pleasantries. One hand drifted self-consciously to the braid at his neck, and he wished he’d taken them out before coming in. “Alone.” Fíak leaned back in his chair over the rim of his goblet, studying him. Leikr turned his gaze to the old dwarf now, questioning. Without breaking his stare, Fíak nodded.

A low grunt jolted in Leikr’s throat as he stood up, shuffling a little to make his reluctance clear. He paused as he stepped before Kili, looking closely at him for the first time, comparing his narrow jaw and thin nose to a dim old memory. “Mm,” he grunted again, a rumble of assent rather than annoyance, and Kili knew he passed whatever test Leikr had devised in his head.

“I hear you’ve been busy.” Kili crossed the room in six long steps, the chair squeaking as he roughly pulled it out. Fíak set down his drink, one elbow leaning on the table. “So was it Dain you spoke to or one of his messengers?”

“Like Dain would allow himself to be seen in our company. Who told you, his son? He seems the type who couldn’t keep his mouth shut if his life depended on it.”

“So you’ve made a deal, then.” Fíak smeared his finger over a spilled drop of wine as he listened, a wry smile flickering on his face. “You’re really going to fight Thranduil over Fili? You know he’ll kill you without a second thought.”

“I haven’t promised anything.” Fíak’s hand stilled. “I’m just… keeping all our options open. If Fili can offer something better, I’m willing to listen. Is that why you’re here?” The wry smile faded, Fíak growing thoughtful as he tried to pick Kili apart. “No, no, he doesn’t know you’re here, does he? This is something you’ve plotted about yourself.”

“No one is afraid of whatever force you can muster. You’re too outnumbered. No, that contract you have is sharper than any sword that could be raised against you. Dain’s claim to the throne hangs on it.”

“What, this?” Fíak fished the very grubby piece of vellum out of his pocket. “Or do you mean this?” He unfolded it the letter and extracted the torn page he’d received some weeks earlier, resting it face-up on the table so Kili could read it — _You may inform Fíak and his soldiers that they have a full, unbridled claim to Fili. They are free to track him down and bring him back to the East, and Thorin will not interfere in any way. He is theirs._

“That son of a bitch.” Kili hissed, recognising Balin’s handwriting.

“Hard to argue with signed ink.” Fíak slowly folded it back into a neat little square, tucking it away in his pocket once more. “Balin will have to admit that’s in his writing. It doesn’t look good for your brother, does it?” He leaned back, crossing his arms.

“Fili won’t solve your problems.” Kili picked up Leikr’s empty cup and half-filled it with the rich wine, raising it to his lips. He hadn’t had enough to handle this. “So, what, you take him back to the Orocani’s. Finding a wife would be hard enough with three families putting their hand up. Someone’s going to be upset when they miss out.” Fíak listened, still and silent. “He’s a pawn for whatever circle you marry him into. Look, I know my brother. He’s clever, but he is far too naive to survive in that den of wolves. He probably thinks he could save you from yourselves by being good and kind, setting some kind of example. They’ll seize on his mercy and strangle him with it.”

Every word Kili said was true, but Fíak wasn’t ready to give anything away. “Hm,” he made a sound of thoughtfulness, noting the way Kili’s eyes dipped down to the pitted tabletop, the tight grip he had on the wine. There was a defeatism about him, almost a complete reversal to the Kili he had spied on several days earlier, that mocked and threatened Thranduil and held a blade to his throat. He knew already what Kili was going to offer; it was so obvious, listening to him talk about Fili with that unwavering devotion, the hollowness at the very edge of his voice.

“I’ll ask again.” Fíak leaned forward, not breaking his gaze. “What can you offer that’s better?” Kili’s voice stuck in his throat. Terror was pushing it down, sewing his lips shut, refusing to allow him to speak. A drum beat in his head, racing, running footsteps that wanted to carry him far, far, far away from all of this. Resting on the pulse of his throat was the tiny circle of mithril that Fili had given him, and Kili felt the weight of it. He pressed himself into it, focusing, the way he did when he lined his bow for some long-distance shot, seeing only his kill and letting the rest of the world fog and blur around him. Fili. He was doing all of this to save Fili.

He drew in a short breath and let his body relax, let the world return to him. “Me,” Kili said, firm, decisive, making his shot. “And I get to write the rules. We do this my way.”


	120. The New Age

With his voice low, close to a threat, Kili outlined his plan, his offer to the Ironfist people in exchange for Fili's freedom. The entire time, Fíak stared at him, inscrutable, giving nothing away, and when Kili was done, he pushed his chair back, staring into empty space without a word. After an aged, heavy silence that felt as though it had existed for centuries, the old dwarf remarked that he needed some air.

Outside in the street, Fíak made a show of lighting his brass pipe, inhaling deeply, eyes closed as a plume of smoke vanished into the blackness. Kili followed and watched with practiced, patient obedience, arms folded, the rectangle of yellow light from the front door a mask on his face casting half in darkness. One eye stared at him, the colour of a wet riverstone, the other invisible.

“It’s a hell of an offer. What do you think Fili will say?” He finally asked, his voice barely visible over the playing of the fiddle, the laughter in the next room. Kili scoffed in his throat, dipping his head slightly, hiding his face. “Of course. That doesn’t matter to you.”

“Don’t deflect.” A hard voice issued from the blackness. “This isn’t about Fili.” Fíak took another deep puff. “He will never sit on that throne. He’d sooner face a charge for treason at Dain’s hands or exile himself to the west.” Kili straightened up when it became clear Fíak wouldn’t respond, standing directly in the light. “Look, this is the best deal you’re ever going to get, and you know it.”

“And how am I supposed to sell this to my people, hm? The bastard son coming out of the woodwork, a Longbeard, tearing their lives to pieces? There'll be revolt. They’ll never listen to you.”

“They’ll listen.” Kili snarled, the orcish roughness creeping back into his voice. He felt a breaking in his chest as he detached himself from his mouth, his hands. He was being buffeted down a strong river, heading for the falls. There was no turning back from this once it had begun. “I’ll make them listen.”

Fíak snickered. “You think you can intimidate them? They’re not foolish brutes like those orcs who trained you, mindlessly obeying whoever wields the sharpest sword. Loyalty is a rare trait in an Ironfist.” He raised the pipe to his lips again, but with a short grunt, Kili ripped it from his hand. Keeping his eyes locked on Fíak, Kili bent the brass shaft right down the middle, expressionless with a strength he’d learned to harness and maintain and control.

“I’ll make them listen.” He said again, letting the useless pipe clatter on the ground between them. Fíak hesitated, his piercing gaze roving over Kili, measuring him in a new light, taking him in. “Just leave that to me.”

Fíak’s eyes widened in his quiet realisation, a low chuckle rumbling through his throat. “You’re loving this, aren’t you? Mahal, you’re as savage as your father and clever as your mother.” Kili remained still, keeping his breathing steady, his face impassive and unreadable. “Are you really doing this for your brother or for yourself?” He leaned against the doorway. “You know you don’t belong here with these sops. They’ll never see past what you’ve done.” Fíak softened a degree, looking thoughtful, a little less barbed and ruthless. “Why did you come here tonight?” Kili bit down on his tongue. “Why do you want to run away?”

“I’m not running. Don’t pretend you know me, Fíak.” Kili growled at him, a deep anger flashing in those dark eyes,  the pain of an exposed wound throbbing. “You don’t have the right. If you want me to help you, this is my offer. Take it or leave it. I won’t ask you again.”

Fíak tossed his long hair, looking through the doorway into the room. The grey dreadlocks gleamed copper-red, the lines deepening around his eyes in the dim light. He stared in silence for a long time, thinking over everything Kili had said, his hand curling over the scorched wooden frame. Finally, he turned back to Kili, a tight smile of victory creeping across his mouth. He forced it down with an exaggerated, unnatural scowl, and Kili’s heart sank in a moment of terror, and all he wanted to do was run. “Sounds like I don’t have much of a choice, do I?”

Fíak dipped his head and left, and Kili was left alone. Terror seized his body, robbed his lungs of air, and it was searing hot behind his eyes. Kili clung to the warped frame, trying to hold himself up, but his legs failed him and he sank to his knees, remaining hidden but not entirely invisible in the shadows as he struggled to breathe through this crushing, crippling panic. Somehow he managed to sit down in the doorframe, stretching his short legs over the steps and into the street, shoulders hunched. His skin felt too tight, too hot, his nerves throbbing and pushing just beneath the surface. The reality of his treachery and betrayal swelled to take Kili slowly, eating him up from the inside out. Again, Kili had to remind himself he was doing this out of love. Love and self-destruction seemed to be married within him. All that mattered was saving Fili. The last week had reinforced that with a sharper clarity as Kili slowly learned the world that Fili had come to live in, alone in his idealism, his faith preserved and unsullied as the mountable scorned and schemed around him. When he only lived for himself, Kili floundered and lost sight of the world. He didn’t have any pretensions of a greater good, but he still had his brother. And having Fili and having something else to fight for inspired a new life in him. He felt more than ever the need to shield him at all costs. Was this the way that Fili himself had felt all those years, hiding the truth from Kili and going to such desperate lengths to keep him innocent? But innocence was dangerous. It flashed in Kili's mind, a warning, and he knew it couldn't last forever. He couldn't bear the pain of taking that from Fili. Not yet. Not while he was still alive.

“Kili?” A soft, cautious voice jerked Kili out of his deep stupor. “There you are. Where did you go? Did you get lost?”

“Oh.” Kili smiled as Ori took a seat beside him. He pushed it all down and covered it up, the tight smile widening a little as Ori sighed heavily, leaning on his shoulder. “Sorry. Are you all right?”

Ori hummed in thought. “Mm, I am… I don’t know.” There was a warmth leaked through his skin where they touched, cheek-to-shoulder.

“Are you drunk?” Kili couldn’t help but ask, trying to get a better look at him. Ori chuckled, very soft, and shook his head, staring dreamlike out across the shadows, his body here but mind somewhere else, somewhere very far away, hovering between ecstasy and despair.

“What? No.” Shyly, Ori ducked his head, busy hands toying with the ragged hem of his scarf, drawn tighter than ever around his neck. “I, er, had… you remember Bjórr, right?”

“The one with the scar on his hand? Something about a wife? Vaguely, why?” Kili tensed. “Did he hurt you? What did he— ”

“No.” Ori said sharply. “No,” he repeated, softer. “He didn’t hurt me. He…” Unable to think of what to say, how to say it, Ori cleared his throat. It was still all a jumble in his head, mismatched thoughts and memories making a frantic patchwork. He felt sick with disappointment at how it had all wound up, yet at the same time, Ori was deliriously happy. The few times Ori dared to ever contemplate sharing himself with someone else, he held a sacred image of romantic intimacy similar to what an unmarried dam would have contemplated on her own wedding night. But there was no gentle curiosity, no warm embrace, no large, soft beds or rings on fingers. It was desperate, heated, over before Ori could barely wrap his head around what had happened; his strongest memory was Bjórr fixing the front of his trousers while he staggered, newborn and uneasy, telling him to keep his shirt tucked in tight and an hour of soaking with a good lump of soap would get the stains out.

“ _Oh._ ” Ori didn’t need to say it; Kili finally understood, reading the curved lines of his forehead and mouth at this close distance. There was a pang in his chest of protectiveness, and on impulse, Kili slung his arm across Ori’s shoulders. “Are you all right?”

There was a long silence. “Yeah.” Ori finally said. “I am.” He sounded a little surer the second time. “It… just wasn’t how I expected it to be. You know. I always hoped…” A scoff broke through his trailing sentence. “Well, _that_ was never going to happen. But isn’t it supposed to be... you know, oaths and vows and forever-and-ever, and it’s supposed to _mean_ something and—  Oh, I’m such a _girl.”_ Kili shuddered with suppressed laughter. “I don’t want that.” He spoke with the slow deliberateness of someone on the cusp of a revelation. “You know, being someone’s girl.”

“What do you want?” The sensation of touch was still strange to Kili after being starved of it for so long. His heart jumped as Ori rested his hand on his knee in a gesture of camaraderie, the left side of his body searing where Ori was pressed into him. Finally, he recognised the source of that ugly little sting in his gut —  jealousy. Jealousy of Ori finding happiness in someone else, in another dwarf laying claim to him. Was he really so selfish and cruel?

“Not much.” Ori’s gentle voice sounded in his ear. “Just what anyone wants. Someone who loves me.”  His hand was slack. For a number of reasons, Kili couldn’t be that. He couldn’t conjure up feelings for Ori that weren’t there. He couldn’t love anybody in this current state. After his past cruelty to someone who loved him, he couldn’t trust himself to. Fíak’s comment whispered in his memory. Savage as his father. It was the same handful of words coming up again and again. Savage, wild, monster, brutal. Everyone said the same thing.

“You think that’s him?” For some reason, Kili struggled with his name. He didn’t want to say it. The tension increased in his chest, and Kili grew inexplicably fearful of the answer.

But Ori sniggered and shook his head. “He’s fifty years older than me. He’s married. And he said afterwards he’d keep an eye out and he might see me again. Not much of a commitment.”

“Then why did you do it?” Kili asked him, wondering. It seemed so _unlike_ Ori, so rash and thoughtless. “Why, if it’s not what you wanted?”

“Because…” Ori considered the question. “I could.” He finally settled on a response, but it didn’t seem enough. Kili listened, seeming unconvinced. “I don’t know, Kili. I never had anyone look at me, touch me like that. And I wanted it to keep going. It felt… fantastic. It’s the first time I’ve ever been able to just shut everything else out and… and just let something happen.” Kili’s body had gone rigid against him, something closing off, and Ori’s grip tightened on his leg, as though he could burrow inside, get past that exterior.

“I’ve lied to myself for too long about what love really is. It’s not those stupid fantasies. It’s not about pretending to be something else and living for off-hand looks and touches. It’s not what Dori wants from me. None of that’s real.” He sensed, or suspected, the jealousy in Kili, of having to accept someone else getting closer, reaching parts of Ori that he couldn’t touch. “I’m not going to have forever-and-ever, Kili. I know that. But just because I-I’m different, it doesn’t mean I can’t have something. Just for a little while.” It was achingly sad. Kili’s arm tightened around Ori’s shoulders, pulling him in tighter as the words chipped away at his own resentment, breaking it down, making space for the pity and self-loathing that crowded and clamoured in his heart. His own selfish cruelty made him want to scream and tear at his skin until the blood flowed. He wished he could love Ori, in a way. He wished he could give him what he wanted, needed, deserved. But Ori didn’t want him anymore. He wanted something that didn’t exist.

A week ago, Kili would have asked Ori without a second thought. He would have insisted that after a day in the Ironfist court, Ori would have a line of dwarves swearing oaths at his feet. He would have said that there was only one place Ori could be happy, and that was with him, far, far away from here. But Kili held his tongue and said none of that now. He merely held Ori close, like two brothers seeking warmth in the middle of a storm, terrified of being alone and yet knowing it was so inevitable, waiting in silence for the cleaving terror in his heart to die.

* * *

 Fili paced. It wasn’t that late, but he already felt exhausted after the evening he’d just had. All the questions and demands and sniggering asides kept scrabbling around in his head, scratching and biting, leaving his mind aching. And over it all, a searing white-hot knife, was the conspiracy that Ástríðr had told him about. The plot to cast down everything he had fought so hard for.

She didn’t tell him much —  she couldn’t before they were interrupted by Thorin himself, smirking at her, eyes blank and chilly, managing to murmur she’d see him later out the side of her mouth. So he waited for her. Kili had vanished —  Bofur said he'd seen him with Ori, and his mother was with Dwalin. Balin said he had a friend from Dain’s court to catch up with and promised to try and glean more information. Scattered, they all lurked and plotted, wondering how they could stay ahead.

He stilled at the soft knock on the door. His heart slammed against his throat, and he self-consciously touched his hair, making sure his braids were still in place. Good enough. Fili held his breath as he drew the bolt, unlocking the door and bringing it open.

“Good. I got the right room.” Ástríðr smiled at him in that whole, open way of hers, crinkling at the corner of her eyes, splitting her mouth. Some would say her smile was too wide, the way it engulfed her face, but Fili thought it was beautiful. Fili ushered her in, still holding his breath as he locked the door behind her. “Ingrun’s keeping watch, just in case. I don’t think anyone would try anything, but you can’t be too careful.” Fili turned and saw with a gasp that she was standing right before him. “Oh, Fili, I’ve missed you.” Sighing, Ástríðr threw her arms around his neck and did what she had so clearly longed to do all night, seeking out his mouth with her own, drawing in close so their hips and chests touched between layers of linen and silk. She hooked him in with her hands, snaring him, clinging to him.

And through all of it, he felt so much younger. The years fell away, a withered husk cracked and peeling over a seed, and with it all the failure and rage and grief and shame, and he was forty again, untested and unproven, with his life spread before his feet, a line set for him in the stone with no indication that he would veer so wildly off course. She still had the same smell of expensive scents from the East, the same braids strung with gold pressing against his wrist. He went back to it, decades shrivelling away in seconds in a glorious flush that pushed from his heart through his limbs, warm and golden. Fili didn’t even realise he was moving until he felt the jolt of Ástríðr’s legs hitting the bed; she fell and pulled him down with her, knotting their limbs together, searching for that deeper contact with a long-abandoned skill and—  and—  and—

 _No._ Somewhere in the deep recesses of his mind, uninvaded with this violent resurgence of his youth, Fili fought back. No —  even if there were some affections that had lingered on after all this time, even if he still wanted her, yearned for her with a fire that pulse from his loins to his belly to his blood, he couldn’t do this. He couldn’t. He wasn’t a prince, a dwarrow, a king-in-waiting sent away to be tempered and reshaped. He was the finished product, with his flaws naked to the world. This was beyond who he was now.

“I…” Fili pulled back, detached himself enough to look at her. Ástríðr lay on her back, sprawled across his bed at an angle and her hair half-out. Somehow, Fili’s shirt hung open, the clasp on his belt undone. He felt undone himself, blind drunk even though he’d only had a cup of wine, losing control of himself. “I can’t.” The words stumbled out as though he had no power over them, striking against his bones in pain. Ástríðr held her breath, trapping him with that brilliant green gaze of hers, but she had lost that past magic. Fili’s realisation had broken the spell, and he sank onto one elbow beside her, pulling his ensnared hand free from hair. She rolled away from him, wounded in defeat, and silent as Fili refixed his belt, the buttons on his shirt. When he was done, he lay beside her, staring up at the scorched ceiling, waiting for the ashen words to form in his mouth or hers, whatever came first.

“It’s nothing we haven’t done before.” Still turned away from him, Ástríðr tried last time to win him over. “It’s not a scandal. I’m not innocent. I know how to be discreet.” But Fili had closed off to her, unyielding, staring resolutely at the criss-cross of tiles and soot. “You said you loved me. Don’t you remember?”

“I did.” If only he could just offer up one small part of himself and kept the rest hidden. But he couldn’t. Fili only knew how to deal in absolutes. “But I can’t do this, Ástríðr. Not now.” He heard the hitch of air as she tried to control herself, breaking down as her last chance to keep him slipped away.

“You’re so bloody noble.” She finally croaked out, toying with the diamond ring on her finger. “It’ll be the death of you.”

Fili swallowed hard, felt the burning sting push in his eyes, at the back of his throat. “I know.”

* * *

 “I’m telling you, Tarbaam.” The low voice sounded at his elbow. “This is a bad idea.” Tarbaam looked briefly over his shoulder. Drûth shifted from one foot to the other, his single eye gleaming through the swathe of grubby, black-stained bandages wound around and around his head. “You think they don’t have a watch on the place?”

“Why bother?” Tarbaam hissed back, feeling his neck prickle all the same. He could still he it printed so clearly on the inside of his eyelids —  the broken lock, the door wavering on its hinges, the clean little home in ruins, furniture splintered and pottery smashed and cloth torn to shreds. Did they take Harna’s oilskin cape, Tarbaam wondered, and her good boots, and the most treasured of her hand-shaped figurines, or had they already vanished by the time they arrived? At least there was no blood, no signs of a fight. He held onto that, feeling the pulse throb in his throat as he stood before his last chance at answers, fist hovering an inch over the door.

Fuck it. Tarbaam held his breath and knocked once, twice, three times. He heard a shuffle on the other side, a whisper. He half-saw, half-imagined a shadow flickering at the small iron peep-hole. After some moments, the door creaked on its rusting hinges and a thin, suspicious face appeared in the gap. “Tarbaam.” The orc was short, unwelcoming, hostile. “I don’t think I can help you.”

“I think you can.” And in that uncertain moment, Tarbaam realised he’d have to be cruel to get what he wanted. “Mâdûr, I know what they did to your son.” His head reared back, a scowl pulling his thin lips into a wrinkled crease as he exhaled sharply. “I’ll tell you my story if you tell me yours.”

The family of six — no, five, Tarbaam corrected himself — took up two floors of this squat, ugly house, connected by a sagging, staircase that wound up into the garret where, presumably, they slept. The lower was part kitchen, part parlour and part dining hall, an open fireplace staining the floorboards dull orange. It was large and homely, Tarbaam imagined, if it had been kept clean. A long rickety table piled high with dirty cups and bowls, clothes that needed mending, green potatoes and other household rubbish that had nowhere else to go took up one wall, and a bench along the other. Furtun, the mother, sat on it, staring dumbly at the flames as a slim stoneware bottle dangled idly from one hand. Four children sat on the rug before the flames, an older girl and three indeterminable grey shapes that hadn’t grown into their clumsy hands and feet. They stared at the two intruders in a wide-eyed silence, their half-hearted games abandoned.

“Gadhaal, take the kids up.” Mâdûr lacked his usual humour. “Stay with them until they’re asleep.”

The girl wrinkled her nose. “But it isn’t even late— ”

“Now.” His voice trembled. Diminished, hunched in fear at this ragged anger, Gadhaal scooped the smaller child in one arm and seized another by the wrist, murmuring for him to stand up. The third followed of their own will. Thus burdened, she headed for the unsteady stairs. Mâdûr gestured at the empty space on the bench beside his wife and then searched the table for something clean to drink out of. Furtun remained silent and motionless throughout the exchange, the glass fogged over her eyes, mouth slack, and Tarbaam took an uneasy seat beside her, wincing as he flexed his broken ribs.

“It’s vile stuff, but all we have.” He out his peace offering for Tarbaam and his companion to take. They accept the begrudging hospitality with a nod, Drûth’s single remaining eye glistening uneasily in the sunken light. “Furtun’s finished off the rest.”

“I’m sorry.” Tarbaam said quietly, not touching his drink yet.

“Tarbaam saw him.” Mâdûr crouched by the sofa, taking his wife’s hand. “Furtun. He saw our son.” Finally, she stirred, glazed eyes shifting from the fire, raw as open flesh.

“Akash?” She croaked, a rim of hope stretching across the dull iron of her voice. Tarbaam nodded. He had become numb to this savage grief. So many mothers, fathers, wives, sisters, daughters, sons, suffered this second-hand death, felt the irreparable breaking of their souls. He nursed his own loss, a younger brother surviving only in memory, in the pointed nose and square jaw of his little nephew. He’d been bled dry of any empathy.

“An elvish arrow ended him.” He finally spoke. With a low moan, breaking into a wail, the empty bottle thudded onto the floor and Furtun’s head sank into her shaking hands. “In the first charge. He was part of Bolg’s shield-body. It—  It went through his eye. You couldn’t wish for a quicker death. He wouldn’t have even seen it. Just— ” Tarbaam snapped his fingers. Furtun’s breath was ragged and wet against her wrist, crazed tendrils of hair snaking across her arms and hiding her face. “No pain. No suffering. I hope you can find some comfort in that.”

“None of them came back.” His wife cried, but all the emotion had been wrung out of Mâdûr. He was hollow and withered. “No one could tell us what had happened.”

“Ilzkhaal found his body.” Drûth had already finished his drink. He leaned back and ran his thumb over the rim. “That’s why he insisted on going on after the elves. He thought he could find the bastards that did it. Idiot.”

Silence stretched on. “He didn’t know about Kili, did he?” Mâdûr finally asked, rising to his feet as he broached the subject they were all too scared to. “He didn’t. He couldn’t. Tell me didn't.”

“No.” Tarbaam finally took a token sip. It was cheap and harsh and stung on his lips. “Nobody knew. You think we wouldn't have stopped it if we knew? Ilzkhaal wasn't a traitor.” His own innocence had been confirmed the night before by Mautor’s guard. For hours they questioned him, screamed at him, beat him until his ribs cracked until they were convinced that he knew nothing. At least they let him go — orcs fit enough to work and earn coin were too rare to throw out now. Although neither of them mentioned it, he knew Drûth had suffered a familiar punishment. Anyone with a link to Kili, however tenuous, would be taken. Harna could take care of herself and hold up without breaking, Tarbaam was sure of it, but what about Frûshkul? They wouldn’t be above hurting a baby if it gave them someone to parade and flagellate in revenge for this mess. “He was in love. I don't think he could have sensed any deception.”

“They're saying if anyone knew, it would have been him.” Mâdûr’s steely eyes were on the flames. “That—  That _filth_ outsmarted Bolg and his inner circle, and Ilzkhaal was supposed to know better because they shared a bed?” He scoffed. “They just want somebody to blame.”

“Well, he's dead.” Tarbaam said bluntly. “Along with most of my archers. Most of the kids who were dragged into this. It doesn't matter anymore, what he knew.” There was no movement from Mâdûr, no sign that he had heard. “And what about Harna?” He asked as the silence grew too much to bear. “And Frûshkul? Did they…”

“Came in the night.” His voice was detached and distant. “When the first scouts came back, she knew what was going to happen.” Pained, Mâdûr knotted his fingers together and rested his chin on the clenched fists. “We offered to take Frûshkul, but she said it wasn’t safe enough. I didn’t realise it would be so bad until I saw her house. They tore the place up looking for a clue.”

Tarbaam finished off his drink now, wincing as the fire ate away at his belly. The swell of relief, knowing that she was alive, did nothing to soften it. “So she got away.”

“Said she was heading west.” Mâdûr nodded. Beside Tarbaam on the bench, Futurn sighed, leaning back to stare vacantly at the ceiling. “Towards Gundabad, probably south from there. She’ll get by. Harna’s sharp as a knife.”

The four of them said nothing. Time passed painfully slowly, and they listened to the hissing of the coal-fire, the subdued murmurs of the children upstairs, the bark of a distant warg. No one knew what to say, if there was anything left to say. Death had sapped them of anger, their burning need to understand, and left behind only an incomprehensible grief.

Finally, Drûth groaned, leaning forward. “Come on,” he touched Tarbaam’s elbow. “Let’s get out of here.” They had what they came for, and there was no need to linger.

“I’m sorry.” Tarbaam said once again as he rose to his feet. “I truly am. I…” He turned his little clay cup over and over in his hands. Guilt ravaged him. He was one of the first to see Kili, chasing him through the wood, hunting him down. If he had let that nocked arrow fly when Kili had the blade against Ilzkhaal’s throat like he should have…

Would it have changed anything? It wouldn’t have saved Akash. It wouldn’t have saved Khala or Shatog or Ilzkhaal either. They would have still been wounded and decimated in that bloody onslaught. Kili’s treachery, the shifting of the tide of battle, that all came afterwards, in the second wave after the first crashed and broke against the rocks. In the last few days, as the exhausting march home came to an end, Tarbaam had attacked the question, going in from every angle, letting it take his mind over, corrupt it. And every time, he reached the same conclusion. They were all doomed from the start. They had been sent in to die, to take the brunt of the blow, and every single one of them knew it. Accepting that powerlessness didn’t assuage Tarbaam of his guilt; it grew, entrenched in a deeper despair.

“Go on. You’ve got a family get to.” Mâdûr nodded towards the door. “You can’t help us.” No. He couldn’t help anybody.

* * *

 The door was unlocked. Kili felt the latch give way, and as he stepped into the room, he saw Fili lying on the bed with his legs draped over the side. He lifted his head at the sound of an intruder, and recognising his brother, flopped back down with a sigh.

“Where did you go?” He asked the ceiling, his hands folded across his stomach. Kili closed the door, locked it and walked across the room and took an uneasy seat at the edge of the bed. “Bofur said he saw you clearing out. Did you go with Ori? I couldn’t see him.”

“Yeah.” Kili finally croaked, pressing his palms together, hard. How could he break this to his brother? Ever since he was a child, he hated disappointing Fili and making him upset, but what he was about to do went beyond that. This wasn’t filching his dinner or losing a knife – this was going to break his heart. “How was the rest of your night?”

“Ugh.” Fili held a hand over his eyes. “I— I don’t know where to start.” With a long sigh, he sat up. “Guess who’s here? Ástríðr.” A soft smile cut through the worry set on his face. “You remember her, don’t you?”

“The girl from the Iron Hills? Of course I do.” Kili watched him carefully. Oh, he was still smitten. He couldn’t keep that secret from Kili. “Did you… see her again?”

“We talked.” Fili deflected the blow. “Kili, there’s a plot to topple us. I— I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to fight them. They made a deal with Fíak. _Fíak!_ Oh, I could wring his neck. I thought he was on our side, but he was playing us this whole time—”

“No, he wasn’t.” The crawling suspicion eating away in Kili’s gut grew to a near-certainty. “Well, not in the way you thought.” Fili drew back, frowning. “He was playing both of us, making allies of both sides to make sure he’d still win. He knows what he wants and he’s not afraid to play dirty to get it.”

“How do you— Where have you been?” Fili asked again. “You were sneaking around again, weren’t you! You’ve been talking to Fíak yourself. _Kili.”_ But there was no response. “You have.” The anger shrank to fear. “What have you done?” Kili didn’t say anything at first. He stood up and approached the fire, stretching his hands out and flexing his cold fingers. “K-Kili?”

“I found a loophole in the contract.” He kept his voice low and steady, as though being calm could somehow soften this blow. “Fíak isn’t changing his tune. He wants what he’s always wanted. You.” But he couldn’t keep the emotion out of his voice, and Fili recoiled at it. “He’ll never have that, so I gave him the next best thing.” At first, Fili didn’t understand what he meant. Next best? There was no other. There never was. It was only Fili. It was always Fili.

Finally, Kili looked over to him. Their eyes met and with a crushing, agonising throb of terror, Fili realised what he’d done. A broken cry rasped in his throat and his knees were weak and a blank numbness washed over him, flooding his body, drowning him. Kili had sacrificed himself, given himself up for his brother’s sake, taken his place. Kili was leaving him.

“No.” It was all he could say. The plug in his throat became unstuck, and the air heaved out. “N-No, no, no, no, no. _No._ ” Clawing in his terror, Fili lashed out and clung to the only thing that could give him enough strength to stay together anymore – rage. “How could you do this?”

“It’s all we can do.” Kili was nearly crying, but he held it in. Fili realised this distantly, through the red haze that was claiming his senses one by one. “They don’t care which one of us it is. They just want someone on that throne. A-And Thorin’s contract, his renouncement of you, it’s all Dain has to stand on. Without that, he can’t challenge you. You’ve _won._ Erebor is yours, tomorrow. You can crown yourself king and no one will stand in your way.”

“I don’t want that!” Fili shouted. This was a betrayal that ran deeper than anything Dwalin or Balin or Thorin had done. They were supposed to be brothers, Fili-and-Kili. He thought that this tentative reformation of their relationship would lead to a bond stronger than anything they had before, tested time and time again but had never failed. There was no Erebor without Kili. He would have given everything up for his brother, and Kili had taken that sentiment and dashed it into pieces. This corruption of the most sacred thing in Fili’s life, the breaking of the unbreakable, rent a deep gash in Fili’s soul, and in the shock of this treachery, the name Kili became a vile poison on his lips. “I wanted _you!_ ” Fili finally got to his feet. “This isn’t happening. You’re not doing this.”

“Fili, no!” Kili started as his brother strode across the room. “Just leave it. Leave it!”

“Like hell.” Fili snarled, seizing the lock. “I’m not _letting_ you throw your life away like this.” His hands closed around the rust-edged iron, but Kili was there too. He tried to prise his brother free, but Fili dug in.

“Stop it.” Kili was the stronger, but he was afraid to hurt him, and Fili was determined. “Stop!” He growled in Fili’s ear. “Listen to me!” What was a struggle became a scuffle, a tangle of knees and elbows and nails as they fought against each other. Kili tried pinning Fili’s arms to his sides, but Fili tore free, scratching at his brother’s hand. At some point, the lock slipped through Fili’s hands, but they kept fighting, blunt and ugly and jagged with none of their usual fluid skill.

“I thought you wanted to stay!” Kili had him by the arms, trying to hold him against the wall, but Fili was resisting. “This was your home— _our_ home. Why would you do this, Kili? Why?”

“Because this is what I’ve always done.” Kili gasped as Fili got him in the chest, reeling back. He wasn’t interested in fighting; he just wanted to keep Fili here, to make him see reason, to understand. “I take the fall for you, Fili. I clean up your mess.”

“This isn’t a broken vase!” Fili shouted, his face bright red. They stood a little apart, hands balled at their sides. “We’re not dwarrows playing in the parlour. I— I can’t believe you would do this. I thought you wanted a fresh start. Everything you said tonight about opening up and being truthful, was that all a lie?”

“No. Of course it wasn’t.” He did his best to be reasonable. “That’s what I want more than anything. But I can’t stand here and let you ruin yourself. We can’t just give up and let Dain—”

“Oh, _Fuck_ Dain!” Kili fell silent. “And fuck the throne! I don’t _care_ , Kili. If I had to chose between you and the throne, I would chose you, every time. I’d live in exile and give up everything I have to keep you.” There was a little shake of Kili’s head, disbelieving and incredulous. “You’re my brother.” Fili’s voice was fading, breaking up. “I’d lay down my life for you without a second thought. Nothing is more important to me. I-I thought it was the same for you.”

“Why do you think I’m doing this?” It took some time for Kili to speak. They were both bruised, body and soul. “Why do you think I’ve done any of this, Fili? For myself?” He scoffed. “For Thorin? It was _always_ you. All my life, I’ve fought for you a-and I never minded. These last few weeks the only time I’ve ever done anything right was for you. Everything else is just— madness. Chaos. But it’s all for nothing if you don’t win. And it can’t all be for nothing. We can’t sacrifice ourselves for each other. Someone has to take the blow on this one. You could never live with yourself if you gave Erebor up for me, so I robbed you of the right to decide. ”

Of course, it wasn’t enough for Fili. “At what cost?” He spat out. “This is your life! Do you know what they’ll do to you? They don’t want you as a king – they just want you to father enough children to keep Vili’s blood going and then they’ll kill you.” His violence faltered. “They’ll kill you, and for what? To protect me?” Fili scoffed. “You’re not going to die so I can sit on some throne.”

“Listen.” There was a seriousness in Kili’s voice that cut under the flourish of anger. “It’s not going to play like that, all right? Not by me. I’m not going to go and give myself up to them. I’ve thought about this, and I know what I’m doing to do.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m not going to be a king. That’s your title. I’ll be a prince — your regent — and everything I do will be in your name and under your command. That’s always been their plan, and they won’t contest it. Thorin’s contract is filled, but you won’t be going anywhere.” Every word was a delicate test, and Kili knew he had to tread carefully around this. “You’ll be the king of two tribes at once. Even Thror couldn’t have dreamed of that.”

Fili couldn’t accept that. “I can’t rule from half a world away. They’ll force you to take the throne eventually, or revolt against you. And then—”

“No, they won’t. That’s the second half of this plan.” Kili jerked his head towards the bed and began to walk. Fili followed him, watching as Kili sat down and brought one leg up, trying to seem relaxed and confident. But he saw the way Kili’s nails bit into the fabric of his trousers, the knitted wrinkle in the corner of his mouth. “They’re not going to stay in the Orocani Mountains any longer.”

“What?” Fili sat down across from his brother, less relaxed, more tense and uneasy. Kili was trying to make this intimate and easy and casual, but it wasn’t working. “Where are they going to go?”

Kili waved one arm around the room, gesturing beyond it, at the halls and corridors and alleys and streets of wide, dark emptiness. “Us Longbeards are a quarter of our old numbers. The Ironfists are about the same now, Úni told me. They don’t have to like each other at first. They don’t even need to talk to each other; this mountain’s big enough for that. Yes, some of the Ironfists are fucked up. I won’t invite them to come. They probably wouldn’t want to. But the wives and children and farmers and potters and bricklayers and all that, they don’t give a damn about who’s on the throne or what tribe they’re loyal to. They just want a home.”

"Why do you care, all of a sudden?" Fili had to know. "Where did all this sympathy come from? They don't deserve anything from us. Especially not from you. This isn't your fight."

Kili sighed. "Your fight is my fight. I just want to find a compromise here. So pretend for a few minutes that I do give a shit." Fili chewed on his lip as he listened. “If the Ironfists want to survive, they will come. Honestly, Fili, if you offer them a river a fish in, coal to mine, earth to till, they’ll come. There is _nothing_ in the Orocanis  — no coal, no gold, no trade. That’s why they’re so violent towards each other. It’s not some ingrained evil in them. They’re desperate. They’re not bad people, and you don't have to care particularly hard to see that.”

“Yeah, they’re not.” Fili rested his chin on a balled fist. “I do know that. But it’s a long way to go…”

“Few hundred miles.” Kili shrugged. “A pregnant dam and her four-year-old son can do it. It won’t be creeping around and taking the long way, either. Besides, it’s not like the Longbeards live on Erebor’s doorstep. We’ve got almost just as far to go in the other direction.”

“Oh, I’m sure they’ll be _thrilled_ to share their home with Ironfists.” Fili couldn’t help but be sarcastic. “Especially after they terrorised Ered Luin looking for us.”

“That’s one of the joys of being king, Fili. You’re the one who writes the laws. Sure, a few might get uppity and head for the Iron Hills. Let them. They’re no good anyway. If the other dwarves wanted a stake in how Erebor’s run, then they should be here, fighting for it.” Fili didn’t have an argument against that. “If you don’t want to make the call, then put it to the company. Make them vote for it.”

Fili heaved a long sigh. “You’ve really thought about this, haven’t you?” Kili nodded, one leg swinging a little over the side of the bed. “Two tribes who hate each other living under one mountain? Mahal, it’s a diplomatic nightmare.”

“They don’t hate each other.” Kili rolled his eyes. “I’ve seen hatred, Fili. Real, bitter hatred that flows from father to son. People willing to suffer their own deaths if it makes their enemies bleed. You know the kind I’m talking about — war and violence that goes on forever. The Ironfists don’t hate us, Fili, and we don’t hate them. The world’s growing small and dangerous and afraid. What happened here — it’s the beginning. I’ve heard what Bolg was planning to do next once he’d killed you. Something is going to happen, and we’re all going to suffer from it.” Fili sat up straight, slowly lowering his hand. “And if we drive that fear deep enough into the hearts of our people, they’ll come around.”

“That’s manipulative.” He frowned at Kili. “I don’t want to terrorise people into believing in me.”

“Oh, like Dain doesn’t use the same scare tactics? Or Thranduil?” Kili pointed out. “Look, you’ll have Balin and Dwalin and everybody behind you. We can do this. You convince the Longbeards, and I’ll convince the Ironfists. Think about it. Uniting the two most distant clans, bringing us into a new age… you’ll be remembered for thousands of years.”

“Come on, Kili, I don’t care about that.” But Fili would be lying if he said his heart didn’t skip a beat at the thought. “I just want to do what’s right for everyone.”

“This is the right thing. I’ve thought this through every possible angle. You can’t be in two places at once, and as long as the Ironfists have their claim on you, Dain and Thorin will never let it rest.” Kili had settled in, his elbows on his folded knees. He looked confident, assured, as though this was the end of it. “It’s politics. Come on, haven’t you been burned enough, sitting around and waiting for everyone else to make their move?” Fili watched him, hesitantly curious. “Strike first. Show them you’re not afraid. Show everyone that they can’t fuck with you.”

“I’m not going to sacrifice you.” Fili refused to budge on this. “Even if you’re only there for a little while… Look at what three months of Azog did to you. If you go over there, who knows what version of Kili comes back?”

Kili stiffened. “Why does it matter?” He demanded, unafraid to drive at the heart of Fili’s terror. “Look, Fili, I’m done changing. I know what I’m doing here. You think they’ll leave an impression on me?” He scoffed, but there was a tiny inkling of doubt that he couldn’t shift. It wasn’t the same story when it came to his own blood, no matter how distant and strange it seemed. “I’m iron. Rock. You can’t put another mark on this.”

“What if they kill you?” Fili dared to ask. “There’ll be people who won’t like what you’re going to do. And who do you have on your side? The king’s guard? What if it’s not enough?”

Kili leaned forward, taking the cuff of Fili’s shirt, over his open wrist. “Then kill them. Set them on fire and leave them to burn to ashes. And show the whole world that you will _never_ let anyone get the best of you again.”

“I can’t.” Fili snatched his hand away, his right hand closing over his wrist as though Kili’s touch had burned him. “I can’t risk this. You.”

“And what will you do instead?” Kili challenged. “What will you say when Dain demands, in front of everyone, that Fíak take his dues? How will you fight him? Run to Thranduil’s side? Beg for _Amad_ to help you?” He flinched at the mention of their mother, blue eyes on his knees. “No one else is going to save you. So _please,_ Fili, let me.”

Fili closed his eyes. He wanted to scream in denial. This wasn’t Kili’s place, assuming protection and responsibility. It was deeply wrong, almost perverse, and he fought the thrum of relief that had bedded down in his chest, firmly beneath the heavy weight of his guilt. He wanted to say that no, this wasn’t Kili’s fight. It was Fili’s, alone, but when he opened his eyes and looked at Kili, really looked at him, with his grim, almost black eyes, the ugly scar that stretched almost from his eye socket to his jaw, the hollows in his cheek, the thickening flush of his beard that crept along his face, he saw the suffering and terror his brother had already endured, some for his sake, and come out stronger, sharper, more cunning from it. He had the scars from fighting alone, and so did Fili. Both of them had been forced to make their own solitary way forward, and now their two curving paths had finally met, the very last thing Fili wanted to do was have them split off again.

But it wasn’t. They were still fighting together, and as Fili watched the firelight dance in the gleam of Kili’s dark stare, he knew that despite any distance that happened between them, nothing would ever, ever tear them apart. Any fighting against this was a token gesture on his part, delaying the inevitable. Even Fili had no idea how to make good on his promise to Fíak that he would somehow help the Ironfists. He knew, although not as clearly as Kili did, that no gold would cure that clan of their deep-seated ills, and there was no cure that could be administered from this far away. He simply couldn’t be in two places at once, the way Thorin promised he would be.

“I need to—” Fili spoke without thinking, and he caught himself just in time.

“Think?” Kili guessed. “Sleep on it? We don’t have much time.”

“No.” And he knew right then there was only one place he could be right now, only one presence that could mend the breaking of his mind, only one person who could ever possibly understand the turmoil he would be feeling, even if there was nothing they could say anymore. “I— I need to see Thorin.”

* * *

Kili had the key in his hand, dangling from a fine golden chain wrapped around his finger. At his shoulder, close enough to feel the spread of his warmth like an aura, Fili swallowed. He listened to the unsteady breath of air, in and out. Kili knew better than to push him, and so they waited in silence, understanding each other and not needing to speak.

Fili, who had been slowly bracing himself, testing his own inner strength, finally touched his brother on the shoulder. “All right.” He whispered, his voice thin in the vast emptiness. Kili flinched. “I’m ready.”

“Do you want me to come with you?” They both carried lanterns. Fili’s sputtered a little, and he shook his head, spark of gold woven through his hair, kissing the shadows drawn over his face. “All right. Just… do what you have to do. Then we’ll find the others, and you can have your vote, if that’s still what you want.” Without another word, Kili stepped forward and unlocked the door, watching him retreat through the small gap into the darkness.

“Oh.” It was an involuntary gasp, the shock seizing Fili like monster’s claws, holding him frozen in place. Thorin was as white as marble on the heavy table, his eyes sewn shut, a sword he’d never carried resting on his breast. It didn’t look like him; it was a bad copy drawn in dull, faded lines. Fili stared at his uncle in a disbelief that was cold and numb, down to his bones, to the heart that felt flat and unmoving in his chest.

Thorin was dead.

The reality of it finally met Fili, a crushing blow that had only been gathering momentum this past week while he had worked so hard to put it out of his mind. His hands grew limp, and the lantern nearly slipped through his fingers. Uncle Thorin. The tears he had been fighting so long came quietly, soaking into his beard, dripping down his nose. He wiped them away at first, but they were welling up too quickly now, and all he could do was sniffle through them, his hands shaking uselessly. Three staggering steps, and he stood at the head of the table, setting the lantern by Thorin’s head and watching his face turn orange in the firelight, stiff and opaque as wax, absorbing the light and reflecting nothing back.

Fili wasn’t sure how long he cried. It could have been minutes, or hours. He considered calling out for his brother, but afterwards, he was glad he didn’t. It was something he needed to do on his own, an intimate grief, pure in its privacy. A moment between the two of them, the rest of the world locked away while Kili guarded the door. He touched Thorin’s hand briefly but found it stiff and cold, lacking in any warmth and comfort, so he let it go.

“You’re g-gone.” He finally stammered, weak, childlike, a veneer of dried tears cracking as he spoke. “I— I’m sorry it took so long to come. I guess as long as I couldn’t see you… part of me could pretend that you were still alive.” It wasn’t complicated; Fili hid from the truth. “But you’re not. You’re gone, and the world is moving on. Erebor’s moving on. She needs a leader, a— a king. And I can’t depend on you to be that.” It was soothing to talk. It gave that indeterminable fear that lurked inside of him a words, a shape, a solid obstacle to overcome. “I have to to make the right decision now.” Fili sighes. “And what is that? What’s right? Who gets to decide this? Me, because I was born to the right mother at the right time? Isn’t it mad, when you think about it? It’s no divine force that decides who should be king. It’s pure, dumb luck. And what if it was reversed? If I was the foolhardy clown and Kili was the determined one? What if it was like that for you?” Fili looked down at the painted glass of Thorin’s wan face. “If Frerin was the good one?” His hand stretched out and found the edge of one of Thorin’s braids. Fili rolled the clasp between his finger and thumb, thinking. “But I guess… they just would have been shaped differently. The way we were.” It was a hollow realisation. “There’s no such thing as destiny. We weren’t born for this any more than a murderer is born for the gallows. It was imprinted on us before we were old enough to believe in anything else.”

He imagined what Thorin would have said in response to that. He probably would have scoffed at Fili, said he was selling himself short. There was no earning kingship — it couldn’t be bought or sold like livestock. It was a blood-born right, privilege, burden that could only be alleviated in death. “But it doesn’t matter, does it? It is my right to decide, whether I want to or not.” Only now, with the consequences of his decision so sharply defined, did Fili realise how hard it would have been for Thorin, what a lonely, intensely personal struggle he would have had on a daily basis to define what was morally right. No one, not even Kili or _Amad,_ could ever understand it. The battle between king and uncle, brother, had raged on or the entirety of his life. “I’ve been waiting my whole life for this day. Everything I’ve ever done has been building up to this, and I— I’m still not ready. I’m still afraid. Why, Thorin?” Fili dropped the braid and leaned in. “What am I afraid of?”

Again, he tried to create a response. _You know_ . He imagined Thorin’s voice in his head, remembered the way his blue eyes darkened in their seriousness, the furrow his brow. _You’re afraid of failing again._ Of course he was. And when he considered all of his mistakes and missteps, it always boiled down to one fatal flaw — naivety. As long as Fili insisted on only seeing the good in the world around him and cast a blind eye to the rest of it, he would find himself compromised, again and again.

“I wonder what you would do.” Fili sighed, elbows on the table. The thick, pungent smell of oils and and salts burned his nose, but he preferred that to the natural process of decay. He scoffed. “I still look up to you, even after all this time. I still want to know what you would do. I just can’t let go of my Uncle Thorin, no matter what.” His taut mouth softened. “Would you sacrifice yourself, everything you fought for, for him?”

This time, the voice was easier to imagine. _I already did._ Of course, Thorin would be sharp, admonishing, a little stern at Fili for briefly forgetting. The twinge of shame coloured across Fili’s face for a moment, and he bit his lip. Thorin died to protect Kili, and it wasn’t some long counsel or agonised, drawn-out declaration. It was gut instinct, a split second of thought before dashing in, the heart seizing control of his body before his head had a chance to catch up. But it wasn’t the same. Thorin knew Fili would be around to pick up the pieces. He entrusted Erebor to him, whereas Fili had nobody pass his throne on to. He was the last heir.

“You said it would be hard. Harder than I could ever imagine. And you’re right, Uncle.” His voice wobbled in its insecurity. “I was so angry at you when you chose Erebor over Kili. I didn’t realise how hard it would have been for you until now. I’m sorry I accused you of being heartless. You were never heartless, were you? You just did what you thought was right. But it’s not the same for me. I— I can’t be removed like you could. Or maybe I just can’t hide it as well as you. I don’t know. Would you be angry at me if I walked away with him? If I just left it all to Dain after you died for this?” He held his breath and listened to the pumping of his blood slowly grow louder as his head swam. There was a silence in his mind.

Fili tried again. “Is Kili right?” He whispered into the air. “Is this the only way I can keep him without forsaking Erebor?” He closed his eyes and willed, desperately, for Thorin’s voice to return to him. “Help me, Uncle. Can you just— just give me some sort of sign? Please?” Perhaps his spirit was insulted after Fili had accused him. Perhaps this was too much of a stretch for his consciousness to fabricate from his old memories. But he was gone, and Fili couldn’t imagine him back.

* * *

The hoarse caw of the vulture scratched the softness in his dreams, a knife through gossamer silk tearing his peace to shreds. Ilzkhaal lay on his side, his bad arm curled up close, cradled to his chest, his balled fist tucked under his chin. Another caw. He kept his eyes closed and tried to ignore it, keeping his breath low and shallow, feigning death. The shrivelled remnants of his dream fell like blistered skin, leaving him raw and open, defenceless as the wind bit into him. But Ilzkhaal didn’t feel the cold; his skin was still flushed and feverish, hands and feet throbbing with infection as the haze spread in his head, grew heavy and dense.

The fucking bird cawed again, even closer. He heard the scrape of its claws against the barren jut of rock. Beneath the rancid warg-skin, Ilzkhaal listened and waited, his good hand clutching a wooden stick with the warg’s jaw hastily lashed to the head in a makeshift club. He imagined the carrion beast, hunched like an old man in the pale light, its naked, shrivelled neck stretching out inquisitively, wondering if it was finally time to claim its prize…

“Hah!” Ilzkhaal shouted as he leaped, the battle-cry weak and hoarse as a wounded pup’s. He struck the club down where the vulture was waiting but wasn’t quick enough. The brittle jawbone shattered on the jagged rock and with a frustrated caw, the vulture jumped and flapped its massive wings once, twice, alighting on a boulder out of reach. It leered down on him, fluffing out its glossy black feathers, and let out a low, haughty cry.

“Oh, fuck you.” Ilzkhaal groaned, slumped forward on his knees. His left arm flared up again, and with a glance at the filthy rags over his arm, he realised the bite wound had opened up. Fresh, sticky black blood swelled through the stains, smelling of old cheese, milk that had been left too long in the sun. Gangrene couldn’t be far off, if not here already. “I’m not dead.” He panted, glaring at the flecks of congealed blood on the rock. “Not yet.”

One foot bound in a corner of the warg-skin, the other in a broken boot, Ilzkhaal stumbled on. There was no food; there hadn’t been for a long time. Hunger drove the stolen warg to attack him, tearing his arm down to the bone, and Ilzkhaal responded with his own brutal violence, slashing the beast across the throat and then bringing his knife into its eye, and only afterwards, the horror of brutality struck him, left him speechless and in tears. But then hunger pushed him again and drove Ilzkhaal to eating the meat raw, blood running down his chin and soaking the rags of his shirt. Bereft of a cloak, he stripped the carcass as best he could and draped the warg-skin over his shoulders, tied across his throat. The stench of a dead predator soaked in through the pores of his skin, a warning for the animals that dared to cross his path. Only the vulture, lured by the promise of decay, approached him. And after Ilzkhaal’s arm turned septic and the handfuls of warg-flesh spoiled and sprouted with maggots and his measured gait turned to a diseased stumble, the beast lingered, wheeling lazily overhead, roosting on the gnarled limbs of dead trees, waiting impatiently for him to die.

Ilzkhaal’s club became a walking stick, and he leaned heavily on it as he negotiated the rolling landscape. His will to go on hardened with the spread of infection, instilling a deeper sense of urgency. He crawled closer to the possibility of death, but further away from the certainty of it. From the moment he left Erebor, an early deserter, coaxing a warg nosing at the decapitated body of its master to let him astride its back, Ilzkhaal became a sort of ghost, ceasing to exist. He was lucky; the warg was sleek, powerful, and eye-wateringly quick, carrying Ilzkhaal’s birdlike body without a second thought and covering in hours what had taken Ilzkhaal days to wearily march in the other direction. There was no going home; even he, in all his naivety, knew that. There were too many people who knew him, who knew Kili, who would be desperate to pin this on him. _How couldn’t you know?_ They would have demanded, as though Kili had admitted his deepest, most cruel secrets in the quiet moments after their convulsing passion. As though by seeing him without his clothes, Ilzkhaal would have somehow had some sort of inner glimpse into his heart.

But he didn’t. He didn’t know shit. It was heartbreaking to reflect on, but in these lonely days of desperate exhaustion, Ilzkhaal found himself unable to think about anything else. Worse was his mother and son, abandoned by him but safer with him gone, or cousin Akash, lying dead in the dwarvish hall to rot amongst a thousand others. Or his own bleak future, a grey, smudged haze, indistinguishable from the wasteland that stretched endlessly in every direction as he stumbled about with nowhere to go. No friends, no allies, no place to call home anymore. Just a single chance at hope.

So Ilzkhaal entertained himself by imagining what Kili was doing right now. There were so many possibilities. Perhaps he was dead, and the yellow-haired dwarf who had grabbed Kili by the arm and pulled him away, his precious brother, had given over to weeping at his corpse. Perhaps he had been declared an enemy and locked away, left to pace the floor of his cell and snarl and gnash his teeth in impotent rage. Perhaps he had been rejected by his family, told to leave and seek his fortunes elsewhere before he put another stain on the great name of Durin. Perhaps he really had been welcomed with open arms and he slept like a babe in the comfort of his brother’s arms, regaining everything he had lost with no care for the consequences. The last possibility was the hardest to bear. It was easier to picture Kili while he was suffering.

His tongue rasped against his cracked lips. He stopped for a moment, taking stock. Behind him, a distant, jagged shadow in the corner of his world, was the Grey Mountains, his hometown lurking at the eastern edge. Ilzkhaal kept his back to it, insisting only on looking forward. All he could do was move forward. Instead of giving in to the helplessness and despair, it sharpened Ilzkhaal’s will. Not long to go now. Ahead of him, another day’s march, was a misshapen spine of scrubby hills, the river a spool of thread stitched along its side. At night, he would have to check the constellations and keep himself on track for another day. Three stars in a line, two at the head of it. He pictured it clearly, skin prickling with the dregs of memory that refused to sink down.

Like a sword at the right angle.


	121. The Last Goodbye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooo I lied. Well, I don't know if lying is the word. But this isn't the end. Not yet. Just warning you now because otherwise you'd be like 'what it's about to end but nothing's been resolved what's going on!?'
> 
> I just kind of realised that there is still a lot of work to go. Not in terms of writing -- maybe about 10000 words? -- but in terms of making SURE that I get absolutely everything perfect. My initial plan was to get it all done in January for the four-year 'anniversary'. But January turned to February, and there's still no sign of the end, really, so I decided to cut it here and work on the second part. Because it's already been, like, four months, and that's just silly. So enjoy.

Before they opened the door, Kili stopped him. They embraced hastily, their chests touching, and his beard brushed against Fili’s cheek, softer, longer than he remembered. “You’re doing the right thing.” He whispered before they pulled away. Kili’s face was in shadow as he fumbled with the latch, and Fili didn’t know whether to believe him.

_Amad_ and Dwalin were in bed together. She curled herself around him, the snares of her black hair tumbling in a handful of braids over her shoulders, her chin resting on the crown of his tattooed head. One arm was draped over Dwalin’s heavy body, bare to the shoulder. The brothers froze, embarrassed, watching the steady rise and fall of their sleeping bodies in unison, unsure of what to do. Fili turned with a shrug, but Kili’s face was set with resolve. He nodded and without speaking approached the pair. “ _Amad,”_ he shook her shoulder gently, “wake up. It’s urgent.”

Fili stoked the fire, coaxing flames from the sunken red embers while Dwalin and his mother woke up and smoothed down their hair and clothes, red-faced at being caught even though they had nothing wrong. Kili sat on the edge of the bed, unable to look at either of them. He pressed his thumb over the brand on his wrist, felt the thread of scar tissue printed on his skin, wondering yet again if there was any way he could wipe it clean.

“What is it?” Dís finally asked, her voice thin as she studied the gaunt faces of her poor boys. Fili looked broken, limp and lifeless, but Kili had hardened himself with some inner resolve, seeming to hold himself apart from the others. “Where have you been?”

“Have you spoken to Balin?” Her eldest asked. Dís shook her head. “He’s– It’s Dain. He’s plotting, _Amad_. He never stopped.”

“The moment Thorin’s sealed in his tomb, he’s going to make his move.” Kili continued, eyes trained on the brand on his wrist. “He’s already struck a deal with Fíak. Remember the contract Thorin signed? The deal he made? He’s going to enact it.”

“Ridiculous.” Dwalin scoffed. “An old scrap of paper? It means nothing. Thorin gave the throne to Fili. There were a dozen witnesses. We have the elf-king on our side, and the men of Lake-Town besides. Let them try.”

“Thorin wasn’t himself at the end.” Fili murmured. “You know that better than anyone. I’m not sure we’d win that fight. Not with Dain’s kin filling up these halls. Thranduil won’t come to blows over this. Not for me.”

“That snake Fíak.” Dís hissed. “All he’s done his whole life is scheme and plot. I knew that contract would come back to bite us.”

“I think I’ve found a way around it.” Kili pressed down hard on his wrist. “We can honour that contract and Fili can remain in Erebor and take the throne.”

“It’s– We…” Fili’s voice cracked and with a stab of humiliation, he realised he couldn’t go on. He shook his head, sighing deeply as the hot pain welled in his throat. With a hard swallow, he sank into the creaking old chair before the fire. “Kili, you have to…”

Kili watched his hunched figure. “Darling?” His mother edged a little closer, her hand reaching out. Kili couldn’t take it. “W-What have you done?”

“I’ll go.” He cut his feelings away, carving a red crescent into the hollow of his thumb. “To the Orocanis. I’ll—"

“ _No._ ” Dís’ voice rose to a shriek, hands clapped over her face in shock. “Kili _, no!_ There’s– You’re not. You’re not. They’re not taking you. This isn’t your fight!”

“Of course it’s my fight!” Kili finally looked at her. “It’s my blood, just as much as it is his. Y-You can’t try and hide the truth and deny it, _Amad_. Not now. They know who I am. I look like him.” Dwalin listened to it all silently, slowly collapsing inwards, his eyes closed and hands shaking in his lap. “Listen to me. Someone has to go and fight for Fili, and there’s nobody else. Look, it’s not a permanent break. If we play this right—"

“ _No!”_ Dís rose to her feet, every inch the fierce mother-beast fighting for her young, and Kili shrank back from her in fright. “I took you away. After everything they did to me, to your brother, you want to rule them? No matter how strong you think you are, they’re stronger. Kili, they will destroy you without a thought.”

“I’m not going to be their king, _Amad.”_ Kili couldn’t bear to raise his voice against her. “I’d rather stick pins in my eyes than be anybody’s king. Listen, it’s not about me staying there. I’ll go on Fili’s behalf to invite them to Erebor. If they want a king from us, they have to come here and meet him. Let those who want to leave leave, and those who remain behind—"

Dís stared, open-mouthed. “Are you insane? Bring them here? One person cannot unite two tribes at war with each other. I tried. There’s no changing them, no helping them. They don’t want saving. You bring the Ironfists here, they will burn Erebor to the ground.”

“Well, what do we do then?” Anger tempered his voice now. “Thorin signed that damn contract, and Fíak has a note in Balin’s hand confirming Fili’s banishment. We have no other way to fight him. What would you rather we do? Would you give Fili up instead?” Dís faltered at that and stared, breathlessly, looking from one to the other as she struggled for words.

“Of course she would.” Fili broke the excruciating silence. Kili’s hard glare softened. “Kili, you don’t understand. I’ve tried to tell you, so many times. Ever since I was a dwarrow, Thorin had me as his heir. His hope and future. I belonged to everybody. But _Amad_ had you all to herself. You were always her little darling. Y-You still are.” It was a long, long time since he considered himself anyone’s darling. Kili forced back the push of indignance and kept his hands loose at his side. He didn’t doubt his mother’s love for him, but he’d always told himself that Fili, the golden boy, the good one, who had been everyone else’s favourite, would be _Amad’s_ favourite too. Only Dwalin had openly prized Kili over his brother.

“Don’t go.” Dís’ voice was weak, and she stung in self-loathing as she shook, but there was no hiding this pain. She couldn’t just stuff it down and move on as she had become so accustomed to. Yet again, she was reminded of her own powerlessness. There wasn’t anything she could do to protect her children. She couldn’t go in their place. She couldn’t negotiate on their behalf. She couldn’t wrestle their enemies out of the picture. All she had was her love, and as she looked at Kili, who was so resolute despite his fear, convinced that he was doing the right thing for Fili and completely disregarding anything else, she knew, again, it wouldn’t be enough.

Dwalin watched without a word as the throb in his head doubled and he felt as though he was going to be sick all over his bedclothes. Kili was talking, gesturing to Fili, to himself, animated and desperate. Dís was tearful in response, her voice wild with terror one moment and breaking and thin the next. The world pitched and whirled and he had to lean back, a hand over his closed eyes to muffle the harshness of the light. He caught only snatches of speech – over it was the dull, heavy roar of a beast that seemed to swallow him whole. Whatever explanation or justification there was, it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter if it was for a month, a year, a lifetime. They were pale, meaningless platitudes in the face of the crushing realisation that, once again, Kili was leaving them.

Dwalin was no stranger to the grief of losing Kili, but it had a new sharpness to it this time. Perhaps it was the still-healing wound in his head that had made his sensibility frail. Perhaps it was the rawness of having already lost Thorin. The horror pushed at him, deep down in his belly, crushing his lungs until the air whistled limply in his throat and he felt as though he was going under.

“Dwalin?” He came up for air. Kili was leaning over him, one hand on his shoulder. “Are you all right?” That previous hardness had dissolved, and for a moment, he was a wide-eyed child again, clinging to Dwalin for safety. “Is it your head?”

“I’m fine.” But he wasn’t. He never would be as long as Kili was apart from him. His great, trembling paw closed around Kili’s wrist in a moment of clarity, where the days, weeks, months of everything he had endured came to the fore and crystallised in painful realisation. The family he had tried so hard to knit together had unravelled, and there was no good in clinging to the scraps. The dreams he had of marrying Dís, having children of his own, it was all just that, dreams, and now he stared the reality full in the face and knew, accepted wholeheartedly, the only thing that he could possibly do. “When are we going, then?” He finally spoke, unable to look at Dís or Fili. It was just Kili. And after his past failures, his inability to protect him, it was all Dwalin felt that he could do anymore.

“W-What?” Kili’s doe-like stare creased with a frown. “I– Dwalin, you don’t have to. It’s just—"

“Don’t be a fool, of course I’m going.” He plastered over the breaking in his heart with his usual gruff shortness, convincing nobody. “Somebody’s got to look after you, eh? All the trouble you get yourself into.”

Despite the forced smile on his face, there was no masking of the pain in Dwalin’s eyes. The guilt doubled inside of Kili and he knew, despite his injury, despite what he’d be leaving behind, there was no way that Dwalin would let him go on alone. He’d force his broken body to move if Kili tried to leave him behind. “No.” He tried to protest, weakly, but Kili knew that it was no good. There was no convincing Dwalin once he had his mind set on something, not with his strength of body and iron will, and the diminishing of the first only seemed to heighten the second. Kili only now realised what this meant for Dwalin – loyal to a fault with more love than he knew what to do with, he’d put Kili ahead of his own chance for a second life, for the happiness he’d always wanted. “You’re supposed to…” His voice faded into a hoarse whisper, and Kili knew that it was useless. Dwalin had made his mind up.

Fili’s sigh could be heard across the room. Kili looked up to see his head was in his hands. _Amad_ was very quiet, staring down at her knees with a rigidity Kili recognised was her expending every ounce of effort she had to keep from breaking down. She hunched away from them both, as if they were already gone, and Kili knew better than to try and touch her.

He was so tired. He was always tired now, catching only handfuls of sleep, spending every waking moment pushed to some new emotional breaking point. He knew he couldn’t keep going on like this. It wasn’t a fight he could expect to win alone, and if he could choose to have anyone in the world at his side, as a confidant and advisor, someone to lean on who only ever saw the best in him, well, behind his brother and maybe _Amad_ , Dwalin was a clear second. 

And despite the heaviness of the guilt that weighed down on him, Kili’s heart lifted a little in relief. He wouldn’t need to do this alone. And who better to guide him through the volatile land of his father’s people than the closest thing to a father he’d ever actually had? It took the edge off his growing horror at the promise he’d made, instilled some belief in himself that he could perhaps do this without sacrificing any more of his own humanity. Kili sank down, his limbs weak, and wrapped one arm around Dwalin’s neck. “Thank you.” He whispered in the old dwarf’s ear, softly, so that his mother and brother couldn’t hear it.

* * *

Fili counted them all in his head. Himself, Kili, _Amad,_ Dwalin, Balin, Oin, Gloin, Nori, Ori, Bifur, Bofur, Bombur, Bilbo and Gandalf. Gandalf himself had insisted on coming and bore himself at the head of proceedings in the chair by the fire, sitting with his familiar old pipe in his hands.

“Is this everyone?” His creaking voice finally broke through the silence. “Dori—"

“Not going anywhere with his hip.” Nori held up his hand. “He said whatever this is about, he’s on our side. Ori and I can speak for him. He’ll even get that in ink later if that’s what you like.”

“Fili, what is this about?” Oin groaned from his seat at the edge of Dwalin’s bed. They were all shunted and squeezed in this tiny room, some standing, some finding seats where they could, the youngest taking a seat on the ground. Fili held a gloomy court from the fireplace, the gold shining from his fingers in the yellow light to match his hair, eyes as black as pits. “What couldn’t wait until morning?”

“I think morning will be too late.” Fili murmured. “You all know of the agreement between Dain and I to not contest the throne before Thorin’s burial.” He stopped to lick his lips. “It seems Dain has been… less than reticent to honour it.”

“A conspiracy.” Balin sat at the head of the bed beside his brother with his arms crossed. Dwalin leaned against him, trying to seem stronger than he really was, but shadows of exhaustion were drawn long and heavy across his face. “I’ve spoken to some of my old associates from the Iron Hills. So has Fili.”

“And I heard from Fíak himself.” Kili leaned against the mantelpiece beside his brother, twisting Thrain’s ring around his middle finger. Ori watched him from the floor near the door, one leg drawn in close and the other stretched out. Kili looked in his direction from time to time, eyes settled on Ori for a moment, but his hard stare didn't falter as he talked, detailing his plan yet again to a room of unwilling participants. He knew from his brief glances that Ori was staring incessantly, taking him in with his astonishing powers of observation. He absorbed every word, looking shocked, concerned, uncertain. His hostility to the plan was perhaps the most muted; others made their distaste clear, shaking their heads and muttering to their brothers at their elbow. Only Nori seemed actually interested, his thick brow furrowed in thought, not anger, occasionally nodding at what Kili had to say.

“I wish I could say there was another way.” Fili cast an uneasy glance across the fire to his brother. Ori watched him with his chin on his left knee, occasionally tapping his fingers against the stone. He liked to think that he knew Kili. He was privy to a secret even Fili didn’t know, had seen him at his lowest, broken from his guilt and exhaustion. But he didn’t anticipate this. “If anyone has a better idea, I’d like to hear it.” Fili stretched out his hand, offered the floor to anyone who wanted to speak, but there was only a stiff, uneasy silence, punctuated by low breaths of air, the scratching of beards, muffled coughing. “That’s what I thought.” He whispered. Fili looked afraid in the subdued light, his eyes on the ground and left hand clenched into a tight fist around the hem of his shirt.

“This isn’t just about Erebor.” Kili read the room, felt the hostility, particularly from the older dwarves, at their half-formed compromise. “Our world is on the edge of another war. The orcs are mobilising, banding together to make an army. I heard all about it when I was with them.” He looked at Gandalf now. “And you know about this, don’t you?” The thought struck Kili now with a flourish of clarity, understanding. “Why did you come to Thorin in the first place with that map? What threat could have been greater than a sleeping dragon?”

Gandalf chewed on his pipe, considering the question. “Do you think I had a deeper motive than reclaiming your kingdom?”

“You risked your life for us.” Fili picked up the thread of his brother’s realisation. “And for so little in return. You didn’t even want a share of the gold. You just wanted Erebor to held by free people.”

Gandalf sighed, a low, heavy noise that faded into a pained groan. “Thorin couldn’t see beyond his own cause. I don’t need to tell you that. He only cared about his own kin and people taking what was rightfully theirs. He knew I had my own reasons for this quest, but he didn’t push them. All he wanted was Erebor.”

“You used us.” Oin grumbled, iron-shod in his indignance. “You didn’t care about restoring our rightful kingdom. You just wanted a stronghold on the eastern border held by your own allies.”

“Do you not have your home, master dwarf?” Gandalf leaned back in his chair, unusually cool, as his pipe drifted from his lips. “It’s not that I didn’t care about Thorin, or you, Fili. This mountain is yours by right, and I knew how desperate he was to reclaim it. Thorin and I simply had our own means to the same end.”

Kili shared a brief glance with his brother, the both of them sensing the tension and resistance. “It doesn’t matter. Erebor is ours now. Fili’s. But could we hold it if in five, ten years, an army of ten thousand orcs marched on our doorsteps? Would you ask your sons and wives to wield an axe and fight?” He was talking to Gloin now, forcefully reminding him of what he had at home. “We were lucky with that last battle, and we can’t count on Dain and Thranduil to always be there to defend us. We can’t trust cousin Thorin to be any sort of ally, and Dain isn’t young anymore. Without the Ironfists, we will be dead within a century. I’d stake my own life on it.”

“We’d be dead in a century if we let them in.” Gloin refused to take Kili’s jabs without a fight. “They’ll slit our throats as we sleep and take our wives as their own. I’ve met them, boy, a century ago. And us elders, we’ll all tell you what we saw. Animals. No– even wolves are kinder to their kin. Monsters.”

“All of them?” Kili challenged him. “Every single one? The children? The mothers? The folk who just keep their head down and do as they’re told? Gloin, even orcs aren’t all monsters. The innocent outnumber the corrupt ten to one. Even in those deepest, darkest places, there’s still some good there if you protect it, nurture it. If…” Across the room, his eyes met Ori’s. His thin face sagged in his sympathy and he saw through Kili, completely, easily, already knowing enough of him to understand what he really meant. _If you didn’t break it_. “They aren’t monsters. And neither are the Ironfists.”

Oin paused, and Kili knew he had the upper hand, at least briefly, but with a small _humph,_ the old dwarf continued. “Do you truly believe that our people’s redemption lies with the Ironfists?” Fili breathed in deeply as he listened. “Or is this about keeping Kili in Erebor?”

It touched a nerve. Fili stretched his hunched shoulders up, his jaw tight and his shoulders trembling beneath his fine linen shirt. “Why should Kili pay for mine and Thorin’s mistakes?” He didn’t shout; Fili’s voice was quiet and fragile, on the edge of breaking. “Hasn’t he suffered enough at our hands?”

His brother stepped forward. “Fili—"

“No. This isn’t just about keeping Kili. Oin, there is no struggle between him and the throne. I would sooner give Erebor over to Dain and I wouldn’t have the slightest regret. This is me finding a way to fulfil Thorin’s promises. Either I go to the Orocanis or the Ironfists come here. Don’t for a single moment _ever_ think it’s possible for Kili to take my place. I know all of you would make the same choice if you had to, even you, Oin. Blood is blood. Damn the rest.” There was a quiet, pensive moment as the dwarves digested what Fili had said. “Thorin knew, but he was too tied up in his old notions of greatness to see past it. And Frerin _died_ for that.” There was a short, sharp gasp in the silence, and his mother’s head sank downwards, heavy with grief and memory. “I’m not perfect. I never will be. Nobody ever will be, I accept that, but Thorin spent his whole life trying to achieve the impossible. And he shut everything else out. If you want more of the past, then go to Dain. And let him rule over you without any taste for change. And you can make the same mistakes, again and again. But a kingdom isn’t founded on gold. It’s trust, loyalty, love. Blood.” Gandalf remained very still, brooding over the procession, and Bilbo hunched over in his seat, staring at the ground and feeling very, very alone. 

“At least you’re honest, lad.” It was a slip of the tongue, calling back to an earlier time, but it eased some of the tension between Oin and Fili a little. “That’s all I wanted to know.”

“Look, Oin, all of you,” Fili was firm but not angry, bent towards his cause. “This isn’t what you want. It’s not what _I_ want. Do you think I’m ready to be king?” He paused. “I don’t. But I know that I’m right. I– I feel it with everything I have. Erebor needs to change. We need to change. I’m fighting both Thranduil and Dain and I…” His voice quivered, and Fili stopped, taking a moment to breath in, steady himself as he laid bare his deepest fears. All eyes were on him in the room, thirteen of his kin, his closest friends and the only chance he had to assert himself as Erebor’s rightful king. He couldn’t do this without them. “I need to know that as my subjects, my blood, that you’re behind me. All of you.” 

Nori frowned at him. “You know we’re on your side, Fili, but what about the money? You’re talking about resettling thousands of dwarves from the far side of the East. That’s not going to come cheap. You’re going to have to grease a few palms to get their nobility on your side, and you can’t move a stick without them.”

“Thranduil’s claim doesn’t wipe out my share completely.” He tried to sound confident, but Fili’s stare was dark and troubled. “If I’m careful, I’ll have enough, with Thorin and Kili’s. Worse case—"

“Take mine.” Bilbo finally piped up. The room stilled, remembering again that he was there. “I never wanted it, Fili. I’ve got enough at Bag End to be plenty comfortable when I finally get back. Would that help?”

Fili gasped. “Oh, Bilbo.”

“You’ve got my share too. I didn’t come for the gold either.” Dwalin spoke up from the bed, his hand on Dís’ knee. He had all he wanted.

“And mine, of course.” Balin smiled at him. “I wouldn’t have a hope of spending it all before I’m gone, and I’ve got no one to bequeath it to.”

Bofur smiled on the floor, leaning back on his hands. “Hey, Fili, me too.” Fili’s hands fell still at his sides, mouth half-open in his shock. “Yeah.” Bofur’s smile grew, seeming a little surer of his declaration. “So long as I get a little for myself, you know. Just enough to be comfortable.”

“Hear, hear.” Bombur nodded. “I don’t need all my share either.” He glanced across to his cousin. With a little grunt, Bifur gave him a thumbs up. “Bifur too.”

“Oh, and don’t forget Dori. And us.” Nori opened his mouth, but Ori got there first, smiling over the crooked lump of his scarf.

“Mahal, you don’t– you don’t have to.” Fili melted with relief. It wasn’t just the gold itself; it was the gesture. They truly, deeply trusted him with this. A fresh, new flame of hope sparked in his chest, caught hold. “Do you all… really?”

Not quite all. Oin and Gloin sat very uncomfortably now, glancing at each other, picking up on old cues and unspoken expressions, the slight lift of an eyebrow and curl of a lip. One beat passed, then two, then three, and with Fili’s biting down on the tip of his tongue, lest something unbidden creep out, Oin’s bowed old shoulders slumped in a long, long sigh. “Yes. Us too. Just leave Gloin enough so Gimli will be taken care of, when the time comes.”

“Yes. Yes, of course.” Fili couldn’t contain his wide smile. “I promise, it’ll be completely fair. And I– I’ll do right by all of you. By Erebor. l’ll make a home that we and our kin can be proud of. I swear, by everything.”

Kili stood at his side and after a moment of softness, rested his hand on Fili’s shoulder. “Get back to bed. We’ll hash something out, us and Balin. Just– be prepared, if we need you. It won’t come to blows, not at Thorin’s burial, but…” He shrugged. “We have to be ready to fight him.”

With some soft discussion, they all milled around before slowly filtering out. But after Ori stood up, he stayed there, leaning against the wall with his hands clasped, eyes pulled towards the floor. Kili approached him, looking over his shoulder, assured in their isolation. “Ori? You should get some sl—"

“Did you already plan this?” His accusing stare pierced through Kili’s outer shell, and he winced. “W-When you took me with you to see them. Is that why you did it? So you’d see what I was missing out on? That it might make me want to come with you?”

Kili shook his head. “ _No._ I swear.” Now the thought struck him, he felt hot with guilt. “I never thought you would…” his voice dropped low, “end up in anybody’s arms. I just thought… it’d be nice. I didn’t know what I was going to do.” 

Ori watched him carefully, peeling Kili apart layer by layer and looking in. He wanted so badly to believe in Kili, and he very nearly did, but there was a tiny, niggling thread of doubt that he couldn’t shake. He knew what Kili had done in the past, and it wouldn’t be beyond him to do this. “Because I am going with you.” Ori whispered, a secret just for the two of them for now. “But it has _nothing_ to do with that, all right?”

“What?”

“I know you said you’ll have Dwalin, but I don’t think that’ll be enough. Not against them.” He lowered his voice even more, so Kili had to lean in. “You were so close, Kili. Those orcs almost had you. I don’t need to remind you of him. And you can stand there and say nothing can hurt you again, but we know that’s not true. Don’t we?” Kili seemed afraid of answering him. “So I’m going to come and look after you, all right?”

“I—" Kili pulled back a little and cleared his throat. Again, Ori was looking at him the way he did when they first met again, open and honest, resolute. He wanted to protest that he didn’t deserve this after what he’d done, that he’d just use Ori up and burn through him. But Kili’s rejection stuck in his throat and he knew there was no way he could deny Ori of this. Ori rested his hand on Kili’s arm and his heart seemed to jerk in his chest. Again, he wished desperately that he could love Ori the way he had wanted. Nobody else could match his enduring care and devotion to him. Ori seemed to sense his desire, or his lack of it, and that smile softened a little bit, grew sad, and with a sigh, his hand fell to his side.

“Good night, Kili. And good luck. I won’t be at the funeral tomorrow. Not my place after Thorin… well.” He sighed. “I’ll be with Dori. Come and find me if you need me.”

“Of course.” And then Ori was gone, following his brother out the door. Something about Ori’s words got under Kili’s skin. He was right, Kili had got too close before. It seemed ridiculous that a weak-handed scribe and an old dwarf with a broken head had sworn to protect him, but Kili didn’t need guarding, not physically. It was his heart that was vulnerable. He wanted to say that he was stronger than he was before. He could fight his own insecurities. He didn’t _need_ to attach himself to someone else as a confidant, a mentor, a source of love. But twice now, Kili had been seduced. What’s to say it wouldn’t happen again? Kili stared at the spot on the wall where Ori had been standing, dazed, until a tug on his arm jerked him out of his trance. 

“Come on.” Fili. Kili blinked and followed him. “Are you all right? What did Ori say to you?”

“Oh– nothing.” Why didn’t he tell Fili right away? There was no need to be secret. But then Kili would have to explain all of it from the beginning. Something that stopped his chest, and he was worried that it would all come spilling out unbidden if he tried to drain even a single drop.

Fili frowned and didn’t believe him. “Look... you’ve been secretive with him for a while now and whenever I ask about it you just clamp up. What does he know that I don’t?” But Kili was unassailable, and he knew he’d never get a thing out of him. “Are you…” Fili stopped himself. No. That was impossible.

“You think I’m having something off with him?” Kili asked, quietly so their mother wouldn’t hear. Fili wouldn’t look at him or speak, but the silence, the avoidance of him, it told Kili enough. “Oh, grow up.” He hissed, firmer than he should have, sounding defensive, and he wondered if Fili would pick up on it. “What makes me think I’d tell you _anything_ when you look at me like that?”

The accusation stung, and in that moment, they both knew that they had gone too far. Fili shrank away, hurt at his brother’s coldness, and Kili was unrepentant, unsure if it was his own tattered honour he was defending or Ori’s.

“I’m sorry,” he finally whispered, still unable to look Kili in the eye, not quite knowing what he was apologising for.

* * *

After the company had dispersed, Fili took charge of the little room, he and Kili and Balin sitting quietly with some foraged paper and a stub of pencil, making a list of sums and trying to put a definite number to that impossibly vast wealth deep in the belly of the mountain. Dwalin sat up in bed and listened, doing his best to follow, but Dís could only stomach the talk for a few minutes before whispering that she needed some air.

She didn’t go down to the gate. Dís wandered aimlessly at first through the maze of stone, soot staining her fingers as she trailed her hand over the ancient brickwork. She willed her heart to rise in anger, hatred, grief, some sort of feeling, but the old lump of coal in her chest had burned out. Learning that Kili was going to leave and that Dwalin intended to follow had simply made her numb.

At least there would be a little more time; Kili would wait until Dwalin was well enough to travel, until the worst of the winter frosts had melted on the ground. One of the sharpest changes she’d noticed in her son was that he no longer rushed into something without thought. Kili hung back, calculated and plotted before making his move. He wouldn’t embark on this until he was completely ready.

It was a cold comfort now. Lifeless, Dís sank down on a stone bench that overlooked a wide courtyard lit only by the distant glow of the moon. Long shadows, like the claws of beasts, seemed to stretch out towards her. The weight of her failure hung heavy on her back and shoulders, like some coat of mail woven from rock, pushing her into the ground, holding her still. She felt the pressure in her limbs, her hands fixed in her lap, her bent head. There was no strength left for fighting anymore; Dís had been left weak and hollow, a cracked husk on the cusp of breaking, and the extent of her suffering terrified her. How long had it been since she felt so completely helpless?

She couldn’t even cling to her old resentment anymore. It was futile to hate her dead brother. Even her memories of Thorin failed to stir any feeling in her cold heart. Her head in her hands, Dís closed her eyes and felt her blood ebb and flow within her, throbbing along the rivers of her veins and pooling in her hands and feet. As small as a stone, her curved spine stiffened and she felt the rhythm of her heart slow in the stillness, a hibernation of her soul from the bitter frost of the outside world.

“Oh—" The soft voice in the darkness struck Dís with the sharpness of a whip. Her head jerked up at the blow, the thin gleam of a lantern searing through her tired eyes. The face was hidden in shadow but she saw the long ropes of golden dreadlocked hair, and the blood-throb she had hypnotised herself into a dull trance with ran cold. “Your Highness. I-I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were here. I’ll just—"

“Wait.” Somehow, she scraped together the remnants of her old barbed tongue. She was still a princess, to this fellow, at least. “Who are you, and why are you skulking in my halls in the dead of night?”

The dwarf stood very still. “Úni.” He said quietly. “Son of—"

“Túni. I know.” Dís murmured. “I remember you.” She’d met him once at a dinner when she was pregnant with Fili and remembered a thin, anxious dwarrow no older than twenty, who jumped every time his brother spoke and couldn’t look anybody in the eye. “Aren’t you a little too noble for a soldier?”

“Um… was. My father threw me out. Nobody else would take me.” Úni stood on ceremony, uneasy, afraid of hurting her. “I… made some mistakes. You remember my brother, don’t you?”

“Húni?” The young dwarf flinched and nodded. “Of course I remember him. And his poor wife. Is she…”

“Hekyr’s dead.” Úni sounded as though it was something he had cut away long ago. “He murdered her.”

“Oh no.” Dís whispered to herself in the darkness. She still remembered the day the poor dam was married, her face as stiff as stone, dress bulky around the middle where the bandages were folded over her the wounds they whispered about, wet eyes on the ground and her hands limp. Her heart had stretched out to Hekyr and she felt the sting of the hot knife on her own wrist, the burn of ink that bound her forever to someone she did not want. They could have been friends. They should have been, only her husband kept them apart, the way he kept everyone apart from her, determined she would have no ally except him.

“I have a sister.” His voice pricked through the silent gloom. “She’s only forty. I– Fíak won’t let me get a message to her. I have to make sure she’s all right.” Dís examined his bent figure in silhouette carefully, surprised at his openness. “Don’t tell anyone you saw me. Please.”

“Go.” She waved a hand, dismissive, and he started to walk. “Wait.” The thought struck Dís as she realised she wouldn’t have another chance to exploit this honesty so soon. “Úni,” he turned to look at her, frowning in the darkness, “do you think they want to be saved?”

The question took him by surprise. Úni sucked in a deep breath of air and stared at her as he pondered it, eyes the same deep blue as her son’s roving across the shadows of her face. “Yes.” He finally murmured. “I just don’t think they know it yet.”

* * *

Zaahof whistled sharply. Her piercing cry broke through the wind like a call to arms and the goats responded with a bleating chorus, the rolling hum of hooves on rock and stale ground like thunder in the grey valley. “Blûg!” She called out behind her. “Get them in behind!” The child yelled in response, waving his skinny arms and shrieking to push the stragglers along. But the goats were only teasing; it was a smart, obedient herd of sixty that followed on her heels, cutting near-geometric lines of white over the tracks trod into the side of the hill. Before he’d been killed, her brother had trained them well.

Today, she was heading south from the mouth of the valley to a grassy dale near a river she knew wouldn’t be inhospitably cold. Her goats didn’t like the snow, particularly the pregnant ones. They shivered, complained, nosed about in the frost half-heartedly until the bones stuck up on their hips and shoulders. Today was a longer walk than usual, and Blûg whined and pouted behind her, too young for the daily journey but destined now for nothing else. It was a damp, sombre day, the kind where the clouds drew in at the hilltops and made the world feel small. One of the kids lagged behind, and Zaahof scooped him up in one arm, resting her chin on the little nubs of unformed horns. Veiled from humanity, the goatherd girl coaxed and whistled and waved her crook until sixty goats were corralled in ankle-deep grass, a little brown but still good for eating, white tails shaking and sideways eyes shining up at her in gratitude as she took up a gentle patrol back and forth across the top of the shallow ridge.

“Zaahof!” After some time, her brother squealed as he ran up to her, pulling at the string of bone beads on her wrist. “Look, _look!_ There’s a warg!” The girl’s heart constricted in her chest, seizing with deadly terror not for herself but for her precious goats. “But I think it’s dead. Look, over there!”

It had been months since anyone had seen a flash of grey fur, alive or dead. No wargs came this far north unless they were driven out of lands with better eating. “Stay with the goats.” Zaahof handed him her crook her white-eyed gaze stern and afraid. “Don’t go _anywhere_.”

Clouds of dust billowed out from her feet as she ran and a dozen braids whipped across her face. The thump-thump-thump of the elvish arrowhead strung around her neck, the arrow that killed her brother and was still black-tipped and smelled faintly of him, beat against her chest in time with her frantic gallop, her bow and arrow thudding against her back, the waterskin sloshing wildly at her side. The warg was oddly-shaped, splayed out on the ground, but she saw the pricks of its ears, the long curve of its snout in her frantic, beating chaos. It had to be dead; a vulture had already come to meet it, pecking about its face. Zaahof stopped and almost turned back when the shift of flesh drove her forward. Wait. That was an _arm._ Not a warg’s foreleg but a person’s arm stretching out across the scraggly remains of pale grass, five fingers closing around dirt. 

“Hah!” She shouted as soon as she was close enough to scare the vulture away, brandishing her notched knife and waving her arms. The predator cawed but backed away reluctantly, perching itself on the remains on a petrified tree and looking down at her, fire-yellow eyes watching Zaahof as she sank to her knees at the half-dead creature.

“Hello?” She whispered, pulling aside the warg-skin to reveal the figure seeking decaying shelter beneath. It was a boy, she quickly realised, only a little older than her, even skinnier than her brother and in stinking rags. Heaving at the stench of death, Zaahof threw the rotting warg-skin as far away from them as she could and rested her fingers on the boy’s throat. A pulse beat against her touch, weakly protesting the incoming end.

“Blûg!” Of course, he had been following her at a distance. She thanked the dark one silently for his insolence, cupping her hands around her mouth. “Get help! Find someone at home! And _hurry!”_

“But the goats—"

“They’ll be fine! The warg died ages ago. _Move!_ ” He dropped her crook and ran, the black shape of his figure disappearing over the ridge. “Hey.” Softer, Zaahof rolled the boy over onto his back. “Wake up. Look at me.” The woven ropes of her hair fell over her shoulders, and she gathered them up, winding the braids around and around so it fell in a knot from the base of her neck. Now she saw the boy’s arm, a haphazard bandage sticky and black from long-shed blood and smelling like the warg-carcass. “ _Ishi_.” 

Thankfully, the boy was light, and after years of wrestling with obstinate goats and children, Zaahof was strong, with square, boyish shoulders and thighs her surviving brothers likened to tree-trunks. She draped the stranger over her back, legs tucked under her arms, and hissed at the indignant vulture as she walked by. As she negotiated the ridge, the boy stirred against her. The good arm tightened across her throat and a soft whimper sounded in her ear.

“Hey,” she kept her eyes on the ground, every step a careful judgement. Zaahof didn’t know which strain of Black Speech the boy spoke so she used the common tongue, words mangled from disuse. “it’s all right. You’re safe. Who were you running from? Men? Elves?”

“Dwarf.” He finally whispered, as thin and broken as a leaf in the wind, and then fell silent.

Zaahof laid him down and covered him with her cloak, holding the waterskin to his cracked, peeling lips and coaxing him to drink. Most slopped from his slack mouth down his chin and she had to massage his throat, the way she did with sickly newborn kids who didn’t quite take to the teat. “What’s your name?” She asked once or twice, but the boy couldn’t, or didn’t want to, speak. His good hand closed around the hem of her cloak, holding it tight as he shivered. He seemed to drift on the edge of sleep, eyes closing and opening again, as vague and hazy as the clouds on the surrounding hills. The goats nosed curiously at this strange new creature, and she flapped her arms and shooed them all away.

A while later, Blûg returned with two others in tow; their cousin Mokûrz and Kafaaz, a one-eyed, one-eared newcomer who lived alone in a tiny hole, strangely canny with his hands despite missing a few fingers, who helped his cousin digging about for peat in the open wounds of the valley ditches. The boy was more alive now, having eaten Zaahof’s ration of dried goat-meat and stale bread and drenching his parched throat. He sat against the rock with her cloak over his shoulders, not speaking. He had nice eyes, she decided after watching him for some time, tired dragging colourless, one-word answers from him. They were thin-lidded, black as two pieces of coal, and despite his tiredness, she thought they looked soft and kind.

“ _Ishi,_ Zaahof, what did you dredge up?” Her stupid cousin grinned at her, pushing his way through the goats. Kafaaz followed with more care. “Looks like a drowned rat. Hey, _snaga_ , what’s your name?” The boy looked past him, at Kafaaz, and his tired black eyes widened, and Zaahof wondered if he knew him. 

“N-Na—" His rasping voice halted, and with an ugly, jagged breath of air, the exhausted boy broke down in tears and could say no more.

* * *

The coffin was sealed. They stood and stared at it, a mother and her two sons, at the remnants of the one who had individually, systematically, destroyed all of them. No one knew just how to feel. Kili still hated Thorin, but the guilt was gnawing away at that hatred, not that he was dead but that his death had caused so much suffering. He hadn't shed a tear for Thorin, and it seemed less and less likely that he ever would.

Dís mourned her brother silently, but beneath that burden of grief there was a paradoxical lightness to her. Relief. She was free of Thorin and the anger and pride that relentlessly hung over him. For the first time in her life, she was bound to no one and she carried her own guilt as a counterpoint, ashamed that she could find joy in this.

And Fili desperately, desperately grieved for him, as blindly devoted to Thorin as he had ever been, seeing only the good in him until the very end. Fili was guilty because he knew that he was the cause of this. Not Kili for nearly getting himself killed. Not Dain for poisoning him. Not Thranduil for bullying and threatening him. Not Bilbo for taking the Arkenstone. No, Fili had driven him to madness and despair with his betrayal, had robbed him of his will to live, and nothing could ever undo that.

“I'm sorry.” Both Dís and Kili had him by the hand, holding him up. The thin wire of gold on his head, a crown-in-waiting, felt like a band of stone. Somehow, this was worse, seeing the gold-laid casket sealed shut, the runes on the lid bearing Thorin’s name. He would never, ever see his uncle again. “I'm so sorr—"

“No,” Dís hissed, refusing to feel guilt. “you have nothing to apologise for, Fili. You did the right thing.” And he did. There was another flush of relief at the thought, another incoming tide of shame. She knew that despite Thorin’s death, she would never be completely rid of him. His ghost would linger on in memory, in those fleeting glimpses of her own reflection, and she didn’t know yet if that was an oppressive or a comforting thought.

“He wanted this.” Kili whispered. There was a cold, shocked silence, and he sensed his brother’s condemnation. “Oh, come on. He did. He got his grand death in battle, his big funeral. Everyone will remember him now. That’s all he wanted.”

With a sharp huff of air, Fili snatched his hand away. “It wasn’t. You don’t know him at all, Kili. He _changed_. Why can’t you accept that?”

“He didn’t change. He didn't do a single thing to show that he changed. His penitence means nothing, Fili. Not to me.” It was too harsh. Fili turned on him, grasping the front of his new coat, with gold buttons and gems sewn into the hem.

“How can you feel nothing?” He demanded, outraged, wounds tender in his grief. “H-How can you just stand there even now? It's _Thorin._ He—" Fili stopped, realising it was useless. 

Some things couldn't be forgiven. It was impossible to put himself in Kili's shows, to feel what he felt. That part of his brother had become too distant to him. Kili had closed it off, determined that Fili could never understand. And maybe he couldn't. Again, he cursed the orcish cruelty that seemed to have cut Kili's heart right out of him. But he couldn't feel angry towards Kili for it. What's to say he wouldn't have done the same thing? What's to say he couldn't have been _worse,_ with all those years of anger and insecurity beating down on him? What's to say he wouldn’t have fallen more than his brother did? 

“I'm sorry.” He whispered and drew back, hands falling at his side. “I…” but Fili was somehow too terrified to relate what was going on inside of him. His thoughts twisted and tumbled in his head, making no sense anymore. None of this made sense.

But he didn't need to say it. Kili knew, just by looking at him. “Come on.” Whether he forgave Fili or not, whether he even cared about his outburst, was impossible to tell. He turned away and rested his hand on the door latch. “Let's just get the others in. You ready?”

“As I'll ever be.” Fili mumbled, eyes locked on the golden casket.

* * *

A procession of eight bore Thorin on their shoulders – Fili and Kili at the front, with Dís and Dwalin behind them. Kili bore Dwalin’s share of the weight, and his father by proxy gripped the handle for show, keeping his footsteps slow as his head whirled and throbbed. Balin and Gloin were next, grim-faced and silent, looking ahead at nothing. At the rear was Dain and Thorin, a show of respect and peace, of an alliance. At least they co-operated. Even their petulant cousin knew better than to ruin a king’s funeral.

As they walked, the hall filled with the glow of a thousand lanterns clutched in slowly warming hands, faces set forward, half in shadow. Dwarves crammed themselves into the funeral hall, some peering behind statues and low crypts, others pressed against the wall, their backs to the tombs of the long-dead and the stonework digging into their spines. They looked like skulls in the downward light, and Fili found he didn’t like to look at them. It was hard to take any detail in – it all seemed so distant and vague, like he was staring at a half-finished drawing. He felt removed from this, locked away in his private grief. Fili knew in his gut that he was the only one who didn’t resent what Thorin had done, had still loved him completely, and it hurt.

Bitter, Fili remained distant as he ascended the stairs and took to the dais. Thorin’s tomb was pride of place in the exact centre of the hall, a massive stone waiting for him with the cover lifted off. It was to be Thror’s, Balin had noted. But with no body to commit, it had lain open and waiting. Fili had no desire to take his great-grandfather’s place in the protruding rock, and he knew _Amad_ and Kili would rather be cast into a ditch. So Thorin it was, laid to rest in the highest honour imaginable, in the centre of the hall, with rows of distant blood relatives laid out like the spokes of a wheel, sealed and carved to be left untouched until the end of days. Who else could it be? 

Balin’s rich voice filled the air in prayer and eulogy, and they sounded thin and half-formed to Fili’s ears. He still felt far away, studying the skull-faces of his people, hating their dull, unknowing stare. There was no concealing his grief with a battle-roar, no rush and chaos to tear through his mourning. This was ordered, precise, and he felt as carefully-placed and ornamental as a stone statue. He forced himself to be that statue, stiff-faced, revealing nothing, the way he knew Thorin would have wanted him to. He’d never been a statesman before like this. The public show of his most private, emotional tearing of his heart, committing his uncle to the stone, was terrifying and strange to him, and all Fili wanted to do was break down.

As the muscles strained into stiffness on his face, as his chest heaved with the effort to fight back sobs and his eyes burned with tears he refused to shed, exhausted from a sleepless night of plotting to save his own throne and forcing himself to show none of it, Fili came to a new understanding of Thorin and how hard he fought to wear his old mask for so long. The weight of kingship pressed down on him, moulded him into something strong and brave as his people looked at him, looked up to him. And Fili knew he had to keep on going. He stared at rows and rows of half-lit faces, realising for the first time how hard Thorin had fought. And that hatred dissolved, a shard of ice in boiling water. Fili felt the change inside of him, understood it in his blank silence, and in his head and his heart, while Balin recited the ancient Khuzdul vows to sanctify his death, he forgave Thorin for everything.

His neck twinged as he turned to look his brother, just for a moment. Kili was just as still and silent, but there was no private wrestling with emotion for him. He seemed to have severed his heart from Thorin completely, and this whole morning had no effect on him. They were separated now, more than ever before, in a way. In that moment, Fili pitied him. He pitied Kili because he would never understand how heavy that kingly burden weighed on Thorin and how greatly he suffered from it. And without that understanding, Kili could never truly forgive him.

Fili turned back to the crowd, reaffirmed in his belief that he was doing the right thing. And near the front, his stony gaze fell on a pair of vibrant green eyes and his stomach softened. He almost faltered, almost smiled at her, almost winked, almost raised a hand, but he didn’t. He remained perfectly still. And Ástríðr looked back at him, raising her lantern a little higher to he could see her soft smile grow in a secret moment of understanding.

As Balin’s deep voice fell silent, Fili closed his eyes and bade Uncle Thorin farewell.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm such a goddamned chickenshit.
> 
> Thankfully, I'm going to be reducing my hours at work soon, and i'll have much more free time to just... think. And write. I don't know which will be more welcome at the moment. But if you're wondering where i've been for the past few months, four words -- two jobs; shift work. 0/10 would not recommend to anyone ever.


End file.
